InsaneJournal

Who: Classic Rock narrative, but open to Marijuana, Hippie & LSD (Posting order? Pff. Just write if you feel like it!)
When:: Friday, September 18. Afternoon/evening.
Where: Watchtower Records
Warnings: Rambling narrative, drug references... the usual?




The sun was setting, and the lights were dim at Watchtower Records. The flood of customers had subsided to a trickling stream; it had been a busy day. Classic had spent most of the day drifting through the aisles, discussing merchandise with youths who thought they understood the gravity of the day, with empty smiles and crocodile tears staining their cheeks with sky blue eyeliner they likely borrowed from their mothers.

He had plastered a most charming smile on his lips, regardless, as he stepped through his day with his lazy swagger. But, he inwardly felt as though he walked upon clouds, in a heaven of his own creation, exalted by the national recognition of one of his finest. Not necessarily stoned, but... beautiful. Although Hendrix was never his: none of them were. He was the personification of the hysteria, the adoration, the music and the melodies, the experience, but he would never truly claim ownership over anything. He may have been a king in a kingdom of ever-shifting sound, of the fiery yearning in your heart as you hear Jimi's fingers across the guitar, but his kingdom was built by the people. His power was stronger than he and many gave himself credit for. Music spoke for itself. Music touched all.

Almost every classic rock radio station throughout the country was playing Jimi Hendrix's best work. Whether or not it was intended didn't matter: Classic had opened his eyes in the morning, reached with his mind and his influence, and turned the national dials toward him.

He was a very simple man. But on days like this, he could not fully suppress that inward gleam of confidence, that America still needed their classic rock, and that the idea of classic rock was consistently in flux. Classic had been strolling through Central Park the evening before, and clusters of girls were gathered on the grass listening to a small radio, to their favorite classic rock station.

He forgot they even did that. That the people still fell to their knees and idolized the radio, without even realizing what they were doing.

He overheard one of the girls, a wide-eyed freckle-faced doll with pale skin and pale hair, asking another, "Hey, is U2 even classic rock?", for the radio station had Bono's intoxicating voice flowing through it. The song before had been AC/DC. Classic had paused in his reverie to listen to the unfolding discussion, which overlapped his history, the history of music in the 20th century as a whole, and bordered on academic in its intense, critical look on the changing sound of Him and continued with them belaboring their undying love for Heart and Pat Benatar, the women in classic rock who too many forgot. Their discussion tripped over artists he had pushed to the back of his mind - while he may be immortal, he was never impartial. He had his favorites.

There were so many. So many songs. So many sounds. There were artists who he shared with brother Blues, sister Jazz, the fusion of all of them creating a deeply sensual sound and some, one could argue (but if it was with these three, good luck winning such an argument), the best musicians, the best music, in the history rock and roll.

Cream was one of them, as was The Doors, and Zeppelin. The best of the Song, in Classic's reality, had a foundation of Blues. Hendrix was one of them. Classic needed to see Blues. The gods of Music had drifted too far, physically. There was a time when that wasn't so. Had he been a man who suffered guilt easily - which he rarely did - he might question his fiery devotion to a drug god, and its potential for distancing himself from what came before. He wanted to watch Jazz's fingers move across the piano, hear her crooning voice spread through the national consciousness once more. Knock back a few drinks with the two beings that had been there when America opened its eyes to what would be known as Classic Rock, and thus created himself.

But first, he needed to see the people he shared the 1960's with, heart and soul. He needed to see and feel and taste, and so now, as the sun set and he waited, ever patient, in the alcove of Watchtower's ground floor, some feet from the counter, surrounded by books, cozy chairs, and a guitar on his lap. He had been idly strumming away in between the customers, had left Lucy or Sorcha to do what they did best for him: sell music, and make the experience at Watchtower an unforgettable one. He sometimes, and often, forgot that Sorcha was one of the Old Ones, a banshee. In Watchtower, it did not matter who you were. All that mattered was the Song.

He played quietly, humming the tune he played - Voodoo Child to himself, his dark gaze flickering out from the alcove and across this solace of music. Classic felt Hippie close by, felt the sorrow of sweet Harmony across the city, and, like a wildfire, he felt Marijuana, whose presence on days like today was nearly as intoxicating as his own.

A tilt of his head, a slow and sad half-smile on his lips, he waited.