(THE 27 CLUB)
Our resident writer ERIC LASTICK digs among the dead
JIMI HENDRIX MOON DRIFTS & AMPLIFIERS OF GUITAR DREAM: In base level dark, the moon’s pages of stones of the 3rd rock—-then to pebbled embers—out of the red, comes the yellow to gold tuned alchemy strides—as it rises the bronze glows—right out of the stratus and stars. Gusts and chemicals flavor the pickup strums of a Jimi guitar. Ancients out of hides and mythology appear so inspired…coated in long trench blue—seems so put-up the sky! Red wing chopper an airplane look-a-like,yet of streams and wisdom few would know. The engine calm of nightmare, bare of black tea for everyone to it’s show. Orange twists is a party…back at Jimi, Noel and Mitch at base bottom jam. A new home of the sub particle fore-riders bend with the slingshot rounded the sun. The earth sit still through these vast cures of cutting loose the board pained new ages and heartaches, the base bottom…beneath a cob web of sound…though it appears so unreal…as the vale doors open.Then close. Then re-open once more! Timing out of a psychedelic 3rd rock, white light sun. Although, how could anyone live there? Jimi sings and he sings, yet the basement trio of 3 views all empty! Then the naked eye needs a new adjustment. A balancing beam of the cured and what seems of empty space. Noise is to the eye of the beholder. Now let Jimi step in.
( THE 27 CLUB #2 )
TAILS & SLIPS OF THE TWENTY SEVEN’S. DEAR, DEAR, JANIS JOPLIN, GONE ON HER OWN: Joins of the 27’s club…meets and greets in Sidney Australia. Check in by nightfall gig loft rest-a-round. Call up the hotel front desk manager of all nighters. Fur long the wild…and of it’s nights…it’s burning bridges all along the holdings and less accompaniments of such…next-ed a solo career and life of a girl rock ‘n’ roller…Journey the plows and iron oar voice…vocalize her drinking, her splashing whiskey sounds—too the spheres. No holes bared. Blasted of the past few years to an admiral singing and breathe of lone star beer…notes and hops on deck—too land—called sea of sad on her own. Junky rail and carries of coat tails, as the music divine own you. Janis steps in attempts over needle point stitching’s of cold tight veined nightmares; she just cannot avoid. Hair held the beauticians who she’ll never see. Dry strands and alcohol hair lift to the hardened tracks of addiction….Rock ‘n’ Roll sadness as a crime. Cigarette tar sends the streets, the avenues of one’s mind. Smoke bend lonely travels. The bus loads of sullen faces. Janis singing those blues. High executives laugh of only money bags…and grabs off of her—-too riches; and at the same bank roll—tempers glared like a gully of sin of unwashed places and stages exiting out for good. A girl’s thumb hitchhike drum bang…It’s tempo hits the skids at 27. Ride a horse…a needle all the way home until her last breath. In the club of 27 is the number. Mightily it fills.
(THE 27 CLUB #3)
THE ROLLING STONES FORMER LATE MEMBER, BRIAN JONES: Bill Wyman kettle cookin percussion themed…out of Brian Jones pick up sticks, match-booked at 27. Hole in one’s soul—seamstresses of rock agents sew on’s shirts of the 27 club…and it’s returns the earth, as of a birthmark. Clues of the unexpected often unexplained, yet real as the rest, to attest of the twenty seven’s. The (A) proffer reads clear as day. Hits over your head the antidote bigger than the rock curses of drug overdo and lowly avenues that have sun; and soon much to dark a river taken in a bloody bath—out of a Rolling Stone. Lit go the matched clues of Jagger-naughts …Keith Richards guitar—-out of the exiles of a mad-home on Main st. Drug addles and holds. Don’t blame thos of highs…the lows of real near 27. A curse or a course pre-written? Brian’s genius is as clear as a lone bloke lost in the spaces and squares of this mean mad old earth practices! Holy hell’s reads the rock ‘n’ roll brake pass of the insane. No one yet has done it. Glue holds tight the 27’s.
