the faithful

Bad cover bands playing in bars with shitty sound systems are a priesthood, you think to yourself while stepping over the wires tangled at the edge of the stage. The music you play with such reverence, such fidelity was created by one of the deities of rock, flippantly, between groupies. Even so, you know yourself to be incapable of recreating that casual genius, so you do what you can – obsessively practice the solos, ritualizing every note, even the ones accidentally dropped in during a moment of inattention by the god who made it. It’s how you worship them, commune with them, but (like all priests) you need a congregation to witness, to testify, to partake of the trans-substantiation of your unskilled but faithful renderings into the holy stuff of rock & roll.

Read: The Monarch Review.