I enjoy camping in “the nature.” Pitch a tent, start a fire, and wait for darkness (and s’mores). On a recent trip to Hagan Stone Park in Pleasant Garden, NC something interesting accompanied the sound of owls hooting and crackling wood—music.
I only listened to the likes of The Ramones, The Clash, Sex Pistols, and Dead Kennedys (Green Day is not punk and therefore does not count) because a buddy of mine used to blare ’em in his Ford Tempo. I was never a fan, and I’m not really a fan now.
When my buddy took to forming a band I took to listening more. And when I showed up at an evening jam session in the basement of his parents’ house I got hooked. Not on any of the above icons, but on The Hooligans—four dudes that knew how to rock out with their cock out <– not literally, I don’t think. Unfortunately, the band dissolved and I can no longer pay to hear my friend swear at the top of his lungs.