Glory Bound

Grunter keeps the beat. That’s it, everything, his commission from on high. And he grins unceasingly, his humongous gleaming teeth bared like a beaver’s from behind a pair of mirror shades. That’s Grunter, and he’s on drums.

Stroker’s on bass. He has a mad crush on the open-E string, revels in pummeling it at a gut-crunching volume. His formal musical training amounts to hearsay, at best, as does his musical aptitude, but he can crank out lyrics for the ages, such as, “Fourth and goal to go, love to see her show, gotta go, go, go, go, go, go, go!” and “I’ve been molded, pounded, finished and rounded, forged!” and, of course, “As you’re marchin’ out the door, you turn around and tell ‘em, I ain’t goin’ to no Salvation Army summer camp!”

And Homer’s on lead guitar and vocals. By most professional standards, his jamming methodology amounts to extemporization interspersed with random bits of applied scholarship; by emotional standards, however, his playing is without equal. And his virtuosity with a microphone stand has been known to induce fits of stupefaction among the concertgoing masses.

So Grunter’s on drums, Stroker’s on bass, and Homer’s on lead guitar and vocals, and as always, the boys are giving the people what they want: a mountain of sound that thunders down. It’s all one big guitar-grinding, bass-booming, cymbal-crashing blowout. Grunter’s going nuts. He throws his sticks to the crowd, plows his forehead into the snare, causing Homer to laugh and mess up, but no one notices. Stroker’s face is distorted and drooling, rapt by that big fat open-E note he can’t stop walloping away at on bass. Homer’s putting on a stellar show with the mic stand, now riding it like a horse, now hoisting it like a javelin, now threatening to employ it in a manner that’ll turn the world on its head. The song hits full throttle, and Grunter’s on his feet, sweating gobs, bashing random body parts into his percussion rig. Stroker’s on his back, doing the bicycle, convulsing, frothing, still stuck on the note that gave birth to the universe.

The perfect blend of common territorial roots, common musical tastes, a passion for leaving it all on stage and a loyalty to one another—that’s what got these boys where they are, strutting around in front of yet another sold-out crowd that sings exultantly, full-throatedly along with every song.

It’s got nothing to do with right place, right time, as those individuals prone to skepticism and abductive reasoning might assert. No, these boys have been destined for this stuff. These boys are a fairy tale in the flesh, three small-town nobodies who’ve realized, in full, the rock-and-roll dream they used to dream while staring out the windows of English class, aching to be liberated from their textbooks; three boys who were born under the same star, born with the gift of power-chording theater, born within the span of one year and raised one-third of a mile apart; three boys who early on heard their calling and obeyed, who grew up together and made it big together without the aid of one rich benefactor or well-connected contact.

Homer pauses a moment to take in the scene on stage, and he knows deep in his gut that what he’s got right now, right here, with these guys, is meant to be.

He launches into his lead, picking somewhere in the area of 400 mph, arching back, back, until he’s communing with a universe of stars. As the music assumes a life of its own and the sweat rolls off his face, he takes his first real look at the crowd. It’s a crazy sight out there in front of him, makes him practically freak right out: a tossing, rolling sea of faces in a burnt-wood nimbus for as far as he can see, a galaxy of firedrops flickering in the dark, guiding this rock-and-roll ship confidently in the direction of its destiny, rainbow beach balls bouncing up and down in slow motion and Frisbees skimming across the roiling surface of the faces. Yes, Homer’s the captain of this ship, out here on the hull, navigating it with the most incredible lead of all time. Grunter’s stoking the coals like mad, and Stroker’s keeping it all balanced with that inaugural note from the Creation. And the ship is cruising straight into the sea of faces, through the nimbus, and the music is the engine.

No, these boys aren’t at the Smoky River State Park Pavilion, cranking the jams from a cheap tape recorder at two in the morning, and Grunter isn’t beating on a picnic table with a couple of poplar branches, and Stroker isn’t plucking deliriously at a chunk of driftwood, and Homer isn’t brandishing a derelict push broom. No, not right now, not while the whole thing is perfect in Homer’s mind.

At least not until the headlights of the ranger truck burst around the bend, and the boys make a break for the tent.