Amazes me, the will of instinct. Whump whump whump whump. Over the terrifying colossal inhuman transgressive not-punk-rock racket we can hear the plummeting bodies of feathered ’80s hair-metal gods who flew too close to the sun and still didn’t burn but then Kurt Cobain, Tortured Voice of a Generation, incinerated their wings with one contemptuous breath and sent them spiraling down to earth, their bodies now crashing with a sickening mangled thud onto Matt’s roof. Winger (whump), Jackyl (whump), Poison (whump), Slaughter (whump). Bloody night out, bloody night out, bloody night out.
