The Savage Young Taterbug Shadow of Marlboro Man

[Night People; 2016]

Rating: 4/5

Styles: gasoline prince, hillbilly French, cinnamon sin, youthful bloom
Others: Gem Jones, Chicklette, Russian Tsarlag, Dirty Beaches

Careful on down that road, friend. It’s high nude. Andy, you in the Shadow of Marlboro Man. Grubbed laughter echoing throughout. That summer list of thank-me-knots tattoo’d on the ass caressing a star-lit skyline. Out West in California Son. A con that not one could characterize. Even in person. From a grave arises The Savage Young Taterbug.

Stretches of land that only lapsed memory can reach. Feeling like a lobe may have been lopped off riding shotgun with Free. Not really thinking about this right now with duster to the left. In a mask and “I like his little cigarette.” 100 proof and stolen barn-hung tobacco. How Rambo became an angel in the cracks of Chuck’s skin.

Mounting the teepee bonfire in a gas station basement. Someone whispering in the manhole, “Can I get a light?” Great Americana is abreast of professional slumber, lordy. The comfort of being known both ethereally and ephemerally: finding a spot in this fucking city to smoke a joint long enough that nobody ever knows.

But the boy in the field sees you. The rest of his life a ramble. A trigger memory so Pavlovian that resistance to crying isn’t an option. Like judging a good or bad criminal. The difference between a Molotov and TNT: two-fingers poor. Or something that doesn’t sound right at perfect audio. Reels that never existed. But grooved. But fried eagles. Being ripped off. OK.

Cat food in a doggie-bag. Whistling through a brain-bleed. Plumes in the horizon silhouetting Shadow of Marlboro Man. The Savage Young Taterbug is not of fear or evil. This is self destruction so ulterior it transgresses into a soulfulness embodied from artist to purveyor. Michael Jackson.

Links: Night People

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