I have a mental image of men and women on a porch, keeping time with a hopping leg while they belt out old unknown styles of music with a banjo, harmonica and a fiddle.
Cutaway to a record in an ambered interior, plush chairs. The audible sizzle of dusty grooves.
Pants way too high, shiny shoes, pearl earrings, sack dress cut nice and trimmed beautifully with some lace or another. Cleetus with his tea. Clapping, swaying in unison, ignoring a young fellow from university holding a microphone out, kneeling next to his Sears Roebuck silvertone recorder. Sweat has pooled into his clothing and drips from his elbow onto the dusty porch.
His tape fills, he packs up, tips his hat, wipes his brow and neck with a rag and he drives his old Ford Tudor down the dirt road to a studio.
The light wanes out yonder, and the jug goes dry.
But my first concert was AC/DC, and when I see the DQ logo, all I see is the Eye of Sauron. I look at the world through riff-covered glasses.
Fifty State Banana 