The Blue Van Man up

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https://youtu.be/wnp6gJGOzAc - Music Video
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#rockandroll #psychedelicrock #70srock

[Verse 1]
Clock-paint drips down the power-line sky,
Pockets ring hollow every time we try.
We pawn loose seconds for transistor grin,
Sidewalk metronomes tap the pulse beneath our skin.
[Chorus]
We own the hours the bankers can’t foreclose;
No copper jingles where the riff-wind blows.
Let ticks outrun the coins we never lend—
Time’s on the house, cash is a ghost again.
[Verse 2]
Pay-phones rust in neon; we dial the rumor seam,
Stitching myth to midnight over mugs of borrowed steam.
Plans fold like origami—lift, twirl, then cave;
We laugh in the wreckage, kings of untaxed wave.
[Chorus]
We own the hours the bankers can’t foreclose;
No copper jingles where the riff-wind blows.
Let ticks outrun the coins we never lend—
Time’s on the house, cash is a ghost again.
[Verse 3]
An amp coughs sparks in a cellar off the grid,
Door guy takes a scribble for the cover we never did.
The band detunes sunrise till the daylight bends,
We cash out in applause no ledger ever suspends.
[Chorus]
We own the hours the bankers can’t foreclose;
No copper jingles where the riff-wind blows.
Let ticks outrun the coins we never lend—
Time’s on the house, cash is a ghost again.

---

Groove City, Summer of ’74—right when the smog turned neon and the traffic lights learned to breathe. Midnight hums through cracked sidewalks, rising like an old Hendrix lick from a warped record. Somewhere between the abandoned bowling alley and Mama Coyote’s pawnshop, a man named Mercer “Mercury” Jones drifts down Kaleidoscope Alley, clutching his last cigarette and a pocket watch that never ticks past twelve.

Mercury once fronted a fuzz-drenched blues outfit called The Cosmic Moneylenders, but a string of broken amps and unpaid bar tabs left him with only echoes and a leather jacket that smelled faintly of patchouli and ozone. He’s a walking paradox—time-rich, dime-barren—roaming the city for that next flash of sublime nonsense.

Tonight, the moon is a lava lamp. Blue globules float inside its glassy belly, twisting into shapes that might be conspiracy, might be prophecy. Mercury feels the night tug at his thoughts like a sitar solo bending notes until they melt.

He ducks into a backstreet bazaar lit by tie-dyed Chinese lanterns. Vendors peddle transistor radios tuned exclusively to stations that don’t exist. A woman with star tattoos sells bottled déjà vu: “Guaranteed to make everything feel twice as familiar, darling.” Across the way, a kid hawks cloud-shaped bubble gum that tastes like first kisses and wet asphalt. Mercury trades a half-remembered poem for a stick of that gum; the kid accepts, delighted—words, after all, are better currency than copper these days.

At the far end of the bazaar, beneath a tangerine awning that quivers like candle flame, sits Professor Palimpsest’s Time Exchange. No door, just hanging bead curtains that shimmer with every color humanity forgot to name. Inside, the professor—a rail-thin figure in mirrored aviators—operates a contraption of clocks whose gears spin counter to reason. Customers queue to swap unwanted memories for extra minutes, but Mercury strides past, watch clutched tight. He doesn’t need more minutes; he needs the right minute.

... the rest is on the website.

Pawnshop Sunrise

Ms. Jones

Himalayan, the new album, out now. Get it from:
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Tour dates: www.bandofskulls.com/tour


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