Classic (saidthejoker) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-08-14 21:52:00 |
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Current music: | joni mitchell, 'woodstock'/ten years after 'hear me calling' |
Who: Classic Rock, Marijuana & Hippie Subculture
When: Post-dated to Saturday Afternoon, August 15.
Where: Watchtower Records, Classic's basement flat.
Warnings: The usual: Drug references, language, TBD.
He'd been playing for hours, having left the hustle and bustle of the shop upstairs to the hands of the clerks, just for the afternoon. Deciding to keep the Watchtower open for twenty four hours a day and seven days a week in honor of Les Paul's genius seemed, at the time, brilliant. Classic had quickly found, though, that the customers that slunk through the doors at three in the morning were less than stellar, and were less interested in purchasing in anything and more interested in sitting their sorry asses down in the alcove area of the store, where there were comfortable chairs and a place to rest. They were more interested in petty theft, which Classic ordinarily would not mind - too much, considering it was just another way to spread the Song - but sometimes it made him... a little less than charming. He was not a violent man. Well, most days. Leaving bruises on some dip-shit kid at three in the morning was not the way he wanted to start his day, but, he couldn't complain at the energy the fleeting violence had given him.
At around nine in the morning, he retreated to the comfort and solace of his basement apartment, preparing for Marijuana and Hippie's visit. They'd come to the store, sure, but he had not had them both in his home in a long time. He wasn't one to feel apprehensive, even before preparing to shine on stage, but, something about his dearest and nearest stepping foot in this space had him, well, a little twitchy. A joint or two, and a drink, eased that problem quickly enough.
He did not clean. He did not tidy. He knew who his friends were - they were part of him, and cleanliness, aside from in the store, was hardly his primary concern. To prepare, he had plugged in his amp, pulled down a few of his favorite guitars, picked one that Les Paul would have respected - which was all of them, really -, and sat himself down on one of the chairs in his modestly sized living room, which had an open floor plan that opened up into a small kitchen and dining nook, and the windows were slightly higher than usual, given the apartment beneath ground level. He left both doors open a crack, to both let in air, let them know that it'd be fine to just come in without knocking, and to let the music he'd soon be playing wrap its fingers around anyone who happened to be walking by the store at that given moment.
And so, for hours, he played tunes from Ten Years After's 'Hear Me Calling', the classic riffs drifting up through the floorboards and into the store above, through the cracks in the doors, and, possibly, the Song making its way to his friends, and pulling them forward.