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