BAD CO.: Jumpin’ Pumpin’ Music

Stuffed buffalo heads crowd the desert arena's trophy case. All that separates you from the herd's inert stampede is about 95 years and a thin sheet of glass. Glass which reflects another essentially extinct creature of the same era; a noble red savage squats across the aisle...updated by green army fatigues whose pockets hold protruding bottles of Mad Dog 20-20. Some of the cheap swill dribbles out of his mouth, coating his hairless, crimson chin.

It's showtime at the Phoenix Collosseum and Bad Co. is on stage.

"A burning sky, a big thunderclap with a sun rising off in the sky," in Bad Co. drummer Simon Kirke's words or "5000 sunburned Gila monsters, up on their little hind claws, humping the air in unison to an hour and forty-five minute orgasm that's nothing less than pure greasy pleasure," in mine.