Business as usual.
When on a peasant or, say, on which graph.
This is the beard.
Long.
Someone is combed smoothly, who does not.
Nothing new.
Men wore beards.
Always - even under Peter.
How they ate and drank - we do not know, and we do not want to know.
They don't wear that now, and okay.
And if someone has a beard up to the waist - a freak, of course, but also - okay.
So-and-so bearded, neatly cut - a dime a dozen.
Even women with beards are now dating.
Directly on the TV.
And there they dance and sing.
They are successful.
Confession.
What is not clear?
Stop.
A word that means that it would be highly desirable to stop, otherwise negative consequences cannot be avoided.
Stop, as I write more and more about South Rock.
About the origins.
When there was nothing.
In those origins, Chuck Berry went to prison for ten years straight from school.
He played music there, for which he was released ahead of schedule.
And he built a career, made hits like Roll Over Beethoven, Johnny B. Goode, Sweet Little Sixteen - those other lyrics.
And then again, already in 1959, he went to prison and again was released ahead of schedule.
And the records kept coming out, life went on.
In those origins, Jerry Lee Lewis married his thirteen-year-old cousin Myra Gale Brown at the age of twenty-three, burying his career to hell during a British tour, rejected by the whole world, but still not giving up.
In 1976, as a joke (or how else), pointing a pistol, he almost shot his bass player Butch Owens to death, and he survived.
Such a story.
In those origins, Ray Charles spent a third of his life in the illusory world of drug immortality, Bill Haley drank so that in the end he had to die, Johnny Cash barely survived, unhooking at the last moment from a bottle and all kinds of powders, Johnny Vincent broke in car accidents everything and became famous (long before any modern ugliness) by the exemplary destruction of hotel rooms, dying at thirty-six from the consequences of the same fiery water.
BB King didn't drink.
Yes.
But from childhood he worked on cotton plantations, just like the disenfranchised heroes of Harriet Beecher Stowe.
Where is there to drink something?
In those origins, the King of Kings was ground too, Elvis's daddy, the friend of all children and all dreamy teenagers in the universe.
Barbiturates, be it wrong.
Unlimited love for the audience and concerts.
This is not toffee "death to teeth" ...
But...
Let's stop in the moment for a little while.
Do not repent forever to rockers of ancient times.
The seal of a dark spell does not lie on them.
There was a lot of ... good in them too?
Truth?
And you don't have to think that the author has gone crazy (that goes without saying) - there was that very real in them.
For which it is now accepted not to understand why "beat desperately" and backhand.
Lived in them (and remains alive today) a healthy interest in a healthy life, exactly the same as it was originally laid down in the formula of our species.
They fought for girls and fame, crumbled the world to pieces for the sake of recognition of their exceptional point of view on everything.
They were not tolerant and, quite possibly, did not even know such a word.
Among the southern gods of fate, everything that is now called gender discrimination was called love, and, mistaking that very love, breaking their necks and falling from heaven into bottomless abysses, they remained men.
And their women, their personal angelic and luminous deities, are women.
Here is the same horror.
Truth?
Man made hell.
And time passed.
And its sand flowed, carrying the past away, sending oblivion, restlessness, thirst, spiritual drought and other senseless hunger of feelings.
And what we have now came.
I love the middle of today - ZZ Top.
It's just the same as the door opened after being locked in the steam room for several hours.
And fell out into the snow.
And writhing, lying, overeating with this snow and wiping yourself.
And two opposite, in white "Stetsons", cowboy boots, shirts "last fight with the Comanches" and with beards to the waist, grinning, playing electric guitars, and as if casually ask: “When was the last time on a date, son?
How long has it been without a fire in your heart? "
And they brazenly play this Eliminator!
- which they have the eighth studio and from the videos for songs from which you want to live again, even if it's all over and over again.
Remember?
- Gimme all your lovin '!!!
A red car, either a sports car, or fell from the sky.
The boy (well, not quite, of course) is lying under his pickup truck, fixing something.
Three dazzling ones emerge from the red one from the sky ...
This is no longer filmed.
Review at least five times in a row.
Especially the rotten old man, who drives the gas station and frees him from unearthly dreams with almost kicks.
Locksmith boy.
And like Caesar - Caesar, locksmith - locksmith.
But no, brothers, but no!
I got to have a shot
'Cause what you got is oh so sweet
You got to make it hot
Like a boomerang I need a repeat
Gimme all your lovin '
All your hugs and kisses too
Gimme all your lovin '
Don't let up until we're through ...
These two, Billy Gibbons and Dusty Hill (who are bearded), founded ZZ Top, scary to say when - in 1969.
And also Frank Beard with them on drums.
This one, however, does not have a beard, he says, they say, it interferes with the drumming.
And so it would be necessary.
So these two, bearded, they knew something from the very beginning.
We watched, saw, sensed where the locomotive was heading and from what precipice it would hoot.
And they let go to the waist.
At first, this case went on for fun.
Then we got used to it.
And then they became more normal than all normal.
Well, yes, they are from Texas, and that Texas - Surgut in winter.
One song, two bolts.
So they are having fun.
They sing everything about girls, about different parties there, about sex until you drop and dancing until the morning.
The "world media" write about them - that they are mired in frivolity, dirty hints, specific humor and southern slang.
Such a good musical pie turns out - they also know how to play.
On their guitars.
And they play, bearded devils, very well.
And how the drummer kicks in ... And all this is for the common people, for the blue collars from the scrap work, for the farmers with their eyes bulging from the heat and strain.
And for girls, not a timid dozen.
They sing for living people!
And they look like a complete anachronism against the background of the "advanced public".
Here I remembered (thinking about the "advanced public") Pyotr Uspensky, his "Conversations with the Devil", written and published already in 1916, or even earlier.
Ouspensky, a mystic and philosopher, a disciple (and somewhere and a comrade-in-arms) of the great Gurdjieff, utters the most interesting things with his lips not for the night of the mentioned.
And as we know that the devil is that, although he is an unreliable person, and perhaps even harmful, but in judgments about people he is often accurate, then I will give you a terrifying quote.
About the relationship.
About relationships ...
“But that person is bored. And he looks at this rosy German girl exactly as a real man should look at a woman. But this is not for long, my dear. She will get off at the next stop. And you would never dare to speak to her. And if he did, then nothing would come of it. She goes to the service. And he thinks that this is the way it should be. Yes, I wonder how they haven't started to castrate you yet. In a hundred years it will probably be. Once a billionaire comes to the conclusion that castrated employees are better than uncastrated employees, I'm sure many will agree to undergo a small operation themselves. And parents will send their children to hospitals for surgery to provide them with service in the future. And the most comical thing is that perhaps one soul out of ten thousand is aware of what is really happening to it. Others thinkthat they live, and do not jokingly consider themselves human ... "
Yes Yes.
Directly at once and raise a cry about "a brainless old old man who carries for the devil knows what!"
And put me there too.
Straight to the old man.
There are still many of us left.
Somehow I do not choose bearded women.
Here's a weirdness.
I choose rockers.
Unlucky, crazy with their wild rock-impunity, letting go of dubious jokes and so on.
I choose ZZ Top similar to monsters.
I choose a fat Elvis of one hundred and twenty kilos at the last show in Indianapolis.
I choose the husky seventy-year-old Cash, pulling out Help Me and Rose of My Heart in the studio three weeks before his death.
So it goes.
Such are the conversations with the devil.
On both sides of the screen.
The point of view of the author may not coincide with the position of the editorial board.