Harmonica Joe and Brastrap Belinda
I was Jack Kerouaced with my pack on my back going nowhere, disguised as somewhere. Harmonica Joe with Brastrap Belinda, in a Volkswagen Beach Buggy, pulled up sharp while vamping a blues harp. Belinda gave me that look and undid her hook and I jumped in quick while Joe wailed his licks.That buggy took off through a landscape straight outta Van Gogh. “ Where ya goin ’” shouted Joe “ anyplace is fine ” I shouted back and Belinda gave me the eye.
“That’s where we going” wheezed Joe, road sand whizzing in his eyes.
The sea was a velvet quilt and Belinda was well built in all the essential places. Joe was laid back in his well imagined beach shack, honing his licks and harmonica tricks. He was on the road where souls pay no rent, testing freedom in a two berth tent. He had no plans and no ambitions. Life was a surfboard and he rolled with the waves.
I rolled with Belinda while he cooked tuna under an evening Luna. Joe never made rules, he went with the flow and sometimes the flow went with him. The world was full of targets; rules and conditions. Joe cut himself a different rendition. He slowed down the beat, swapped scenery for his street and did what he pleased. Joe was a teacher but he never did teach, you could learn from him by just being near.
One day Joe dived into the ocean and caught a fish with his teeth. He never had no schooling, operated by confident belief. He gotten by instinct what you can’t get from books. Belinda was free, we sat by the sea, making up tunes and rolling in the dunes. We got up such a beat , the cans were on heat and Joe headed for Spain, a singing Verlaine, out on the Road again… 'On the Road Again ’.
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