The Song of the Waves

by James
(Raleigh, NC)

You've never felt it? The hammering throb of your heart as the adrenaline and the ocean drum against your skin, inside and out, keeping time as you gasp for breath? It's music man: Music you won't understand until you crawl on top of of a wave with nothing but driftwood under you and a prayer banging around inside you. "Oh God! Let this be the wave!"

I loved it man, way back in the dim and misty. It's life on the frantic, manic, razor's slice of the edge. It's a song. It's a dance. No, no, no. It's The Song and The Dance. Yeah man. Capital letters all the way. These guys may call their music "surf rock." It's nothing of the kind. If you're going to call it that, you need to be able to tap into the dark stuff. Stuff like Gibby Haynes or Monster Magnet put out back in the nineties, loaded to the gills with whatever nasty voodoo you could use to fill a bottle or a vein.

If you're going to take the Big Bath, you'd better have something to wash clean. Not that the ocean's spotless herself. Don't let the crash of the surf lull you. She's crafty and mean hearted. She'll drag you down, beat you up, and toss you away when she's done. If you're not at least a little bit at home in the dark, she'll chew you up and leave the scraps for the crabs.

If you get out there with with a touch of sin in you, though, it's a different story. No, you'll still get thrashed, but you'll be a bit wiser to her tricks. She won't leave you eating sand nearly as often. Kindred spirits call for kindred music.

Hey, speaking of sin and spirits, I don't suppose you'd be willing to help an old beach bum out would you? I could use a drink right about now. Be a sport.



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