He is a legend, and the musicians, promoters, reporters, DJs and engineers of our great city whisper his name in shivering tones. He books shows, and because he has no car, insists that other bands on the bill chauffeur him to the gigs. At the shows, he begs the audience to buy merchandise because he's broke rather than letting his talent sell his wares for him. And the only reason he booked your band is to try and invade the pants of your female member. He shakes your hand, then immediately looks over your shoulder for someone more important to talk to.* He cannot remember his part in the song, which is why so many musicians have been replaced with machines. When he does remember his parts, he sings in a poncy British accent, even though he has no discernible one when talking normally.* He hires his girlfriend to manage the band. When she becomes his ex-girlfriend, she is still the manager. This ends about as well as you would expect.*
If you like this story, consider signing up for our email newsletters.
SHOW ME HOW
You have successfully signed up for your selected newsletter(s) - please keep an eye on your mailbox, we're movin' in!
A local DJ: "He stole my boyfriend's guitar." He calls a recording studio and informs them that he is on his way in to record some drum tracks, so they had better drop everything else and get ready because he is but five minutes away. "Well, do you have any scratch tracks for me to import or record?" asks the put-upon engineer, only to be answered with a condescending laugh. "No," he says. "I don't need scratch tracks, its all in my head, I just need a click track." The engineer responds, "I've worked with a lot of great drummers, and never..." only to be cut off with a repeat of the earlier laugh. "Well, I guess you haven't worked with someone as good as me." He presses the studio mastering his EP to work quick and cheap, to which the patient masterer agrees. The masterer works tight, quick, and for next to nothing only to be credited only as 'Whatshisface" when the album is finally released. He saunters into one of the few chosen radio stations in Houston that is kind enough to play and promote local musicians, and demands that the staff unplug the ice machine because its grinding noise is "harshing the mellow atmosphere." He then offers them his girlfriend in exchange for radio play.* He uses the word "scenester" and means it with all of his little black heart. He makes sure to let the reporter who's covering his show know that the reporter would look much cooler if he just did something with his hair. He drives to New Orleans and has a friend tell everyone back home that he died in a car crash. One would think that his friends and acquaintances would be delighted to find out it was all a joke. One would be incorrect. He JAMS! Onstage while others wait to play, he jams. While those of us who have not smoked enough pot to get Cthulhu wait increasingly impatiently for the end of the song, he jams... jams... jams... He is the most hated musician in Houston. *He would not credit David Sadof for his contributions to this article, or link to his Web site, but Rocks Off will.