This is the third in a series. It is the beginning of someone else's story, told to and transcribed by me. Basically, he gave me the details and atmosphere and lot of the words and I put them together in my magic hat and pulled this out. His voice, his story, my translation. This series will have enough stories that they will eventually get their own page, but for now they will appear here at least once a week, most likely more than that.

I've Got Blisters On My Fingers

If you've ever been to a punk show you know the thing that takes your breath away is the bass. The guitar will just blow your ear out. The vocals are ignored by most of the people in the show. This isn't The Who; this isn't The Rolling Stones. We could give a fuck less what you are saying, you don't run this show. The only reason the crowd moves is the bass and the drums, and the drums will numb your brain. But the bass, it will reach into your chest and suck the air out of your lungs.

I'd watch John Entwistle and I'd stare in awe at his three finger playing. The way his hands moved, the intimidating attitude and stance, the man became a god to me. I'd watch him play and study his movements and it was always like he was holding the set together. While everyone else was having fun, he only had this intense half ass smile on his face that said, "Yeah this is fun but where are we going after this?" Townsend could jump all over the stage and Daltrey could flip his mike wherever the fuck he wants, but without Entwistle the set dies, and he was so cool about it, like he didn't give a shit about anything. Yet he ruled everything. I got the same feeling years later when I saw Black Flag and Kira Roessler was playing bass, and I was awed at how mellow she was amidst all the chaos. Entwistle was the same way, but even more intense, because you could tell he had the power of the music in his hands, that the grind of his bass held the music together.