Screamin' whitewall tires and a guitar by his side
Billy's got the fever as he rolls on through the light
Some were born to listen, some were born to play
He was lightnin' on the high strings and thunder on the bass
He could play it high
He could play it low
He could make it cry
He could make it moan
Billy knew when push came to shove
Proof is in the pickin'
♪
In a smoky little tavern just off of Bourbon Street
Tobacco-stained fingers waited on the down beat
Conley was the master, the undisputed king
He ruled the town for thirty years with an army of six strings
He could play it high
He could play it low
He could make it cry
He could make it moan
Conley knew when push came to shove
Proof is in the pickin'
Oh some time after midnight Billy drives through New Orleans
Straight to the French Quarter there's a man he has to see
The music is a-ragin' like a city that's on fire
Billy felt just like an altar boy at the feet of a higher power
Conley watched as Billy walked across the room
Opened his case, started to tune
The whole club was silent and the lights were turned down low
Billy stepped up on the stage and Conley whispered, "Go son, go"
♪
Yeah!
♪
Come on boys!
♪
He could play it high
He could play it low
He could make it cry
He could make it moan
Billy knew when push came to shove
Proof is in the pickin'
Conley held his hand up, no one made a sound
And he handed Bill his old archtop and stepped into the crowd
Billy played it soft
Billy played it sad
Then he made it talk
In came the band
Soon the room was shakin' before Billy's wall of sound
Just a block off Bourbon Street
A new king's been crowned
And he plays it high
And he plays it low
He can make it cry
He can make it moan
He knows when push comes to shove
The proof is in the pickin'