you know, when i drink alone...i prefer to be by myself

So, a hypothetical:

Every single rock band from the last, say, 45 years convenes for Battle Royal on a desolate farm in southern Kansas. Bare-fisted war. Only one band will survive, though it’ll probably lose its drummer. Let’s cut straight to the action:

Mike: “John, Carl, what’s going on down there?”

John (shouting maniacally, fingers in ears):

“Crazy scene, Mike! See for yourself! Let me pan a bit. For those of you viewing at home, we’re standing on Earl Douglass’ farm in Chetopa, Kansas with every post-’63 rock band. All of ‘em, even the super shitty ones. The Battle Royal you’re about to witness will be a fistfight to the death, no holds barred! Carl and I have seen a few of the heavyweights already. Mike, if you don’t mind waiting a moment, let’s get around this fencing to the south wheat field. More room to move about.”

(lengthy pause, unsteady camera)

“Alright, Mike, we’ve stumbled upon a few of the favorites. There’s Relf and his Yardbirds over there in mod boots smoking their ciggies cool as you please, and that looks an awful lot like—why, yes it is—Henry Rollins (left) and Black Flag spitting through curled lips. One o’ dem honkin’ gobs just missed Tony Iommi! Ozzy Osb—what the…wai…Mike, Ozzy just dropped to his fours and lapped it up, asking Rollins if he’s got any more! This is shapin’ up to be a real show!

“To my left—please pardon the video quality—you’ll see an out-of-focus figure nodding in the corner. Carl thinks it's Scotty Weiland, though it's awful hard to tell from this distance. Someone better get him up, whoever he is, and pull that needle outta his arm. Johnny Lydon was that face you saw just a moment ago...yesterd...SHIT!…he just…my apologies for the colorful language, everybody, but Johnny just called me a scrotal wanker and…dumped a full can of Schlitz over my head, the f—oh, and Jello Biafra, hello Jello.

“Up ahead on those crates you’ll notice two poorly-tressed fellas sporting Detroit tees, probably some shitpunk band who hitchhiked from the gutter outside their garage or something. We’ve seen more than a few forgettable acts this afternoon, Mike, all cut from the same cloth as those Michiganers. You ask me, they’re dead money. This ain’t no kiddie scuffle. That’s David Peel passing out joints from a sandwich bag and grinning a lot…not sure if he knows what he’s getting himself into. He keeps talking about the dope smoking a pope, which seems a little backwards to me.

“All told, Mike, nearly two million bands made it out, based on our rough estimations. Ian Curtis (pictured) and Shannon Hoon, bless ‘em, there they are—reunited with their respective groups. Good to see them both. Here comes Mick Ja—nope, at second glance that’s Steven Tyler. My mistake. Let’s see, lessee, who else. Rivers Cuomo. He’s gonna get his ass kicked. G.G. Allin to my right, nude and covered with feces. Good Christ what a stench…he appears to be breaki…G.G. just punched out six people, Mike, and we haven’t even started! Hard to bet against him. He showed up sans band but with a troupe of sixty intoxicated, bloodied teenagers in tow. Nice to see Chris Martin shaking hands with Jackson Browne—that’s a gesture of sportsmanship you don’t typically see at an event like this. Good for them.

“We’re about to get things underway, Mike, so I’m gonna send it back up to the booth in just a moment. Before I go, though—remember, viewers…this is bare-handed warfare. No guitars or blunt objects allowed. The heavyset guys—Black Francis, Meat Loaf (left), that one fat drummer who tours with McCartney, John Popper, since it appears the pre-weight loss Popper showed up—these are the guys to watch for. Back to you, Mike!”

Place your bets, people. Who’s gonna walk away from this slugfest? I’ve plunked fifteen dollars (roughly one-fifth of my life savings) on.......
































GEORGE FUCKING THOROGOOD AND THE FUCKING DESTROYERS

Fuck yeah! They’re great! George wears a cobra snake for a necktie! He drinks alone! He can’t make the rent! He takes his drinks three at a time! He’s had the same haircut for thirty years! He tucks his shirt into his jeans! His key don’t fit no more cuz his woman changed the locks! Best friend is Johnnie Walker! Built a house from rattlesnake hides!

George Thorogood (the badass to your right) was born in a jukebox.

I know nothing about the other Destroyers, but if they’re even 1/8 as tough as Georgie, this fight’s gonna be over in ten seconds flat and I’ll be retiring to a small Irish village with all my winnings (the payback on my Georgie bet involves many, many zeros), where I’ll raise a few dozen sheep whilst drinking green tea and when the air chills I’ll mount my trusty steed and retreat to the nearest town (35 miles away) for peat, kindling and potatoes and if you want to contact me you better have a piece of paper and a quilled pen and a book of stamps. Destroyers, live up to your name!
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