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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:
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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.
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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?
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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.
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One of our fave questions
is, “Do
you have a following?” Of course we do! We
firmly believe club owners shouldn't’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.
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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 canceling
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.”
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And let
us not forget the bartenders...
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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)
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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So thanks much for handing over
the dough and shutting the fuck up.
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