Soy'all thought a guitarist for the toughest, meanest, baddest band in the whole South would drive himself a motorsickle, did ya? No way! This is the big time, boy, so I done went out and bought myself a damn old Rolls Royce!

It's time to cut out all this Southern boogie talk nonsense. We may come from the Deep South—that dark, decadent land of Faulkner, Williams and DiMartino—but we're all Southern gentlemen at heart. Only the best for a mint julep-sipping connnoisseur like me; fine wines, magnolia-scented Suth'n women, a good cigar and my King Cotton whije Rolls Royce. If you don't like it, well, frankly my dear'll don't give a damn.

Home, James. I got me some axe grindin' to do. Y'all come back now, y'hear?