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As musicians who get all the glory,
we feel it’s time to thank those whom we rely upon for
the opportunity to showcase our talent and express our creative
faculty to the local community.
Because, as everyone knows, musicians don’t really need
the money. We do it all for beer and blow jobs. We’re
artists. We have no time for such trivialities as kids, mortgages,
or car payments.
Some of the things we love:
- When you send us home early and pro-rate
our pay for the night when it's slow. This gives us a special
thrill, since we know that you'll one day give us a big
bonus when it's packed. Plus, by leaving early, we can now
go watch our friends play at real bars and spend our night's
wages.
- When trying to book dates, we love when
you ask us if we’re “free on “the 17th.”
Sure, let us check our fucking calendar. Yeah, we’re
open that night. Oh…you meant of November. Of this
year?
- We also love when you say, “Well,
we might be doing something next month for Thursdays.”
Yeah, we might also be doing something next month. Foreclosing.
- One of our fave questions is, “Do
you have a following?” Of course we do! We firmly
believe club owners shouldn’t have to concern themselves
with such banalities as advertising. Or promotions. Or drink
specials. The responsibility for attracting customers must
fall solely with the band. We have no doubt whatsoever the
people who saw us regularly at that bar in Islamorada will
charter a bus and trek up to Margate to hear us play Smoke
on the Water. Put your minds at rest, o’ troubled
bar proprietors.
Just a few of the things we’d like
to thank you for:
- For canceling us forty minutes prior to
our arrival at your bar, because as everyone knows, babysitters
are free, and frankly, we have nothing better to do on a
Saturday night.
- For replacing our four-piece band with
the clove cigarette-smoking guy and his $129 Fender acoustic
guitar, paisley button-down shirt and soul patch. There’s
a reason he works for a hundred bucks.
- For paying the exact same wage for a duo
that you paid in 1986. So now, we have to work six jobs
a week instead of four to make a living.
- Thanks for not cashing your own checks.
We realize how this complicates your accountant's life,
and his happiness is all that matters.
- And for having the house music set to
the local oldies radio station, we salute you. We love following
"Unchained Melody" with "Rock the Casbah."
- For not having a stage. It’s a real
treat to stand on your wing sauce-saturated carpet. And
being on the same level as your patrons makes it much easier
for drunken assholes to approach us and fall into our equipment
while spewing a three-foot stream of vomit onto the drum
kit. Thank you.
- Thanks for the track lighting above the
stage. Makes us feel like rock stars. Especially when they’re
colored.
Also, thanks for the break on food and drinks. Fifty percent
is such a gift. It’s our distinct pleasure to shell
out $3.25 for a shot of Jack that costs you twenty-two cents.
Grazie. Merci. Domo. Danke.
- Thanks for hiring the three laid-off bus
mechanics who threw a band together after the economy shit
the bed and will now play for $75 a man. Enjoy their ripping
11-minute rendition of “Cocaine,” complete with
64-bar bass solo and fudged lyrics.
- Thanks for cancelling us on a Thursday
night for the Browns-Lions game on NFL Network.
- Thanks for putting TVs directly over our
heads, so people can watch “World’s Scariest
Videos” while we play. It’s always a thrill
to hear such expletives as “WHOA!”, “HOLY
FUCKING SHIT!” while navigating the soliloquy from
“Nights in White Satin.”
And let us not forget the bartenders, who listen
to us all night without once clapping (if for no other reason
than to induce the comatose people at the bar to clap).
- And thanks so much for cutting off the
jukebox 10 seconds into "Sweet Home Alabama,"
so that we can hear that collective "AWWWWWW...."
from the audience as we hit the stage. Most inspiring.
- Thanks for waiting until you’ve
served all drinks, lit every cigarette, wiped off the bar,
stocked the coolers and done your side work before moping
toward the cash register with the quickness of a tai chi
instructor to give us our meager salary while muttering,
“They make as much as me, and only worked four fuckin’
hours.”
- Yes, it’s a travesty, but most high-level
universities no longer give out bartending scholarships.
And please note that it took us slightly longer to learn
our instrument than it took for you to make it through Billy
Bob’s Bartending School. And we doubt seriously that
you sit at home practicing bartending in your spare time.
So thanks for handing over the dough and shutting the fuck
up.
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