Last night, I sat down for a bit with Anthony Hamilton and his open road. You're what I want. You're what I need. You touch the deepest part of me. And these loose and tenuous warbling riffs stretched out wide across my windows, parting the curtains and welcoming in the neon lights from the bar on the other side of Monmouth.
And they danced. They started slow and slight, but soon grew into a storm, hinting of thunder and heavier things. That first solid bass kick gripped me with only a touch of what it had to offer. Soon, the room was filled with enormous, rolling vibrations. They threatened to turn my beautiful wood floors into toothpicks and splinters.
Have I told you about that time, at Lollapalooza, when Cyprus Hill took the stage, when there was so much bass I thought my heart might explode? Now, in my apartment, it was something like that all over again. It was as if you and I were rolling along some neon boulevard in pink and purple Miami; the top is down, and we're letting loose all these tremors of sound from Anthony Hamilton's old Ford. Just take the ride. Read the signs. And hold on.
He sings. And I would have liked to have gone along with him, but it was getting late, and I do have neighbors, and they must have been hearing this — they must have been feeling this, too — so I pushed through the sound and turned the volume down and thought to myself:
"Wow.
That was some
crazy shit." I blame it on the Moscode. I do.
That was some
crazy shit." I blame it on the Moscode. I do.
