Swirling dust rose from a wide
parking lot as cars found space. Weary
visitors and neighbors headed for the
front door of The Guitar Road House.
Music greeted them along with flies buzzing
and fumes from beer and roasted chicken.
The language of hard branded music covered
the floor and walls as fingers tapped and
shoes slapped to the nature of the beat.
The air was invaded by sound. There was
a sudden zone of dancing. People drowned
out their day while stepping into evening.
Every night was Friday night.
Roger Singer 