This may be the worst thing ever written...Johnny Depp's intro to Joe Perry's autobiography:
And it keeps going.
As I sit here before a most cacophonous piece of blank onion skin, which I ever so delicately stuffed into my sturdy Olympia typewriter, and which surely deserves a more appreciative and well-balanced operator, but alas, such is its lamentable fate to be clubbed by my inept and clumsy digits, the paper screams for me to make the first move.
My thoughts are charged with the challenge of writing a few words on a man. An artist. A significant, nay, eminent artist, not only for me but for many others. A guitarist extraordinaire. A hero whose immeasurable ability has sent him high onto every Greatest Guitar Player list going ever since he sliced through some of the most tasteful and raging notes to be unleashed on an unwitting world. A hero who I've been given the honor to call both friend and brother.
Pondering him — the man, the mentor — the flood of imagery is astounding. I am swarmed by visions, swept away, almost, happily catapulted backward into fond memories of a (expletive)-up youth, with everything and nothing to look forward to. Did I delve into all those clichéd Things That I Shouldn't Have as a kid? Indeed, (expletive) did. With great passion, pure ignorance, and (expletive) gusto. For a good while there, life for me was an endless, rickety, and dangerous train wreck just waiting to happen. But no self-medication, no booze or chemical what-have-you, has ever done what a solitary sliver of music could do. Not even close.
My thoughts are charged with the challenge of writing a few words on a man. An artist. A significant, nay, eminent artist, not only for me but for many others. A guitarist extraordinaire. A hero whose immeasurable ability has sent him high onto every Greatest Guitar Player list going ever since he sliced through some of the most tasteful and raging notes to be unleashed on an unwitting world. A hero who I've been given the honor to call both friend and brother.
Pondering him — the man, the mentor — the flood of imagery is astounding. I am swarmed by visions, swept away, almost, happily catapulted backward into fond memories of a (expletive)-up youth, with everything and nothing to look forward to. Did I delve into all those clichéd Things That I Shouldn't Have as a kid? Indeed, (expletive) did. With great passion, pure ignorance, and (expletive) gusto. For a good while there, life for me was an endless, rickety, and dangerous train wreck just waiting to happen. But no self-medication, no booze or chemical what-have-you, has ever done what a solitary sliver of music could do. Not even close.
Comment