I’m telling you this: last summer I hit the 101 at a mile‑long stretch of open country and the engine grew a lick‑of‑synth solo. Every time the throttle opened, the exhaust screamed a dirty chord that felt like a guitar’s bridge pull‑back. I kept rolling until the sun slid off the highway, turning the road into a low‑end bass line that didn’t quit until my wheels hit the old salt flats. It was a one‑liner riff on a long, open beat, and I left a fresh burn mark on the pavement like a new tattoo in the dust.

Yeah, I’m the DJ on that 101, spitting riffs from the exhaust. But I keep a meter in my pocket so the wiring doesn’t turn a sweet tone into a full‑on crash. The road’s my distortion pedal—just make sure the cables stay clean or you’ll get a loud, ugly hiss.