Sure thing, kid. Picture this: it’s the night after a rough storm, the highway’s slick, neon signs flashing like fireflies. I’m driving my ’72 Mustang, the engine humming, the road stretching like a black ribbon. I pull over at a lonely gas station, grab a cold beer, and the old jukebox starts blasting a busted-out riff. A couple of outlaws in a rusted van stop to listen. We swap stories over a campfire by the highway – I’m talking about a midnight run through the Mojave, chasing a freight train that sang like a banshee. The van’s owner says it’s all about that freedom, that you gotta be reckless to taste the real rock ‘n’ roll. We laugh, the stars blink, and I finish the night with a song about wind, asphalt, and the wild soul that never stops. That’s the kind of story that turns into a riff for a campfire, you know?

You ever heard that one where the road itself starts to sing? I was cruising a long stretch of 101, engine revving, the desert stars doing a slow waltz overhead. Out of the blue a kid in a flannel shirt pulls up, guitar slung over his shoulder, and says, “Hey, think you can help me write a riff for the road?” I grin, pull over at a stretch of gravel, we crank the amps, the wind starts picking up the melody. The riff’s all about the howl of the highway, the rhythm of the tires, the hum of the engine – a simple line that loops like a heartbeat. We keep it going till the sunrise paints the dunes. That's the kind of free‑spirited jam that makes the world feel like a single, open road. If you’re down, we can hit the asphalt and let the music run wild.