I was working in the lab late last night*, trying to extract the source of hard rock from a selection of choice, rocking platters when a small explosion occurred and I passed out. On awakening I found myself in the back of a transit van careening wildly down a motorway. We hit a bump in the road as the van hit (19)70 and I gashed my head on a barrel of Double Diamond lager which was secured between two decidedly dodgy looking old amplifiers. It was at this point that things got weird, in a familiar kind of way…
Three fuzzy haired goons in filthy denims appeared from the front of the van and informed me I had indeed stumbled upon the true source of rock n’ roll, but that they were its guardians. They then giggled, passed me a spliff and said I could only obtain the source if I handed over a Blue Cheer t-shirt, Budgie‘s first two albums, Mick Farren‘s sunglasses, Keith Moon‘s drumsticks and two crates of pale ale. I asked how I could be sure they held the source and so they told me how to ‘Shaker Your Head’, ‘Do It Now’ like a ‘Two Tonne Fuckboot’ whilst ‘Running From Home’. They told me their tunes were ‘Bulletproof’ and urged me ‘Don’t Hear It… Fear It!’. I had to admit they made a pretty convincing case.
So I made the sign of the horns and summoned the spirit of Ron Asheton, who gave me things the hairy goons desired. The goons cackled, lit another fat spliff and disappeared in a puff of blue smoke which morphed into the head of a giant bird of prey before swooping into my ears. I then found I was clutching a shiny piece of vinyl called “Check ’em Before You Wreck ’em” by something called Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell. I’m sure all will be well when I wake up.
For now I’m still in that transit van, hurtling towards the past, stoned, immaculate. Wanna hitch a ride?
* With thanks to Bobby ‘Boris’ Pickett & Leonard Capizzi