They liked to say they'd been together longer than the Stones, but that wasn't quite true. Close though. They'd started playing together in junior high school. Back then they had a band called the Bon-Airs. Over the years they'd taken a dozen other names. The music stayed the same. Loud. As loud as they could possibly be. Subtlety or understatement were not concepts they recognized.
But the band played on in biker bars and rented Grange halls.
Once in a while someone would show up and want to be their manager. Claim to have connections, make big promises then split, usually owing them money. They were Robby, Tom and Denis - two guitarists and a drummer.
Sometimes one would be married or in jail, but most nights they were together in a basement or garage creating new songs that ran the edge of nastiness. Words few ever heard in the racket they created.
When Denis died of an overdose Robby and Tom used up what was left of his good white heroin because they thought they might as well leave together, but they didn't even put themselves in comas.
They did create a song though, in Robby's mom's basement. Robby's guitar and Tom's wailing voice.
A song of despair for lost friends and broken dreams. For life on a fork lift in a grocery warehouse.
It was their best song. But nobody ever heard it except Robby's mom up in her living room, and she turned up the television to drown it out.