Squeaking and squawking
All eyes roll to the heavens
The clarinet speaks
One beat to change from
Harmon to cup to bucket
Hey, who wrote this crap?
The jam session starts
Somebody calls "Giant Steps"
Cold fear grips my brain
Here's the girl singer
Stepping to the microphone
Pitch, Time, All gone now
Gig is going well
Idiot requests "In the Mood"
I look at my watch
I once had a dream
Big house, new car, big money
Now I play the bass
Gorgeous chick tells me
"You sound just like Kenny G"
My ego shatters
Three-eight, eleven-eight
Darn you Andrew Lloyd Webber
Five-eight, seven-eight
The woodwind doubler
Practicing the piccolo
Frustration defined
Pit orchestra gig
Days and nights become as one
I have no darned life
Bad intonation
Strings are sharp and reeds are flat
Brass too loud again
Great changes, good groove
A one-in-a-million gig
No singer. Yippee!
An oxymoron:
"He played the accordion
With delicacy"
The accordion
"Squeeze box," yes, but more often
"The Stomach Steinway"
Bassoons forever
Try in vain not to sound like
A farting bedpost
The strings slowly tune
When they're done the unisons
Are anything but
"I can't find my note"
Bemoans the confused singer
"Quit now," we all pray
The contractor calls
Months of Andrew Lloyd Webber
"Bird Lives" no longer
No comments:
Post a Comment