Kick
Out the Jams
I wanna see a sea of hands out there.
Tommy Easter went into Outsider's dragging his guitar,
a '67 Tele Custom in a beat-up case
held together with old belts and gumption.
Jam night. Something to do on a Thursday;
a good enough place to spend the remains
of your unemployment check.
He could have spent it with his girlfriend, Marie,
but she'd only want to talk about "our relationship."
He paid witness to valiant attempts
at "Voodoo Chile" and "Shakin' All Over."
Sat through the standard "Route 66."
Endured an acoustic "Eve of Destruction" by some drunk.
You must choose, brothers. You must choose.
A group gathered at the bar, the electric
blue of the neon Stroh's sign reflecting
on the sheen and metal of their black leather jackets.
Magnetic, even in the dark and the smoke,
one of them stood out.
No white guy had an Afro like that in 1985.
Nobody wore jackboots.
And gauntlets?
Who wore gauntlets?
Are you ready to testify?
Tyner had put on some weight since the MC5.
So what.
Tommy talked himself onstage, as if it were the will of God.
They plugged in, turned up, cut through
the aggravated assault of "Lookin' at You"
with violent inspiration, lick for holy lick,
then proclaimed the gospel of the Motor City
with the song that turned "mother fuckers" into a catchphrase.
When he'd done kicked 'em out,
Tyner threw the kid his sweaty bar towel
and left like a Dexedrine ghost.
The next day, filling out a form
at the unemployment office,
Tommy wrote "mother fucker"
in the slot labeled "Jobs Applied For."
The clerk looked at it,
stamped it,
gave him his check.
Copyright © 2003 Michael Thomas Martin