My Allman Brothers by Bradley A Evans

Most of the time, I just want to listen to the Allman Brothers with a barbecue sandwich and a six-
pack of beer, on a dock, in a Southern swamp. Maybe throw in a pack of Marlboros and another
six-pack or a bottle of whiskey.

I want Duane Allman and Dickey Betts’ git-tars gliding through my brain like a hawk in a thermal
… while booze poisons my bloodstream.

I want to be young—a teenager without a care outside of my bag of grass being seed-free. And
a sharp pocket knife and a perfect piece of wood to pick at.

And a cardinal chirping in pine trees
And a pair of broken-in, cut-off Duck Heads from a thrift store
And long, unwashed hair, beneath a beat-up Georgia hat
And a Jeep without doors parked in the gravel
And a frisbee
And a bag of Red Man in my back pocket
And Spanish moss hanging from centuries-old oaks

No plans, no appointments, not a damn thing but an afternoon of laughing with my degenerate
friends.

And no one knows the Gypsy’s name
No one hears his lonely sighs
There are no blankets where he lies
In all his deepest dreams, the Gypsy flies

My brain getting light, floating away in a river of cheap brown water.
Watching tobacco smoke through rays of sunshine.
Contagious laughter … inside jokes … jaw hurts … tears in eyes from having so much fun.

No one knows this won’t last forever.
Every day is an adventure, and everything is new.

First time hearing Ramblin’ Man, Blue Sky, Wasted Words, and Little Martha—how sweet and
gentle.

And Midnight Rider … you can only hear a song for the first time once, and we spend a lifetime
chasing that feeling … when it enters your soul … when it becomes a part of you.

And Whipping Post—Fillmore ’71—when the boys from Macon tore your heart out … when
Gregg’s vocals taught you the power of music before your frontal lobe was fully developed … a
twenty-two-minute masterpiece from the beating heart of Dixie.

Everyone is lazy and content … no one has a watch on
Just the sound of the Allman Brothers … of youth … of no consequences … of joy

No one is getting older
No one has committed suicide
No one has been through a divorce
No one has lost a brother …

My brother is alive … he’s healthy … he’s handsome … he doesn’t know he’s going to die … his
heart works … his girlfriend loves him … he’s how I want to remember him

The drums and the guitars are rising off the record, they’re pulsating through my brain
And Gregg screams…

Sometimes I feel
Like I’ve been tied
To the whipping post
Good Lord, I feel like I’m dyin’.

Contributor Bradley A. Evans is a good buddy, a UGA grad, and an idea guy. He lives in New York City and is the founder of The Bohemian Capitalist. We’re lucky to have his thoughts here at RCS…more to come.