hug some bourbon and K and follow me down to the old quarry, chillen, where I’m-a tell you about the days back in Palm Desert when we used to smoke up banana peels and mainline pharmacy meds and roll around town in our flaming Chevy flatbed, raisin’ heck and chasin’ hell. All the girls were Class A, prime Russ Meyer meat and all the guys were strapping, moustachioed lumberjacks; we spent our days rockin’ and fuckin’ up a storm on that rickety old flat bed, grinding chips of rust into our sunburned backs. We’d pump our tunes outta the public service announcement loudspeaker, frightening the little old ladies and uptight reverends and awakening Kundalini in loose-limbed young girls. If we weren’t bucking shotguns on the state line we were bangin’ barely legals at the back of the Piggly Wiggly while their parents bought beef jerky and chocolate milk inside.

I recall one day, when all our Canned Heat and Little Richard 8-Track’s had melted into the cracked upholstery of that old flatbed and we were all sitting around, not knowing what to do. We were fucked out, rocked out, no music left to dance to, no drugs left undiscovered and all the virgins weren’t virgins no more. The girls were crying, the beer was light. Just when we were about to drive the flatbed to the junkyard and pack it all in, the snakeoil man walked outta the heat haze on the horizon and pulled out of his leather hobo bag a pink and blue package. “Put this here record on your stereo and don’t take it out, or I’ll sneak in when you’re sleeping and slice off your legs with a chainsaw”, he crackled, whiskey gas wheezing outta his mouth and dust blowing outta his ass. By the time we’d put the record in and turned around, he was gone again. But there was no time to look for him, because the record was playing and the spirit of Jesse “The Devil” Hughes was snaking up from our ankles like some kind of boogie rock poison ivy. We had no control over ourselves, we were shaking like Billy Graham at an epilepsy clinic.

It was like nothing we’d ever heard before, Canned Heat mixed with Kiss and chopped into lines with Elvis and Queens Of The Stone Age. “I Only Want You” made us dance and make-out like motherfuckers, “Speaking In Tongues” was yelping, shuddering speedway rock. When we got tired and our feet were burning and bleeding, “Stacks O’ Money” and “Midnight Creeper” lulled us into some kind of Southern fried waking nightmare. We couldn’t get enough of these Eagles Of Death Metal and their sermon of ass-shakin’ riffola and meth-huffin’ porno rock. We danced and fucked ourselves into oblivion, laying destruction on every motherfucker around “Whorehoppin’” our way across Route 66 in that crazy old flatbed until… oh… where was I again? Sorry, chillen, gramma gets a little hazy these days. But there’s no use in my telling y’all about it, sheet, I have that very record right here in my leather hobo bag. Whaddya say we break it down one time? Alright.