There’s something about a good front man that makes my insides tingle. I want a reptile like, tight, scantily clad body slithering up to a microphone, piercing my soul with his haunting eyes, and cloaking me with his deep, dark words. I want to feel like I’m the only one in the audience. Like he’s only singing to me.
The Lizard King has always been one of my favorite front men, despite the fact that I’ve only seen him on screen. His vocals are hypnotizing enough to pull me into the TV, landing me in a prime position, squished against the front of the stage.
He absolutely epitomized the definition of good front man. A poet at heart, he went through the ultimate transformation when he stepped on stage. Like a second skin, he shed his shyness, his trepidation, his old self, to become what the masses needed. Men and women looked to him to lead them to the other side in their acid induced states as he crooned to them of dead toads on the road and the end.
His words were haunting. His presence hypnotizing. His essence sereal. If I could, I would step back on time into one of those jam packed venues and infuse myself into the giant being of a crowd swaying back and forth in time to the delivery of the Liazrd King on stage in all his glory.
He had it all. A tight body. Long curls. Luscious lips. A dark message. A mysterious vibe. He entranced entire audiences, taking them away to another world with his presence alone.
If I am to mention how much I love a good front man, I must mention the Lizard King, eventhough I’ve only met him in my rock ‘n roll dreams.
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