A new Legendary Shack Shakers fan prays at the altar of the band's awesome, shirtless psychobilly after a New York show.
Dear Legendary Shack Shakers,
Thank you for kicking my ass the other week.
Your soundcheck was swift -- you took half the amount of time that someone like, say, Feist did to set up, and all she had was a guitar. Anyway, this was my first time hanging out with you guys and your brand of awesome, shirtless psychobilly made me uncross my arms in the back (I was told I might get spit on if I was up front and, honestly, I'm too much of a cold-hearted yuppie to tolerate spit).
J.D. (or shall I call you Colonel?), may I fix you a sandwich? With all the screaming, harp-playing and fancy moves you were pulling, it's no wonder you have the body of my 12-year-old cousin. Your high-intensity performance could power a medium-sized housing project if I only attached jumper cables to your nipples. The croakies were a nice touch and paired well with the suspenders and I LOL'ed when you dropped your beer like a bomb onto the floor. Tell me, when you tear your own chest hair out like that in the heat of the moment, does it grow back? Are you tattoo-less simply because it prevents hair growth?
Speaking of tattoos, David, yours look so cool I was really, really tempted to go out and get some big burly, cross-boney ones, a temptation I've never confronted. Your white hollow-body is really sexy and loud and you handle her so well, the S-holes were practically blowing smoke and pillow-talking.
The Duke. You snap the bass hard, man. The only other activity involving that variety of reflexes involves a surly undercover cop name and a Browning 9mm. Pauly, you never faltered. You didn't even act tired. You are a machine, and I appreciate that.
I'll buy you drinks next time you're in town, so long as you promise you won't drop those ones on the floor.
P.S. to the Blonde Girl Who Stood In Front Of Me,
You deserve a dude who'll dance with you.