BEGOTTEN THROUGH THE UNDERPASS AND UNDERWORLD WHICH SETS THE STAGE…THE TICKET AND PASS TO THE NEXT PHASES OF LIFE IS GOOD, YET FOR MOST OUT OF THESE INJUSTICES READS OF A HELL-STORM, NO WAY HOME: Heavy prints on every paper weighted doorstep. Those infamously light years to Mars. Sad vocal sings of the drowning swims where Brian Jones sunk so unexpectedly…just at the levels of sitar actors, as if a cartwheel of the eastern indie sparks of love.No higher, no brighter than the sunken eyes of a lost comrade corporal fall…water and lengths…heavens gates. Survivors current back to base one. The band never whole, yet still strong…as the freeze and sail of sullen and shock. Life goes on. Loaded are the wordplay on stamp, these stones do roll on. Young devils beat but of their own very heat…and soul creatures of the night. Bill Wyman drum rolls the forever eve…Mick Taylor serves up a cool play guitar…Richards of the splendors as midnight rambler’s confessions the night. The conceives of the heaviest of rock stoning pleasures. Ballad be of Ms. Maryanne Faithful…The time has come for a great rock to invade proper the American swing…The lady liberty grand old rumble in the streets…and street fightin man. Shelter on the hill of the horrors at Altamont…Angels of deep dark flights. Smells of dead fish…lights out, the part of the 1960’s is over…yet the strength of stones stick with strength and carry on’s. Brian, the jelly fish dies over the eyes of a hardened bike rider. He who a different name…and same lamb. The show must be over, yet the fest must go on. No argument that the Rolling of these Stones will share it off and continue to prove better…just give me shelter…ride of the wild horses…take th to the next level…and the next…and next; and keep this rolling thunder on and on, the decades long. Another joined at the 27’s
( THE 27 CLUB #4 )
CURT COBAIN: Seattle bus city vibes of amplified grunge pickups and suit-sized torn blue jeans, rockin the house down…Fan frenzy mad romp Cobain off the next stop…and manifest the next painful broach of agonizing vocals, as cures for what waits at it’s ends. Still no answer in LA. Seattle grunge here to stay. Gold haired though not the golden boy…but of the estranged; from the simple…the Poole hall cues chalk powders—pass the pipes, not of dreams…and of new lit herbs like a vision. A death hall for the pronounced next gig…though of it’s last mystery unfolds. Manicured lawns and household watched. Set in the Nirvana. Lifelong on the short edged stick ….guns stock and shotgun shell last nights creature feature of the surreal…A next one to the club of the 27’s.
(THE 27 CLUB #5 & ROUNDED 6)
PAST A TRICkLE HAND OF DIRT AND GRASS OF THE MYSTERY OF ROCK’S CLUB OF THE 27’S,AMY WINE-HOUSE AND JIM MORRISON: In cold sweat dream where fantasies go to die…nightmare read the clock on the backstage wall of the fulfilled rounded voice of Amy Wine-house, in 20th century foxy fashioned fandom…seemingly having the night of night’s. Candle lit a picture of Jim Morrison at another fine whiskey a-go-go. One last ”Wait of the sun” and of the counterparts of the 27 clubs dive in and out of time—with non to spare—at the wake of the hour. The bang of the last beat…and the roll of life’s drum. So, in this vivid nighttime train wreck, oh’ how one sleep, yet two lazy eyed souls as one—fire-up some more of their known blatant madness viewed at the very storefront of an old window display of the famous album cover of the Morrison Hotel. Wine-house on the a bout’s of 27…and what appears to be her dance partner, Jim. Glows and cascaded on a cosmic swing—while rubbing eyes and pajamas of the worn of to too many drinks. Love Leeds …infallible drug chemical highs lost in the grayer areas surrounds, of a final fest at the whiskey bar. A spiraled endless staircase all go down…as i couldn’t reach to see the time on my watch—yet i knew it had to do with number 27.
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