Your old notebook is ragged. Scribbles and half-truths, lies and doodles. Toward the back pages you write the words etched on your tombstone. You write on the dirty floor of a squalid little room with no heat and a junkie nodding in the corner. Two filthy punks having sex on a clean bathroom floor beyond the other side of the wall you lean against. You don't know where you'll crash tomorrow. Tonight you are desperate and dramatic and fatal.
You've got a riff that sounded half right on the acoustic, the one that goes sharp above the 6th fret, so you do that run of notes between songs at the next show, with the overdriven amp and the distortion pedal, and for a moment the room went totally quiet. Slacked jaws and blinking eyes and off you go with another Melvins cover. That riff was what you talked about after the show and the bass player asks what those notes were.
It is the axle that will carry the load. It is the pivot point from one generation to the next and the shaved becomes hairy and no one is any wiser that you are pouring rotgut in the top shelf bottle. It is the fulcrum that lifts the weight and fools walk underneath with umbrellas until a kingpin snaps and it all comes tumbling down.
Years will pass, trends will shift. Some will decide to rant against the song just because everyone else seems to get in lock-step when it's brought up in bored conversation. You take the anti stance and in a way, it seems appropriate considering the circumstances. Young punks do what young punks think they should do, or what they suppose they should do. You'll go home later and play that song through ear buds. It's still that good, even if it has to be kept a secret.
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