By Jon M Gluckman
In the ’70s, Malcolm could tear the heart out of a Fender. Notes melted when he bent those strings. Angels wept; Neptune calmed the broiling seas. He’d lived in palaces, trailer parks, then crashed on couches. He ‘found’ my Johnny Walker Blue and drank himself to death, right in our basement studio. This morning I tripped over his head, which hit the bottle, and made it spin like in high school. Sometime last night, he’d laid down the sickest techno-funk on our Denon 4-track. My band, The Hipgrinders, appropriated it. “Gifted,” Derick said when we buried him beneath Daryl’s oriental rug.
Another neat and unsettling treat from the impressive Mr. Gluckman.
Expertly done and succinct.
Very neatly done.
A delciously dark piece. I dig your style!
Another one bites it! Thank you!