Song Title: Big Sexy (Style: Slow, plodding Southern rock. Tempo like a loaded 18-wheeler on an uphill climb. A steady, heavy drum beat and a bass line that rumbles like a diesel engine. Distant slide guitar twangs.) (Sound: A long, low AIR HORN blast fades into the first grinding guitar chord.) (Verse 1) Six hundred miles of blacktop and dust With a master’s degree in cool and disgust Left the territory, a "Vinnie Mac" check For the open road and a semi’s respect They said the Diesel was just too damn slow ‘Til he hooked the big belt and made the whole business know… You don’t need the flips when you got the mind Leavin’ the marks and the bosses behind… (Ad-lib:) (Spoken gruffly over the riff) Yeah… pace yourself, kid… (Pre-Chorus) But the chrome won’t polish, and the knees start to bark Just a silhouette cuttin’ the dark One more exit… before the leg gives out…(comedically “again??”) (Chorus) Big Sexy, in the long haul night A four-finger wave in the amber light Can’t teach that cool, it’s a natural fact A Peterbilt body with a Wolfpack contract BIG… SEXY… yeah… (Sound: Quick two-tone truck horn – Blaaap-blaaap!) (Verse 2) Heard the call from Hollywood, "We need the heat" Tore the door off the trailer with a single clean sweep Spray-painted the biz with a black-and-white scrawl Told the big boys upstairs, "We’re takin’ it all" With a smirk and a shrug and a jackknife leg drop Watch the whole damn lineup come to a full stop A connoisseur of chaos, a king of the nap… (Ad-lib:) (Whispered) Tell ‘em why, Kev… "The check’s in the mail…" (Pre-Chorus) Yeah, the transmissions grind, and the ol’ frame groans A symphony of clicks and creaks in the bones One more powerbomb… on a rented stage… (Chorus) Big Sexy, in the long haul night A four-finger wave in the amber light Can’t teach that cool, it’s a natural fact A Peterbilt body with a Wolfpack contract BIG… SEXY… roll on! (Bridge) (Music strips down to just a deep, resonant bass line and a single, echoing guitar note. Spoken word, slow and deliberate, over the plodding rhythm.) You wanna talk pain… talk about a ladder’s miss… Talk about a script you gotta rewrite with your fist. They clock your miles… they don’t clock your mind. You outlast the hype… and you plot the line. The Outsidermen… we changed the weather. But the road back… is a different leather. And the quads… (slight pause)… the quads send their regards. But this rig… (A beat of silence, then the drums start a slow, military-style snare build) …ain’t ready for the junkyard. The diesel’s still in the tank. (Bass drum kicks in, heavier. A second guitar adds a tense, shimmering chord) So you downshift… And you remember who you are… (Cymbals begin to swell, the bass line becomes more urgent) A seven-foot problem… In a world of compact cars. (The build becomes massive, layers of guitars piling on, feedback whining like a turbo charger) (Epic Crescendo / Guitar Solo) (The bridge explosion resolves into a soaring, aching, slow-burn guitar solo. It's not fast, it's HUGE. Every note bends and screams like metal fatigue. The band hits a monumental, plodding groove behind it, all crash cymbals and thunderous power chords. It feels less like a sprint, more like a mountain moving.) (Final Chorus - Slowed Down, Heavier, Triumphant) BIIIIG… SEXY… ON THE LAST RED EYE! A TROPHY CASE OF ACHES, A WINK IN YOUR EYE! YOU CAN’T… TEACH… THAT! WHEN THE MAIN EVENT’S A LONELY STRETCH OF BLACK! A PAVEMENT KING… WITH A SILVER CROWN! BIG… SEXY… NEVER… BOWIN’… DOWN! (Outro) (Music begins to fade, returning to the simple, grinding riff from the beginning. Ad-libs over it.) Yeah… that’s all she wrote. Keep the shiny side up… and the booking sheet full. Who’s the boss? …Yeah. (A final, long, mournful AIR HORN blast, followed by the sound of a CB radio crackling with static and a distant voice saying "...see you down the road, big man..." before fading to the idle of a diesel engine, which cuts abruptly to silence.)*
