Friday Morning Rock & Roll Idol: The Clarks

I went to college with these guys at IUP back in the days before the days of yore–back when my hair was brown and The Coney was a little bitty hole in the wall along Carpenter Avenue in Indiana, PA.  Scott Blasey’s voice still makes me think of beer in plastic cups, because they’d run out of the glass ones.

Sidenote: the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review ran a nice bio piece on Clarks frontman Blasey earlier this week.

By JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.

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