Fame Studio Session
Muscle Shoals, Alabama 1989
Its history in rock and roll was lost on me
The night that we snuck in. My buddy Jon
Had called a friend who'd let us tape for free.
The evening band had paid, was packed and gone
When we arrived with drums, guitars and Tom—
His blank cassettes would dub our only tune.
I can't recall who played the bass, or hum
The hooks and riffs we tracked. So, pretty soon
We called it quits, our demo done. I'd love
To say we felt Aretha's vibe, or heard
That Wilson Pickett preacher-scream above
Our own pathetic din. But clever words
And chords are not enough. Beside our cars
We lingered in the lot and spoke of stars.
About the Author
Published by Texas Review Press