The Go! Team are at the door, and they want to know if you can come out and play. You know them — the rambunctious ones from 'cross Atlantic Ave., the unruly, boy-girl-boy-girl-boy-girl tag-team that don't go to church, haven't cut their yard in a year, and blast strange music at all kinds of ungodly hours. Scourges of the neighborhood, they; "always busy thinking of something, never sticking to one train of thought." But you don't care. It's always so fun hanging out with them! Pleeeease? you plead.
Oh, all right. Let's go! And like that you're off, galloping. Stopping
after a while, hands on your knees, you glance around. Hmmm. You don't
recognize this. The wind is blowing harder; it's dry and very dusty. But still
you can see for miles in every direction. You lie down and stare up at the sky.
In the large clouds overhead Dick Dale is riding hogs with Henry Fonda, Jack
Nicholson and Dennis Hopper. You are liking this.
Later you decide that you're not in such a hurry. You feel… limber. Your loping,
shuffling
gait draws people out of their houses to gawk at
you as
you pass by. There sure are a lot of them! You stutter to a quick stop. Beck
is standing alongside Slick Rick in the front row. They're waiting for you to
do something! Dropping down, you start breakdancing on the ground in front of
them. They start doing the same, the others cheering and assuming cheerleader
formations behind you, standing on each other's shoulders and flinging themselves
in the air. It makes you laugh.
All the dancing has made you tired. You drift off under a tree, only for a couple minutes, but long enough to dream you're riding in the back of a pickup with Kool Keith and Neil Young. But they're not paying any attention to you, talking about something you don't understand, so you scoot to the back of the truck and watch points on the road get farther and farther away beneath your dangling feet. You wake up.
You keep moving. There's a ramshackle schoolhouse on your right; "Sugarhill," an old sign says. You're feeling a little guilty for not being in class when a gang of kids spots you and yells something. They're taunting you! You shout back. The band is practicing in a nearby field, and they all run up and start playing simultaneously. It's getting a bit rowdy. Grandmaster Flash is the conductor, and he's coming at you with a baton! You gotta do something!
Snatching an electric guitar, you lay down a chewy riff. One of the kids decides to help you. He has a turntable and he kicks you a beat. Suddenly you're on a desert island. Your DJ friend is here, too, but now he's dreadlock'd, pulling on a spliff and blowing a breezy melody into a recorder. The sun is shining and you're both smiling. [Needle tears into vinyl] Damn! You were dreaming again! The kids are pissed. They challenge you to a scratch-off, and you lose. Your Rastaman DJ friend is nowhere in sight.
Now they're chasing you. You commandeer an old ambulance and head for the hills. They follow you through town, bounding over curbs and around corners like a bat out of hell. Whoa, look out! Two motorcycle cops pick up the trail. One of them is playing a harmonica. It's pretty tense.
Losing the kids and the cops was easy. But then — air horn! It's an APB!
You lie low for a while. But soon you get sloppy. See, there's this dance hall down on the corner that spins hard late-'70s grooves and "White Lines" smack. You can't resist. One night out, you hear something that doesn't fit in the mix. A harmonica! You've been set up!
You're busted. It works out OK, though, because the jail is this really friendly place where everyone gets along, and they play great French pop through all the loudspeakers, Serge Gainsbourg and Air, and they serve good espresso. You trade witticisms for cigarettes. You've found a home here.
On the eve of your parole the inmates all stage a raging soirée. Packing into the cafeteria, they kill the lights and tack up a disco ball and karaoke stage. Loud new-wave synths and chiming guitars blast throughout the prison while everyone dances and sings along. It's your turn onstage! You sing "This Charming Man" and the crowd erupts. The kids, the cops, your DJ friend, Grandmaster Flash, Kool Keith, Neil Young, Slick Rick, Beck, Dennis Hopper, Henry Fonda, Jack Nicholson and Dick Dale are all there, too, cheering you on. It's the best night of your life.
For some reason you aren't as happy when you get out. Waves of nostalgia wash over you. You feel very alone. Trying to shake your blues, you take up the banjo. You bask in the warmth of TV glow. But nothing manages to cheer you up. Then one night, watching Partridge Family reruns on the telly, it hits you: You'll call your friends, The Go! Team! It's always so fun hanging out with them!
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