Blackfoot - Highway Song (Live, Zurich 1982)

Have I ever told you about that time I was playing in a rock band? Yes? A million times? Well, I bet you haven’t heard this particular story, so whoever wants to envy me is free to do so, and you can read on or not.

So after two months of rehearsals, we had put together a decent repertoire: we could hold a good couple of hours as long as, how can I put it... we stretched out (a lot) the songs. And the Blackfoot piece is quite stretchable, as you can hear and see (very poorly, but I included it to give you an idea) in the video.
In short, we were debuting at the Motoraduno in Plaino, a two-day event expecting five thousand people, especially since it coincided with the Sunsplash, which was then held in Osoppo.
I was nervous both inside and out, because physically and aesthetically, I didn’t embody the idea of the dirty, bad, and drugged rocker, and actually, aside from the large and varied amount of psychotropic substances I was taking, I was “out” yes, but outside the cliché.

But let’s skip all the memorable – I’m not saying this – concert and get to the end: let’s get to the REAL meat of it!
This was the last song, and we were going to stretch it out for at least twenty minutes.
The other guitarist and I – "Fender Lead II" vs "Gibson Diavoletto" – we chased each other through two verses each in endless solos, which then merged into the classic lysergic finale where we wanted to smash our instruments, we were so hyped.

But here we are at the point, at the TRUE purpose of this story.
During the alternating solos, when it was my turn to accompany Gianni Trevisan’s Gibson, my counterpart and vice versa, I would turn towards my amplifier (Vox) where there was always someone putting a few beers or a joint, etc. on top.
But that time, there was also a stunning imperial beauty leaning there, with a fierce mane, dressed all in leather, wearing a pair of those huge earrings that drive me wild and make the Merlot in my veins bubble.

So after the concert, since we had to play the next afternoon, someone pulled out a couple of Canadian tents, one for me and one for the drummer, because we both wanted to sleep on stage.

I’ll never understand how that extraordinary creature managed to materialize in my tent: I found her on top of me all of a sudden, whispering beautiful – and obviously false – things like: "Did you know you play like a god? You wouldn’t think so looking at you, you’re so intense."

Ah: the first – and last, in my case – Groupie is never forgotten.

The next morning, at nine, to celebrate the event – since he had also gotten into it (not in the same way, eh!) – the drummer woke me by blasting “Highway Star” full blast on the Spike where my tent was set up, bringing me a half beer and a bratwurst for breakfast.
The girls had disappeared; we didn’t even know their names.

Now that was living, damn it! Though I’m not complaining at all about that one either.