It was going to be all local, all the time, this Indian Hill blog. It's a cheapie, the freebie from google, but everybody uses the format. Indian Hill started as a thought process to digest musical leanings, get out frustration at the traffic downtown and the scrubbed 'midwest-like' town of Claremont, where I live. Then along came West Coast Blues. I don't know where it came from but it came along. Just showed up one day and I liked the title and posted some stuff and spent too many hours trying to fit in colors that didn't blend. Ended up looking like a tie rack at a Salvation Army and that's when I decided, Hey, it ain't bad. That was West Coast Blues. That was then. It still rings true, on occasion, where I spend a lot of time editing posts, segments of short stories and stuff I sort of care about, so that's where Indian Hill fits in. Right. . .about. . .here.
Miles Davis is the man, was the man, and will always be, so he was the front man for this little pickup gig. He'll provide the music and soundtrack for the film, Indian Hill. Whenever that gets inked. Yeah..
This is the journal, the daily diary, the tract of my life and the laundry chute to my dirty little secrets. Friends will sometimes be protected, if they deserve it, so don't look for 'brand names' here. This isn't the Claremont Courier's gossip section, nor the bar seat at the town's pub scene 'cause Claremont's cracking down on drinking and driving and that's okay.
But I can't write unless there's a slim chance someone might read it, so this is raw and uncut, without afterthought and straight to disc. Vinyl scratched and popping. Tube amps, analog, real drums and smoking is allowed. Encouraged. Emphasized.
Strap in, hang on, let's have some fun.