America Is Waiting: In The Lines

I’m gonna pull this roof right back, leave my seatbelt loose by my side. I’m gonna wedge this CD, this new eight-track fireball of fuckin’ raging punk rock, into the stereo. I’m gonna set fire to the back seat and put my foot to the floor. I’m gonna park this motherfucker on a forecourt of a garage on some sun-scorched highway in the middle of an endless desert and turn these songs up. I’m gonna sit. I’m gonna wait.

I’m gonna roll the fuck away as the four wheels head skywards, propelled by the inevitable blast. I’m gonna skip and stumble, clothes singed and hair stinkin’, to the dusty verge from where I’ll hear nothing but the splintering of metal, the gush of petroleum, and the blood-stained guitars of America Is Waiting. This is a band suffering an ATD-I affliction, and sweating it out well. These are murderous songs, songs of passionate rebellion and of dancefloor massacres and of bruising and burning. Of running and turning, to see nothing but the brutally twisted choreographed by some divine force of nature into the most sublime scene imaginable.

Of course, I’m not really gonna do anything of the sort.

I don’t have a car.