we who gig regularly have all come to realize, there’s always
some wingnut in any gig audience who has been socially inculcated
to yelp unintelligibly, “Freebird!” (almost always accompanied
by the perfunctory “Woo!”).
At a frat party, Downtown Los Angeles, with cover band Dear Jon
– these kids were literally not born when Freebird was released
– would they even KNOW it if we played it, or has this ejaculation
simply become for them “something-which-must-be-yelped",
passed down from father to son concertgoers?
On a bootleg CD of Tenacious D Live In London – during ambient
crowd noise, there’s that wingnut, exercising his penchant, illustrating
that even in Britain, there’s a Deep South.
At a gig in Thousand Oaks California, playing with a cover band,
two nights in a row, two separate beanstems voice their ignorance
unto the sticky-floored pub.
And tonight, after returning from an upscale gig in Palos Verdes
California (where the offending song title was NOT yelped… at
least, I THINK not… but I’m sure there were the seething nuveau-riche
amongst the throng aching to shed their Armani and let fly with
the embittered appellation – matter of fact, I can almost guarantee
it), plonking myself supine on couch, surfing cable to wind down
from gig, there, in southern splendor, come galloping, Lynyrd
Skynyrd themselves - live - with a crowd of one-thousand pasty-white
inbreds ALL ululating that accursed song title.
may I opine, fellow bed-divers and prosthetic-limb-sniffers, it
truly is frightening to see that much white trash coagulated all
in one place barbarically yawping “Freebird-Woo!” AT THE SAME
TIME – and then – ACTUALLY HAVING IT PLAYED!
was more than one lazy-eyed, Nazi-shorn, frothing-mouthed, illiterate
monkey-boy moshing the plastic off his cheap seat in chundering
ecstasy as the song was being performed by the only men on earth
with license to perform it with straight faces and no vestige of irony.
would have quaked in terror to have been anywhere NEAR this venue,
this band, or these people as Rickey Medlocke led upwards on his
fretboard to those worn-ragged arpeggios which I’m sure have resulted
in unintentionally scalloping his guitar neck through their frequency
and intensity, face contorted in frenzied outpouring of reciprocating
bestiality with the all-whaht crowd, dogging those rudimentary
passages bloody-fingered as Hughie Thomasson phallically entered
the fray on brutal harmonies, Strat neck forward and low-slung,
as their audience of unsheeted Klansfolk forgot for one thankful
moment in time exactly how underprivileged and IGNINT they are,
partaking in this melding of double-wide douche-bag-dom.
horror… the swinish horror…
analogous to another favorite pastime of The South, hog-calling,
it would seem that in order to cull the largest number of inarticulate
mongoloids from the woodwork, all one would have to do is start
playing Freebird and – presto! – instant mongoloid symposium.
was once a striking, powerful anthem has, through the patronage
of the incognizant imbeciles who endorse its barked ubiquity,
unfortunately transmogrified into a catch-cry for the mentally
deficient; a claxon-call heralding a dimwit amongst the multitude;
an anathema for any humans of this planet who bathe more than
twice a year.
Which is a stainful pity, for to see and hear it performed live
by the men who wrote it, the song called Freebird is quite a tremendous
thing, albeit drawn out beyond any decent standards of boredom,
paradoxically precisely because of the loose-lipped contingent
creating such a cretinous demand for said song and, upon being
delivered unto it, hesitating to loose it from their grasp lest
they be forced to torment each and every OTHER band on earth for
its deliverance, thereby forcing the hand of its own creators
into discombobulating it.
irony… the cowboy-hatted, slack-jawed irony…