
STORY: Meet George (rhythm guitar) and Harry (honky-tonk piano) — daytime workers, nighttime kings. Against indifferent crowds and leaking ceilings, they declare their truth: "We are the Backroom Swing Kings!"
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BACKROOM SWING KINGS
Rain taps the pavement, cold river wind sighs
South of the city, where the old neon dies
Down in a basement, the air thick and stale
Beer-sticky tabletops, a half-hearted gale
Of saxophone warmth cuts the damp and the chill
Dixie double four time, lets the lonely hearts fill
Just a few faces, escaped from the rain
Ghosts in the shadows, forgettin' their pain
George on the rhythm, his old axe held tight
No fancy weepin', just workin' the light
Strings barely hummin', a truth he can't bend
All he can offer 'til the long playing ends
Oh, the Backroom Swing Kings!
Playin' it real while the cheap speaker rings
Oh, the Backroom Swing Kings!
Tin-crown royals of forgotten things
Harry's on piano, a smile thin and worn
Daytime world's paperwork by midnight is torn
Fingers find freedom, honky-tonk takes flight
Savored on Friday, his soul's pure delight
Pourin' out feelin', like whiskey on ice
Paidin' no mind if it don't fetch a price
Yeah, the Backroom Swing Kings!
Playin' it real while the cheap speaker rings
Oh, the Backroom Swing Kings!
Tin-crown royals of forgotten things
In the dim corner, young boys dressed in flares
Platform soles stompin', lost in their stares
Drunk on cheap lager, they scoff at the sound
"Creole? That ain't rock!" Turn their noses around
Indifferent to magic that's ebbin' away
While the Kings hold the fort 'til the end of the day
The clock bell cuts harsh through the smoke-laden air
The singer steps forward, beyond all repair
The mic grabs the static, he rasps out the call:
"At last!... Time to go home now, goodnight to y'all!"
Then leans in defiant, one last burst of pride
"WE ARE THE KINGS!... BACKROOM SWING KINGS TONIGHT!"
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