My Allman Brothers
Most of the time, I just want to listen to the Allman Brothers with a barbecue sandwich and a six-pack of beer, on a dock, in a Southern swamp. Maybe throw in a pack of Marlboros and another six-pack or a bottle of whiskey.
I want to feel Duane and Dickey’s git-tars glide through my brain like a hawk in a thermal … while booze poisons my bloodstream.
I want to be young—a teenager without a care outside of my bag of grass being seed-free. And a sharp pocketknife and a perfect piece of wood to carve.
And a cardinal chirping in pine trees
And a pair of broken-in, cut-off Duck Heads from a thrift store
And long, unwashed hair, beneath a beat-up Georgia hat
And a Jeep without doors parked in the gravel
And a frisbee
And a bag of Red Man in my back pocket
And Spanish moss hanging from centuries-old oaks
No plans, no appointments, not a damn thing but an afternoon of laughing with my degenerate friends.
And no one knows the Gypsy’s name
No one hears his lonely sighs
There are no blankets where he lies
In all his deepest dreams, the Gypsy flies
My brain feeling light, floating away in a river of brown water.
Watching tobacco smoke through rays of sunshine.
Contagious laughter … inside jokes … jaw hurts … tears in eyes from having so much fun.
No one knows this won’t last forever.
Every day is an adventure, and everything is new.
First time hearing Ramblin’ Man, Blue Sky, Wasted Words, and Little Martha—how sweet and gentle.
And Midnight Rider … you can only hear a song for the first time once, and we spend a lifetime chasing that feeling … when it enters your soul … when it becomes a part of you.
And Whipping Post—Fillmore ’71—when the boys from Macon tore your heart out … when Gregg’s vocals taught you the power of music before your frontal lobe was fully developed … a twenty-two-minute masterpiece from the beating heart of Dixie.
Everyone is lazy and content … no one is wearing a watch
Just the sound of the Allman Brothers … of youth … of no consequences … of joy
No one is getting older
No one has committed suicide
No one has been through a divorce
No one has lost a brother …
And my brother is alive … he’s healthy … he’s handsome … he doesn’t know he’s going to die … his heart works … his girlfriend loves him … he’s how I want to remember him
The drums and the guitars are rising off the record, they’re pulsating through my neocortex
And Gregg screams…
Sometimes I feel
Like I've been tied
To the whipping post
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'.
