ROOTS ROCK WEIRDOES (Fulks) -- in Em
VS1
Em B7
The town was hardly stirring, the night clubs all were closed
Am Em C9 B9 Em C9-B9
Only a washed-up cover band hittin' the stage at Joe's
Em Am
The guitar hit the first bar of "Secret Agent Man"
Am7 G B7 Em
A door in the back flew open, and into the room they ran!
CH
A7 Em
Roots rock weirdoes, up from the underground
D B G A Em
Starved for a Tele or a B3 -- any out-of-fashion sound
A7 G A7 Em
Roots rock weirdoes, out of their holes they come
D A Em
Dressed up like it's 1951.
VS2
Em B7
Well, they looked the band gear over and they noted with delight
Am Em C9 B9 Em C9-B9
The guitar amp was a Bassman, and the bass man played upright
Em Am
Then they looked 'round at each other, and they cried, "We Are The Best!
Am7 G B7 Em
For we like unpopular music, and just look at the way we're dressed!"
CH2
A7 Em
Roots rock weirdoes, slapping each others' backs
D B G A Em
Using the hepcat language they thought made them sound black
A7 G A7 Em
Roots rock weirdoes, smoking their Camels straight
D A Em
Makin' sure there was nothing up to date.
VS3
Em B7
Now Joe, he was slow to anger, but that barkeep found it hard
Am Em C9 B9 Em C9-B9
Just to watch the air grow toxic with smoke and self-regard
Em Am
So he jumped up on a barstool and he shouted out loud and clear:
Am7 G B7 Em
"I don't know just what you weirdoes want, but I don't want you in here!"
VS4
Em B7
The room grew deathly silent, then up from the stinking ranks
Am Em C9 B9 Em B9
Rose a homely social worker in a bowling shirt marked "Hank"
Em Am
And dropping the fake black diction, he said, "Since you enquired,
Am7 G C9 B7 Em B7 Em
Let me take stock of what we roots rock -- ahem! -- 'weirdoes' desire...."
VS5
Em Am
Fishnets for every woman, and lipstick as red as flame
G B Em B
For every man a tatoo, a Chevy, and a dumb nickname
Em Am
Cigarettes in every shirtsleeve, black leather on every back,
G B Em B
Fanzines in every bookstore, LPs in each record rack.
VS6
Em Am
Three chords in every pop song! Four white guys in each band!
G B Em
A ruthless media empire to saturate this land
B Em Am
Then, with our alt.country comrades, and our brothers in neo-swing,
G B Em
We'll reclaim music from the kids for our fat dead cracker king!"
CH3
A7 Em
Roots rock weirdoes, Christ! They're everywhere!
D B G A Em
A little Doc Pomus in their hearts and dark pomade in their hair
A7 G A7 Em
Roots rock weirdoes, out of their holes they come
D A Em
Dressed up like it's 1951.
