Mojo Rising

The vacuum filled with expectant faces: students, straights and old-age pensioners; bluesmen, mods and timeless drop-outs; rockers and romantics; the sane, the insane and the mildly-traumatised. Critics whet their lips and sharpened their pencils. Static crackled and lights bedazzled. Cigarettes blazed and lager-washed lovers embraced. The heat, taste and stench of sweat-soaked bodies assaulted the senses. Lights faded, pulses quickened, blackness enveloped the writhing masses. A delicious excitement grew as a deafening cacophony rose up from the believers.

In a blinding flash they appeared. He was a snake in humanskin boots. His tongue slipped and slurred, promising to deliver the profound, as he raked an ivory Telecaster. A pause, time enough to suck in a long, deep breath; then all hell let loose... the pounding thud, rhythmic clatter and thunderous clash of drum and cymbal, the stomach-assaulting, ground-quaking rumble of eternally heavy bass and the ethereal sigh and soaring scream of two guitars in combat will forever stand testament to their mojo.

I remained as exhausted disciples flocked towards green men on illuminated exit signs, spilling out into the depths of the night. With ears still ringing I raised my all-seeing eyes, for one last time, to rest upon the high altar. Unmanned, those vessels of magic stood like statues - silent and unmoving, forever a tribute to the fevered imaginations and powerful energies of Albert Della Porta, George Smith, Clarence Leonadis Fender, Lester William Polsfuss, Jim Marshall, Lyndon Laney and Peter Traynor. The story belongs to them and to them alone; no artifice, sleight-of-hand or human devilry will ever change that.