On a stool at the bar on his own, arranging his beer money in stacks on the runner, the Old Rocker stares at nothing in particular.
The landlord appears to empty the glass-washing macine and the Rocker perks up.
“Do you like yer prog, then?”
“Are you into yer prog?”
He points at the landlord’s T-shirt. The landlord looks down. King Crimson.
“Oh, right. Well, no, not particularly.”
“The Floyd, obviously.”
“Pink Floyd? No. Not particularly. Not after Syd Barrett left.”
“Gotcha – more of a psych guy.”
“Well… No, not really.”
“Well…” The landlord waves a hand, refusing to commit.
The Old Rocker shifts in his seat, blinking blankly.
“So you’re not into prog much at all?”
“I like Krautrock.”
The Old Rocker thinks he’s done it – he’s found an in.
“Oh, yeah, man – great stuff! That driving motorik beat. Did you read the MOJO article a couple of months back–”
“Well, no, I don’t really have time to read magazines. I work thirteen days out of fourteen, and most evenings. The only music I hear is what’s on in here. And that’s on a loop.”
During the silence that hangs after his outpouring, he escapes to the other bar.
The Old Rocker settles down, moving his coins around, eyes fixed on a memory of ELP in ‘77.