How the Hidden Paw ran the Whisk(e)y Hipsters off the Stage

[the Day the Music Died] How the

HIDDEN PAW ran the WHISK(E)Y HIPSTERS off the stage

to keep it up to peak performance, as always

as never perfect

well, the Whiskey Hipsters were there first, fresh from the Man-Cave, bearded, one or two were even kilted; they hopped up and who on a banjo or mandolin acoustic kind of bluegrassy rendition of "Under Pressure;" they proceeded like Vikings hardheartedly into their bearded hipster jam, workin out the twang in the postmodern bourbon-boom

some of them were Name-Brand seekers, others true connoisseurs

(Beard Oil) a Snake Brand

Victory over TERRITORY

singing over taking shots of whiskey and rye

whoa whoa whoa, but wait a minute we say, we the Whiskey Hipsters, known as the Post Load Fatigue: the CHILLAX band of the burgher’s gutter stage, fresh from the suburbs

our jadedness has transcended the middle classes, if you stupid kids even know what that means. In any case,

this is our turf, we play here, and if we don’t get it back we’re sure to play DIRTY/

the Hidden Paw responded to their territorial toughs:

hey misters hey hey, we’re just kids, why you gotta pick on us kids for

but hey \

if ur gonna be mean about it anywayz [this isn’t your territory]

we mark our TERRITORY: Hidden Pawz in graffiti

this is our turf, like yo

Performance Platform

a thousand imaginary spectators and watchers thrilled to their spoof session

this was a snakeoil salespitch to the public,

all of these threats and niceties and amiable greetings were exchanged, they quickly agreed to a playoff in

music to save their mortal souls

in a splendor of metal sunshine a jam band drawn together, moving towards each other from opposite ends

in deaf dreams of stardom forever

But why should we Whisk[e]y Hipsters be afraid

of the goosedown on honkish fucking gosling pipsqueaks? but the play-off brought them together apart removing the distances at breakneck speeds

was anyone filming?

They themselves [the Pawz] started out rocking out and tapping feet to the Whiskey Hipsters’ headbanging pastiche tempered by bluegrass and going all helterskelter on their hands and knees/ whether southern or northern

But this was THEIR territory—Paw Turf Primordial—and they’d peed on its walls too many times not to call it their own or brand their weeping wall PAWZ TURF;

besides, more than One could made a Medley

The Day the Hidden Paw Ran the Whiskey Hipsters off the stage/

wearing their sunglasses night and day

they [the Paw]

after a pause that lasted maybe a half of a minute

took position opposite/across

got out their jang-bangers cans and pots and pans and positioned them

then They [the Pawz] created elaborate, deafening rhythms on their percussion and strange harmonics in their wailing, which some critics have likened to the drum circles and precocious polyphony of the “Pygmys” of the Congo/

--We play harder, boys, these fuzzless weasels can’t outplay the W.H./ it’ll take more than a roundel of tiny undropped limpdicks in perpetual fallout to not even old enough to drink Anything That’ll Put Hair on Your Chest in front of us. We can defeat these junkyard dogs and their tin!

The band tried valiantly to persevere,

but, struck by a series of shrill screeches and ululations in piercing tiers of brat shriek:

the startling sound-blast overlapped the Whiskey-Hipsters’ progressive Bluegrass endeavors,

and true CACOPHANY was the climax of this jam session event

—Damned kids, said the Whiskey Hipsters, packing up their things and skulking off swearing vengeance one day.

That was the day

that they say

the music died...

(and we would have won the world if it weren’t for those stupid kids...so what if we’re from the banlieu and not inner-towners)

those damn kids

who began to caterwaul baroque polychoral hymns at them like banshees

the WH's went off to seek paddocks new of plenty, nursing the bourbon booboo in their glencairn tulips,

practically stumbling by now

and slurring their speech