Sand Witch by GammaGT
But who is Sand Witch ? Barbarian sap? A supernatural product of Valhalla? A Voltairian Viking of sound-systems eager to decapitate the Jesuit? Her freckles mark her allegiance to some satanic species, incubus and succubus ready to rape with sound and energy. Between shamanism and occupation, it’s a blitzkrieg, the rite pushes occult all the deaf people who dabble in the water table adjacent to the scene where it officiates.
Te un pan, the redhead makes his instruments turn a cosmic wheel that makes me dance frantically. How can only one sweat trance so much? It’s devilry!
The humidity is such that we can make an inverted cross on the month of dry January. After the hot show, I leave to hydrate myself with hops at the refreshment bar.
Jim Younger Spirit by Vv
The Pinkerton bastards shot my horse in the middle of a run, unless it was thirst that got the better of his heart, anyway I fell head over heels at the edge of the canyon, and bad luck wanted that the fall was not fatal. Carried away by scree, the slide took me all the way down the cliff, where a final bounce on a sage bush catapulted me into an underground trench. How long was it before waking up? No idea. Ahead of me was an army of troglodyte cacti blocking the way, and all I could see was the blue reflections of a hellish river dancing on the low vault of the cavern.
Then there was a noise of flints colliding, four successive rock falls, and suddenly music rose from the depths of the cave.
First, chords and pulsations, packed, compressed, distributed majestically against the walls, ricocheted off the cacti. They started waving. With an instinctive hand, I tore the flesh from one of them, bringing it to my mouth. The bitter juice of the peyote squirted between my teeth, their passage shriveled my veins, stiffened my nerves. The psychotropic dilated my corneas, my vision veiled with a filter of red tartan. Suddenly a monotonous breeze passed between the riffs. A note of synthesis wrapped around the strings, like a small threadlike drone. There was no longer any doubt, I had certainly ended up in a shamanic sanctuary, one of those where the Black Feet Indians come to mumble incantations.
On my back, drooling, something pushed my side, it was a haunting echo from the heart of the earth, a native woman’s voice. I could see it between the undulations of the cacti. Gradually the silhouettes of the musicians, the ghosts of famous outlaws, the desperate for freedom, became apparent. We had been able to make holes in their bodies, to hang them, to make them die with their boots on their feet, we had not been able to kill the spirit of rock’n roll, invoked in secret here by god-knows what telluric force. A saxophone melody approached me, meandering on the ground, rose like a rattlesnake above my head, and in its poisonous gaze was reflected all of America. The vibrations united. On the wall appeared the great flat valley, the craggy rocks of the Wasatch, the redwood forests of Oregon, the caravan trails, the road of tears, the desert of death where the bleached skeletons of forty-niners smurfed, the wounded knee and valentine’s day massacres.
The rocky faces of red-haired Kid Billy, Emmett Dalton on acid, wild Bill hiccups, Jesse Jameson, sobriety Jane and Kittamaquund followed one another in giant projections on the limestone, all blasting their musical weapons. Maybe I was destined to lose my horse to witness the show, I don’t know. I do not know. I don’t know, I kept telling myself, limping out of the garbage-filled bottleneck that led to my camp… But now, in my tent, my wounds bandaged, my hunger and thirst quenched, waiting for the peyote effect fades to find my Greek city, now I know. What I saw and heard. It was Americana. It was Jim Younger’s Spirit.
