Through the week he sits looking out across the field
With a headaches' grip that won't let up
Brought on by the clutter of trivial things
Still it makes him feel better when Son House sings
The view's clear to the horizon clear and wide
Except for the power poles off to one side
He lights up a smoke as the next song begins
To slip away from the age we're in
The needle slowly rises from the groove
The record's slid back in it's sleeve
And carefully placed back on the shelf
He grabs the case sitting by the door
And heads on out past the truck stop signs
Last light drops on the thin white lines
Saturday night when the act begins
Slip away from the age we're in
Saturday night when the act begins
Slip away from the age we're in
Under the lights he stomps and he sighs
Throws his head back way off mic
Brass tube on steel it slips and it whines
Back to '25 in his mind
All that makes his body so tense
Is all the more for him to rail against
Saturday night when the act begins
Slip away from the age we're in
The days of wages and pages of sin
Can't escape from the age we're in
The days of wages and pages of sin