Washboard?
Yes, washboard.
How's 'bout the drummer? Who's on the drum set?
Nobody.
How's 'bout the bass? Who's playing bass?
Nobody.
No one on drums? No one on bass? Man, this is just some more of you drag-rump, peace/love/flower, bleeding-heart liberal stuff, ain't it? It's gon' put me to sleep, ain't it?
If it does put you to sleep, you'll have nightmares.
Why? 'Cause they say graves in the title?
No, 'cause Fudesco sounds like his soul's being tortured, his frayed tenor reflecting someone on the run from the tortures of the damned within and without, seeking solace in sex and warmth of a lover who may be damned as well; and 'cause Quirk's synchopated picking evokes images of sins that dance around our spirits, never leaving, always threatening; and 'cause Lund's bum bum bum bum and scratch scratch scratch reminds that the Devil--real or figurative, it's up to you--is not only right on our tails, but he's gaining; and 'cause the record ends cold, with a hard thump, which means that maybe not even our lover's embrace can save us from the abyss, 'cause it's just arrived, right behind us, and it's just grabbed our shoulder.
Well, why you playin' it again if it scares you so much?
'Cause if I immediately re-play the record, then I won't have to turn 'round and face the end.
Okay, uh, that's a little morbid. Why I wanna listen to something like that?
'Cause it sounds like nothing else on this list. And we better play it now, 'cause tomorrow's Friday the 13th, and though superstition ain't the way, there's still no way in Hell I'm playing this one tomorrow. Might as well face the devil before he's prepared for me.
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