Air on a G.T.M. String

On a lonely night called Friday
without a real guitar.
Listenin' on the headphones
to a one-minute-edit song.
You can tighten up the strumming
or the moves devised the night before.

But our heads will soon be banging
the way they always do;
when you hear that blist'ring solo
there's nothing else to do.
And you just feel like stage divin'
while your friends are there to catch you.

Here I am - power chord again.
There I am - up on the stage.
Here we go - playin' air guitar again.
There we go - to melt your face.

As you rock out just the way you want
to Hendrix or to Rhoads,
you can feel all eyes upon you
as you're wailing out the notes.
You extend the mighty metal horns
and the crowd wants to explode.

And most times we can't hear 'em mock,
other times we can.
All the same old cliches:
"Learn for real and join a band."
And we always seem outnumbered
'cause they don't understand.
Understand?

Here I am - power chord again.
There I am - up on the stage.
Here we go - playin' air guitar again.
There we go - to melt your face.

Out there in the spotlight
we're living life today.
Kicking ass and taking names;
who cares what they say?
Sweat pours out our bodies
like the airness we display.

Later in the evening,
as I lie alone in bed
with the echoes of Jack Daniels
pounding on my head;
I sweep the last air guitar fret,
and remember why we shred.
Why we shred...

Here I am - power chord again.
There I am - up on the stage.
Here we go - playin' air guitar again.
There we go - to melt your face.