Wasted Youth

I remember everything!...

I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday...

I was barely seventeen and I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar.

I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster, but I do remember that it had a heart of chrome and a voice like a horny angel!

I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster, but I do remember that it wasn't at all easy.

It required the perfect combination of the right power chords, and the precise angle from which to strike.

The guitar bled for about a week afterward and the blood was so dark and rich, like wild berries.

The blood of the guitar was Chuck Berry red.

The guitar bled for about a week afterward but it rung out beautiful, and I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before.

So, I took my guitar and I smashed it against the wall!, I smashed it against the floor!, I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader!, I smashed it against the hood of a car!, I smashed it against a 1981 Harley Davidson!

The Harley howled in pain!!

The guitar howled in heat!!!

And I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom...

Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the moonlight.

Slowly I opened the door, creeping in the shadows right up to the foot of their bed.

I raised the guitar high above my head and just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down upon the centre of the bed, my father woke up screaming:

"Stop! wait a minute! stupid boy! what do you think you're doing?

That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!"

And I said: "goddammit daddy!... you know I love you... but you've got a hell of a lot to learn about rock and roll!!!!!!"