Having grown up in the rock and roll badlands of Ocean County, I’ve always been privy to the bizarre world of rock and roll garages and basements. Power chord marauders have slithered from these darkened tombs to roam some of the world’s largest stages. Evolving from beer-drenched woods parties, these bar-chord barristers have seen career destinies soar into a myriad of both tragic and glorious realities.
I remember standing slack-jawed in front of long gone Toms River legends like Richard Sweat, a blazing guitarist who brought powerful recollections of Robin Trower straight to Fischer Blvd., and a guy who…