I remember everything. I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday.
I was barely 17, and I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar. I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster, but I do remember that it had a heart of chrome, and a voice like a horny angel...
I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster, but I do remember that it wasn't at all easy. It required the perfect combination of the right power chords, and the precise angle from which to strike...
The guitar bled for about a week afterward, and the blood was soup, dark and rich, like wild berries... The blood of the guitar was Chuck Berry red... The guitar bled for about a week afterward, but it rang out beautifully, and I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before...
So, I, took my guitar, and I smashed it against the wall, I smashed it against the floor, I smashed it against the body of a varsty cheerleader, smashed it against the hood of a car, smashed it against a 1981 Harley-Davidson.. the Harley howled in pain, the guitar howled in heat...
And I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom... Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the moonlight...
Slowly, I opened the door, creeping in the shadows, right up to the foot of their bed... I raised the guitar high above my head, and just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down on the center of the bed, my father woke up, screaming,
"Stop!!! Wait a minute!! Stop it boy!!! What do you think you're doing?!?!? That's the way to treat an expensive musical instrument???"
And I said "GOD DAMMIT DADDY!!!!!... You know I love you... But you've got a helluva lot to learn about ROCK AND ROLL!!!!!"