I hate this gig
I hate this gig, beating my brains out on drum skins five nights a week only to earn peanuts.
If we didn’t get free drinks, I would quit.
That’s the kick of it.
I started with these drum sticks to get chicks.
These days the clink of ice in a glass turns me on more than looking at legs or tits.
Maybe that’s why the crowds are so thin, folks getting by osmosis the bad feelings we feel after so long pounding out the same crap cover songs.
People are as sick of us as we are of each other, but instead of needing to kill us, they want us to kill each other.
So they just stay away and wait for it to happen.
Ladies’ night is the only time we get a crowd these days
But that’s because chicks get two free drinks and guys get the chicks.
If they see us it’s only because some chicks dance and the guys get hard-ons when they get close on the dance floor.
Drop a quarter in his and we’re about as good as a jukebox.
I’m the only member of the band who seems to notice.
Lecherous Lex on lead guitar eyes a bosom blonde in a tight t-shirt. He never made the leap to booze transition the way I did, though he’s just as addicted.
Ted on the bass slouches in the corner contemplating his own navel, a pin cushion has less holes than his inner arms have, and feels more pain than he will as he floats through each set like a cloud, and with about as much sense of direction.
I’d complain to Dennis, but who can find him.
God knows where he goes or what he does.
We’re just lucky he gets back in time for the sets -- and that he’s still vertical when he does.
I know I got no cause to complain.
The band has been good to me for all my banging my brains out.
And maybe it’s the alcohol that’s started doing my thinking for me.
But I can’t help but feel we missed something getting here.