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A Story by Fe Carhart

I'm really not sure what genre of writing this would be considered (maybe some type of snapshot?) but I just wrote this the other day at 3am after watching an old Who concert from 1970.

Are you a virgin? Do you wish to change this? If you answered yes to either of these questions, then the front row of a Who concert is the place for you! There you will experience guitar riffs so heavy and gritty that they will take your clothes right off, bass lines so deep they will finger your mind, body, and soul, a drum beat so loud, hard, and fast leaving you wanting more and more and more until the yearning becomes a constant obsession, and wailing so graphic and raw- touching, and biting, and caressing every inch of you until there is no more of you to touch, bite or caress.
The tall one, who I believe they refer to as "Pete" will let his guitar hang off of him for a moment letting you osmose the static remains that escape out of the amplifiers. He will then hold the guitar again and play the damn thing right in your face until you feel him on top of you. All of a sudden Pete will lift the instrument up to where his face is and use it as if it were a machine gun, his weapon against the common man, his defense for the man who is cast out. Pete's fingers move up and down the neck of the Gibson but you feel them move slowly up and down your neck, tracing the outline of your collarbone. Both of you sweat like pigs and grit your teeth as he plays note after note, chord after chord, riff after riff. He doesn't waste his time with four minute solos like Zeppelin's guitar player, and he won't stand still, fidgeting with his fingers, his head, his arms, his legs, his feet, you. Pete will start off slow and gentle but the sound he produces with his guitar will rip your new Stones shirt and bellbottoms off leaving you naked and yelling and cheering like a madman until not only has he taken your clothes, but he has taken your brain, your heart, and your body. He may not have the t*****s and beer that Zappa has, but I promise that Pete will show you a good time.

Next we have the quiet, mousy fellow who goes by the name "John". Now, John may not say much, but I think his bass pretty much expresses what can not necessarily be expressed through words. What he plays his bass, it starts off as a drop of rain, it's there and you at first disregard it until it becomes a puddle at your feet, which then becomes a brook with the depth of a foot, which then becomes a six feet deep swimming pool, and finally you're in the middle of an ocean that goes miles deep and before you drown, you look up and see the image of John with his bass all across the vast sky. You finally sink deeper and deeper into the rhythm of it all and the great pleasure it gives you to be able to feel his hands on the bass, his hands on you. His fingers reach inside your head playing with it softly as if it were just another instrument, just another everyday thing in John's life. He moves up and down your body with his pen, writing the unwritten poetry, but still not speaking the unspoken words inside his thinking unthought head. After he's done writing with the pen, he discards it and grabs his bass once again, jamming it into your exposed chest, right through to your soul. Once he finds your soul, he takes it and molds it as if it were clay. John is careful not to damage it. He smooths each curve, sharpens each edge, makes little craters until there is nothing left to do but place your soul back where it was and leave. Bass lines speak louder than words.
It's very rare that a drummer takes the role of frontman in a band, but the Who's drummer who's name is Keith does just that. He defines what rock and roll is- loud, in your face, obnoxious, and bold. He will not rest until everyone around him is entertained by him and his two sticks, so he'll go faster, louder, and harder with each time he hits the drums, each time he hits you. Keith snickers, knowing he's cornered and trapped you just by doing what he was meant to. You cry out for more and more and more and he gives it to you gladly knowing he has stolen the spotlight with his instrument and his smile. He is willing to go further if you are, and at this point you're asking for it, just neeeding it in your life. You're all too submissive as you let Keith penetrate your wanting soul with his wooden sticks and mind tricks. He grunts and shouts out meaningless words that are near indecipherable, and you grin like a fool because you have fallen in love with some kind of lunatic. His raving is like his drumming, a little all over the place but a lot purposeful. Keith is sweating relentlessly as you watch his body writhe back and forth up on the stage. He is the frontman in the back.
Lastly we have the vocalist they call "Roger". Roger's voice floats in the air momentarily and then he's a hurricane�" shaking his head, and twirling the mic, grunting, growling, wailing. He grabs for you and pulls you close, still singing, he runs his fingers down to your toes and then returns to standing position where you can catch a glimpse of his face. It's like poetry, and not that everyday nature poetry s**t, but that beautiful poetry that only Patti Smith could write. Roger bites at your skin with every word he croons and you feel like you are a child, feeling and experiencing everything for the first time again. With every scream he lets out, you feel nails scratching down your back and you want to be able to feel that every moment of every minute of every half hour of every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year of every decade of every century of every millenium. Just as you are enjoying the painful pleasure, Roger scoops you up, looks you in the eyes mesmerizing, hypnotizing with an inhumanely beautiful shade of blue. He says "See Me, feel me, touch me, heal me" and you reach out to touch and feel him but he's gone now. Roger ran away with your everything because now he's free.