Without the Bells and Whistles

The stock speakers in my truck hold the 808s from Gucci Mane’s new album on it’s back with difficulty as he tells me how he’s the bad guy; introducing me to his little friend. I take that as a Scar Face reference, which tells me that he is talking about the guns he owns. The rest of his lyrics, although very stylish and full of swag, lacks, for a lack of a better word, talent. (see what I did there?) Don’t get me wrong; I was very entertained; just more so watching the beat picking up Gucci’s slack than anything else. And I ain’t talking about his pants, if you know what I mean. Although, those probably needs some picking up as well. (get it?) I don’t blame Mr. Mane for this abundance of slacking – no no – I blame all the $1500 car-stereo-system-owners and making-it-rain-club-hoppers that need those heavy bass thumps to hide a weakly beating heart. Gucci just be's gettin’ paypah.

Two turn tables and a microphone.

My momma raised me to respect where respect is due.

I cut Gucci Mane off as I put my truck into park and maneuver my keys out of the ignition switch at the same time striping myself back to my lame self. I enter the local pub to see a gentleman play a solo acoustic set but it’s not that easy. Two acts go before him and judging by the dolled up group of girls at the table next to me with eye shadow fitting for an evening orgy somewhere fancy, I know exactly what to expect. The girls will scream and cheer as these boys hit the stage. They will enter the stage with an expensive electric guitar, shiny and new, accompanied by a top of the line amp which wears a color that matches the New York designer shoes on their feet, fashioned to look vintage and used. Their hair would be flat ironed like those in teen life magazines flowing gracefully as they set up two microphones; one to project their normal vocals whilst the other is programmed to have some reverb, so to make for epic echoing effects. The 8 pedals on the floor connect the whole set up to another amp that projects some pre-recorded sounds to accompany the songs that they will attempt to play. After the 15-20 minute sound check, they will usually deliver a mediocre performance at best with monotone vocals. But don’t worry, the baby blue eyes and hip shaking will erase our minds of the tragedy that will take place on that stage, and I ain’t talking about Shakespeare, if you know what I mean. (ohhhhh high five? high five?...whatever) I don’t blame Mr. Glamor and Mr. Hip though. – no no – I blame the cute, big boob’d bimbos that will suck their dicks later because guitars are hot. Glamor and Hip are just getting their bj’s on.

An acoustic guitar and one microphone.

My momma raised me to respect where respect is due.

They should call me Miss Cleo because my predictions were 100% correct. Seriously. I walk in on Mr. Glamor getting a bj in the bathroom. The gentleman I came to see takes the stage now, two shots and a beer in his hands. The stage now striped of all the bells and whistles of the circus that rolled in prior. He takes an acoustic guitar out of it’s case and strums it a couple of times, adjusting the tuning pegs in between. He checks the mic twice and proceeds to starting the first song off the set list that he failed to prepare. He sings the words knowing the meaning of every one and strums the chords that were born to accompany it. Oh how I wish he’d never stop pounding that curvy hollow bodied instrument. Wait, sorry. My mind is wandering back to that bathroom incident earlier.

Just strings and wood and a passionate voice.

My momma raised me to respect where respect is due.

Respect.