True romance with rock and roll. Sleazy carpeted rooms perfumed with tobacco and wizard’s smoke. Hands calloused and lightly discoloured like an age cracked oil painting from frequent friction with fret boards, drum sticks, bottle caps, dirty denim. Kaleidoscope thoughts about Hawkwind and the Blues and distortion and living with regrets and amplifiers and motorcycles and how you’re gonna spend the next little bit of cash you’ll see and The Stooges and love.
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HÖG confess their romance with their rock and roll parasites. These are hymns to the denim clad saints. Praise them.
- essay by Coco