@wanderersdrift - Rowdy


The year is 1978. and I can hear some noise coming from down the street. I wander out of the house and sit in the front yard to watch the small block party forming. The neighborhood "cool kids" have dragged their large, ugly brown speakers out into the front yard and are rowdily blasting a loud and obnoxious LP from their parents' stereo while they are away for the afternoon.

There's that one guy with the hair all the way down to his shoulders and that one girl with her feathered blond hair. The two Shane brothers and also that one goofy kid. The noise brings them all. The cars driving up and down the street seem to join in the cacophany of gravel and spit that seems to hang in the air. Old Gerald next door does not seem pleased.

This raucous atmosphere, what is it? It draws me as well. I grab a yellow Coors and walk down to join the mess.

Grinding guitars, the likes of which the more brave radio stations are trying to play, rest eerily comfortably in my ears. I am snared by the light, yet firm use of drums. The vocals are calling to me in a simple way. Certainly not overbearing, but not hidden either. Somewhere in the middle, those working class voices call my name.

These people, they do have homes. They are my neighbors. I live here too. Yet, we are all wanderers, drifting. This is our Wanderers Drift.

This is Rowdy.