Get with it, daddios. Hep is hipper than hip. It’s in the pocket. It’s straight from the fridge. It’s copacetic. It’s the new Trudeau HepCat, our Son of a Beach(cat). Reap this righteous riff, this is one crazy SOB.
- Raise sails.
- Hang the hell on to something!
- Flat ain’t where it’s at. HepCat’s sails, more curves than a Jayne Mansfield film fest. Bunnie Mills, Trudeau sail boss, is one wrascally wrabbit!
- The tramp is no lady. Nor is it a bindle-stiff. It’s a stage for skipper and crew to make sweet music upon, so blow, Roy, blow. Or play it solo. 4 positions per side. Hiking straps. Keep cool though, too much bouncing around on this tramp will upset HepCat’s balance with clinkers and put the kibosh on your speed.
- No kick from champagne. But plenty of kick from these rudders – HepCat turns on a dime. And a kick up… handy for sailing up on the beach, over ramps and other screwy exhibitions. Down… they can be a real drag, man. Up… not so much. Not much help in steering either. But don’t sweat it, you’ll be the wiser in no time.
- Circus act. We don’t dig jive clowns. But a high wire? Solid. HepCat has trapezes for all you daring young men (and women). If they asked if you were moving, tell them you were flyin’!
- Wig out. Or as the L7s call it, capsize. Hot dog it too much and you’ll get the bum’s rush into the drink. Don’t have a kitten though, moor HepCat and you’ll be sittin’ pretty again in no time.
- HepCat is lousy with sail choices. And for you egghead longhairs, all of them historically correct.
Glad rags to deck your cat out in:
Beach Cat Beach has gone Hep. Make the scene and dig the righteous Cats (cut a demo too!).
That’s the rap. Don’t be a chump, get Hep.
Go, Cab, Go!