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 didnít get free drinks, I would quit.
Thatís 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 thatís 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.
Ladiesí night is the only time we get a crowd these days
But thatís because chicks get two free drinks and guys get the chicks.
If they see us itís 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 weíre about as good as a jukebox.
Iím 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 heís 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.
Iíd complain to Dennis, but who can find him.
God knows where he goes or what he does.
Weíre just lucky he gets back in time for the sets -- and that heís 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 itís the alcohol thatís started doing my thinking for me.
But I canít help but feel we missed something getting here.