Big Red Rocket Of Love

I went to church on a Wednesday. Spiritually I was feeling a little empty and I needed some reassurance about the way I was living my life. The congregation began with two guys and two girls, the way any service should begin, and they went by the collective name of Nashville Pussy. Forty-five minutes of southern roadkill stompin' and hard rock blastin' helped put my mind at ease but I still had to cleanse my heart and my soul. Eddie Spaghetti and the rest of the Supersuckers (self-proclaimed "Greatest Rock & Roll Band In The World") were able to open my heart to a higher plain. A plain where only grunge rock and sing-along choruses can co-exist with the grimy underbelly of the South's dirtiest excesses. But how was I to cure my ailing soul? Luckily enough, the congregation was taken over by the one and only Reverend Horton Heat. Switching between looks of intense concentration while picking at his guitar and smiling at the raucous fans, the Rev was in full effect and didn't plan to let any one go home unhealed. He told us of stories past ("Rock This Joint," "King Of The Road") and he told us of stories that were unexpected ("In Bloom," "Paranoid"). He expressed how it felt to see bales of cocaine falling from low flying planes. He informed us that he had a wiggle stick and, if our eyes would let him, he wanted to show us a big red rocket of love. Two hours of embrace with his soulful message and I am a new man.

Hallelujah!