Partt VIII (9 April)

I creep onto the stage/ before the crowd comes in/ readjust the microphones/ and make sure the sticks aren’t slicked/ I adjust my throne/ a little back of the pedals/ give the cymbals a twirl/ man, I love the feel of that metal/ my cell phone goes off/ it’s the band checking in/ they aren’t here yet/ and wondering where I’ve been/ it’s the same routine as usual/ maybe this time we’ll get paid/ the guys finally get here/ and we saunter onto the stage/ it seems way too fast/ we just rip through the set/ I’m playing my heart out/ too bad it has to end/ we go backstage to talk to the manager/ he says “sorry kids, but the crowd didn’t show/ and they buy the tickets/ you know how it goes”/ we pack up our gear/ I’m the last one to leave/ the guys seem in a hurry/ they’re so easy to please/ they all picked up some chicks/ I tell them to go on ahead/ I’ll meet up with them later/ with a sense of dread/ The next day arrives/ I go to the garage/ and there they are waiting/ “Dude, we’re holding you back/ you’re too good for us/ you can go somewhere on your own/ we’ve got a new drummer.”/ I wanna impale him with a microphone./ So I say my goodbyes/ and walk away from the place/ that gave birth to a dream/ and a rabbit to chase/ the next day I hear/ they’ve signed with a label/ they tour in the spring/ with “The Pirate’s Navel”/ they’re were right/ they were holding me back/ now you’ll find me on Whyte/ groovin’ to jazz/ I still don’t get paid/ only by applause/ which seldom comes often/ but that’s okay, ’cause/ I’m happier now/ than I was with the band/ I can use my full talent/ that’s the beauty of jazz/ groovin’ to improv/ that’s where it’s at/ with Whitey and Slim/ and all the other cats.

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