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An ex-boxer. A mathematical trio in the corner.
The gong sounds. He wheezes spitting judgments, incomprehensibly growls like a beast behind bars. They in the corner grind free structures, put into practice the Pythagorean theorem on electric flights of fancy, free in structure but always perfect in their mathematician suits with a pencil in the shirt pocket.
He howls in underwear under a Blues moon covered by riffs clenched between his teeth and a metronomic rhythmic section. Wails and bursts of anger in a blind emotional electricity, in a land between Birthday Party lashings and the junkyard poetry spat in the face by Jesus Lizard.
Explosions of blind fury and moments of tenderness between a punch in the stomach and a smile with a blood rose.
New metropolitan blues, neon signs, street preachers, dressing rooms, and half-empty bottles.
Few ask why you do it, why you play this music?
Like slowly trying to pet a snarling stray dog. Maybe it smells, it may have fleas but after two caresses, it looks you in the eyes and you're hooked, it’s yours. You answer.
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