Copters land on Mars. A moon swallow banjo hails the crew and the signal's lost. Hard space guards drag you to your cell. A sweet guitar sweeps down to save you. Monks abandon their cloisters to consort with village girls.
Trumpets herald the unions.
Electric percussion pins them in eternal embrace. A rasping guitar empties itself on a blackplain. Blues duck and swing low down to the bone. Blues churn and sing and reach inside you like the phantom arm of a faith healer and pull your guts free. Angels wail on a dark mesa.