Eliminate all the foreigners right off. No offense to ’em. Not their fault, but they ain’t From Here.
Leave off those scruffy beatniks from the Bay. Everybody called ’em hippies, but everybody’s wrong so damn often. And that mean Jew who wasn’t from Manhattan, and that other mean Jew who also wasn’t from New York City. That jazzy lady from the Laurel Canyon.
I’ll take Warren from Hollywood. Self-destructive, self-mythologizing, and vain. Minor chord on a sunny afternoon, shooting up the billboards on the Strip. At war with the record company and the Corvette dealership. Arguing with the other hairy men about who was Hunter’s favorite. Setting his morphine on the table next to the salt and pepper. Name-dropping and neighbor-fucking. Closing the album with a song about a gorilla, who was the only desperado Warren ever wrote about that got away with it in the end. Warren wrote songs where people got what they deserved; Warren wrote a lot of songs about himself.
You take 4th Street. Zuma Beach, paved parking lots, corners with $26 in your hand. Gimme the Pioneer Chicken Stand and a salty margarita. Gimme the Envoy, the Mutineer, the Worrier King. Gimme Mr. Bad Example. Gimme the Excitable Boy.
His hair, you see…well, you know about his hair.