Wednesday, August 01, 2007
There But for the Grace of No Talent Go I...
I got to go back to Ann Arbor last night to see some musician friends who were in town "giggin'," as they say. Once again, while it was really great to see them, it reaffirmed in my mind that being an utter failure as a successful professional musician was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Oh sure, I don't get all the perks, like the comfy backstage lounge (pictured above), or the delectable assorted meats tray:
By the way, I'm not sure if the Scope was for before eating the meats, or after... or for pouring over the meat before dumping said meat into the garbage.
But, yeah, the whole touring musician thing seems like it kinda sucks balls. Two of the guys are now divorced, they're on the road all fucking summer, with an occasional day or two at home, the inside of their bus looked like it was designed by Halston in the early 80s, they're not allowed to shit in the bus's toilet, they don't know whether the club they're playing is going to have a good sound system or a shitty one (last night -- pretty shitty), they're all barely speaking to each other after 20+ years of playing together, and I can't imagine they're making that much money at these gigs. I dunno, my working-in-the-basement gig is seeming pretty fucking sweet in comparison.
Of course, they do get to play in front of an adoring crowd every night, so it's not all shitty.
I guess a job's a job, you know? At least with mine, I get to eat well, I don't have to drive through multiple states for my commute, I get to hang out with my family, I wear whatever I want, there's no frat-boys hanging out by my back door asking me to sign their frisbees, and most importantly, I can dump in my own toilet whenever I goddamn-well please.
As a matter of fact, I feel an encore coming on right now.