Suppose you're a little kid on the island of Guam – that's right, Guam. And suppose you're in your room with a beat up old acoustic guitar and some bongos your parents gave you, practicing cha-cha and jitterbug music with your cousins because that's all anybody ever showed you how to do. And suppose you glance up at your Ramones poster and have a vision of yourself on stage with long hair and sunglasses, blasting a Les Paul through a rumbling Marshall stack, gaping at the seething audience in front you – elbows spinning in circles, fists punching the air, and kids flopping around like crash test dummies, all to the beat of three beautiful power chords. And suppose at that moment you decide that you want to someday, somehow, realize that rock n' roll vision -- even though you're just a kid playing cha-cha and jitterbug music and living on the tiny tourist-driven island of Guam which rarely sees mainstream touring acts, probably only has a couple rock clubs on the whole chunk of land, has an entire population smaller than that of an urban city, and which most Americans probably couldn't even find on a map.

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