"I suspect almost every day I'm living for nothing."
That's the way a certain generation felt back in those late 1970s; not my generation; we took the NOW out of the Beats (the Bea-tifics) and "tuned in, turned off, and dropped out" but the generation after me and my kind, I call my generation the "Forgotten Generation"--or perhaps one could say the "overlooked" generation, the first generation to break with WASP values and kick against the Conservative pricks with OUR antiauthoritarianism, which we passed on to our young protoges, no longer "mommy's and daddy's" kids, no longer children of God, but children of a coming Chaos, very nihilistic children.
Most of my hang buddies back in the spring of 1979 were ten or more years younger than I was. I had evolved from an electric blues purest to a rather "avant garde" jazzist, though when I worked as a musician it was as a white blues singer and pianist, though I was a pianist before I was a singer and one day in the Ear Inn, I came in and pushed old Mike Bloomfield off the piano bench and played Chester Burnett's "Little Red Rooster"--I was able to walk but I was sloshed (not quite conked totally drunk) and Mike Bloomfield was sweatin' out tons of heroin sweat and I finished my piano slice at Mike's musical throat but the bartendress, a New Orleans girl, too, declared Mike Bloomfield the winner--"He plays the piano better than you, Wolfie." "But, the son of a bitch is a god-damn white-boy-Jewish guitar player who just because he's from Chicago thinks he has Manifest Destiny rule over the blues just because he's from fucking Chicago. God, I was bitterly dictatorial when it came to music in those days.
Later in that summer of 1979 we had a blackout across a big slice of the Eastern Seaboard electricity pie--our valiant Con-Edison (a pack of con-artists alright) claimed a lightning bolt hit the main grid and slammed down the power--FOR TWENTY-FIVE F-ing HOURS!
But I'm jumping the hurdles ahead of the starter's gun. I'm still waking up on that spring morning just off Spring Street when I thought I was being awakened by an earthquake that turned out to be Bobby Fuller's "I Fought the Law and the Law Won" being played by such a wild uneven unthoughtout racous almost jackhammer-bothersome in its incessant bad drumming whingding POW on the 2 and 4 and in my sort-a-half-awake-state I was screaming "Hit it on the 1 and the 3, dammit." And then I was awake and then I realized what had woke me up and shook the bejesus out of my--like I was climbing a pair of stairs simultaneously though a little out of step on each staircase.
Holy Shit, I started growling, it's that fucking Matty Quick, what in the holiest of hells is that music racket. Jesus Holy Christ on a Christmas tree. Yeah, I was pulling out my hair. The Law was kicking my ass, too, and dammit, I didn't even know Bobby Fuller! Hey, let me go, I ain't fightin' no law--I got marijuana plants growing on my fucking roof!!!!
There's Bobby at his peak with his Four.
As is continued...always continued, as if presently, perpetually, continuing...