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By DETROIT JACK, Phallus Press Writer – Sun Feb 20, 11:47 pm ET
Photos by John Kessler
As we legged the sweeping case of stairs that dropped steeply into a punchbowl of bad boys high on grade school antics . . . , the only telling sign of sanity were the Hard-Ons roaming the proscenium.
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Amplified poorly from the outset . . . , sound waves went forth without regard, as mastery of the pulsating instruments gushed the legacy built upon decades of sweat drenched arenas.
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Felled to our knees, we were victims to the sonic sirens emanating from the rise beyond our sight . . . , and we prayed to the gods for deliverance from this battlefield of wounded hearts.
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Bodies clashed amongst naked feats of hero worship, while tones of perfection graced the lengths of the auditory canals, exaggerated for purposes even the artist could hardly know.
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No, not even Machiavelli would have attempted to foresee beyond the musical horizon of the three pillars of rock and roll . . . , and yet, with the treachery of Medea fresh in our memories, we gave of our souls with the promise of youth.
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*All photos and content property of Jack Waldron (photos may not be used without written permission)
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