Kim Loves Stuff

Robbie Fulks - Roots Rock Weirdos

The room grew deathly silent, then up from the stinking ranks
Rose a homely social worker in a bowling shirt marked “Hank”
And dropping the fake black diction, he said, “Since you enquired,
Let me take stock of what we roots rock — ahem! — ‘weirdoes’ desire….”

Fishnets for every woman, and lipstick as red as flame
For every man a tatoo, a Chevy, and a dumb nickname
Cigarettes in every shirtsleeve, black leather on every back,
Fanzines in every bookstore, LPs in each record rack.

Three chords in every pop song! Four white guys in each band!
A ruthless media empire to saturate this land
Then, with our alt.country comrades, and our brothers in neo-swing,
We’ll reclaim music from the kids for our fat dead cracker king!”

Roots rock weirdoes, Christ! They’re everywhere!
A little Doc Pomus in their hearts and dark pomade in their hair
Roots rock weirdoes, out of their holes they come
Dressed up like it’s 1951.