after hours at the rockshop

chillen aferhours in the rockhop, the fluorescent open sign is closed and the metal link gate is closed. let the music making commence. smoking a ciggarete in the recording room i observe the maze of cords for mics and amps snake around my feet. the room is blue with the tobacco smoke, gin and tonic was sipped freely, joints were being passed, and the individuals taking part in the ritual of pregaming each independantly sought their connection with the gods of groove, the gods of funk and the gods of metal. two krews openly divided into a polarity of lifestyle, the rock n rollers with their desert rock influenced jambouree, sleeve tatoos, 80s hair, tight pants, stories of debaucherous nights fueled cocaine and jack daniels. on the other side of the spectrum we were the hooded stoners, a mish mash of all musical influences all condensed into one, 90 steez that never left. stories of countless nights deliving into the schizophrenic world of psychoactives and the spiritual realms of entheogens, we sat, hoods up and chink eyed. we completed a quentissential ying yang relationship in the jam room. they were fucked on coke and we were flying on shrooms, the energies collided insanely but found its harmony whithin the erotic eloping my drumming had with the guitarist in his cocaine stupor and with calders stoner grooves on the bass. my mind was built for music. we jammed the night away. too much testosterone. out of conrol. violent spirit.