Twenty-three years ago, Lester Bangs died. The passion of his words is such that I bought albums like Astral Weeks on his recomendation; he captured rock and roll in words; his story based on Maggie May transformed the way I hear the song; and I have never been able to capture any of that passion in my writing. I hope to have the same effect on people: that is why so much of my writing here has been songs. When you talk about a song, ideally, you can get close in. You can explain and tease and *show* why it works. At best, its more then mere information

Four years after Lester Bangs died of a drug overdose, a boy was born in a small hospital in New Jersey, one town away from Bruce Springsteen, in the same state as Frank Sinatra. He would grow up like many do, confused and creative, and upon discovering the date of Bangs' death he wished he believed in reincarnation and the transmigration of souls. Its a hard mission, this call to bring forth the power of rock, and he does it imperfectly and incompletly: tonight, he is not seeing the's, a Japanese rock band who appeared on the Kill Bill soundtrack; Bangs would have done so, then written something that may have had little to do with the music but would get across the force (or lack therof) with complete clarity. I am not, though. I don't feel like going back on the cough syrup.