Sorry this is a few days late but I've actually been social this week. Ron Asheton was a fucking phenomenal guitarist. And for you writing purists out there who are saying, "Hey, man! You can't make a fucking statement like that without qualifying it and going on for paragraphs specifically describing how he was, "phenomenal!" FUNHOUSE. There. One word, one album title. THAT should shut you the fuck up. And if it doesn't? Well, shit! I'm glad I wasn't born with your puny ears or that Evander Holyfield brain you are sportin' right now, cockstain! I know there are a lot of chunkheads out their that like to blow guys who can shred scales with one hand (and yet the Ventures never cross their mind and Dick Dale is only forced upon their guitarist worship vernacular because of Pulp Fiction) who will bitch about that statement. So, go and fuck yourself with a Freddy Krueger glove. Maybe innovating an instrument and its sound is more important than wanking off up and down the neck like it's your two inch cock? Yeah, I think so. Steve Vai can eat a bag of dicks. The Asheton brilliance comes from the utterly primal, ID-induced, caveman-like nature of his guitar riffs. And I can think of no better example of his scuzzed out sonic assault on the senses than this tune. R.I.P., brother.
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