I enjoy camping in “the nature.” Pitch a tent, start a fire, and wait for darkness (and s’mores). On a recent trip to Hagan Stone Park in Pleasant Garden, NC something interesting accompanied the sound of owls hooting and crackling wood—music.
Off in the distance we could hear the makings of a bluegrass band: a mandolin, banjo, 2 acoustics, Dobro, and a
bass fiddle.
I only listened to the likes of The Ramones, The Clash, Sex Pistols, and Dead Kennedys (Green Day is not punk and therefore does not count) because a buddy of mine used to blare ’em in his Ford Tempo. I was never a fan, and I’m not really a fan now.
When my buddy took to forming a band I took to listening more. And when I showed up at an evening jam session in the basement of his parents’ house I got hooked. Not on any of the above icons, but on The Hooligans—four dudes that knew how to rock out with their cock out <– not literally, I don’t think. Unfortunately, the band dissolved and I can no longer pay to hear my friend swear at the top of his lungs.
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