My First Band

I knew these three guys in high school who decided to make it their mission to get famous via the music scene.   I happened to be sitting next to them in one of those bummer computer classes you had to go through; (You remember, the ones that were so goddamn boring/confusing that you ended up saying fuck it, and hit up one of those online game sites every class.) when they asked me if I played any instruments.  I ignored their question and instead asked them what they were looking for.  Bass was on the menu, and so it went that I spent the following summer working my ass off to buy this beautiful , shiny, red, bass guitar.  I joined their band, we all became best friends,  started playing a lot of gigs,  took some promo pics, and were well on our way to being rock stars.  (Hey, this seemed like a real opportunity to me…. And yes I was a naive teenager.)
 
It came time that we wanted to put out a demo to showcase our awesomeness and decided to record it in some sketchy dude’s house.  I went in and did my tracks, which as it happened, needed some editing , but the sketchy man assured me it could be done.  Feeling fine and swell I called up our lead guitarist/front man/supreme dictator of the band, and told him I had finished my tracks.  He was pleased.  He was pleased until he listened to them, and how the sketchy man told HIM it COULDN’T be done.  He called me, so I tried to explain to him what the sketchy man told me about how he could fix the tracks, but then he started yelling at me in German.  He yelled and yelled, then stopped only to check on something that was burning in his oven, then came back and yelled some more.  When he calmed down he told  me how he noticed that I was never in time and how my notes were sloppy.  He said he’d give me a week to practice so I could try recording again, but if it wasn’t better I was out of the band.  I’d been in this band for nearly three years by this point, and he decided that then was a good time to tell me I didn’t know how to play bass.  “Well thanks for telling me NOW you fucker!” I thought to myself.  (I didn’t say it to him, cause, you know… I didn’t really want to find out what he would burn in his oven.)   
 
A week passed, and I tried again.  I saw the Fuher at our next band practice.  He still wasn’t pleased.  The three of them proceeded to explain to me just how bad I actually was at playing bass and decided then and there to give me the boot.  It all seemed like bullshit to me.  Yeah I wasn’t a magical bass player, but maybe if someone would have told me that in the second chorus, on song three, where the drummer goes *badat daaaaa*  is when I was supposed to start my slide, we wouldn’t have been in that fucking mess in the first place!  I still blame the sketchy man.  Or maybe the real reason was because I happened to have made out with the girl that the Fuher had a crush on, or maybe it was because I didn’t always refer to the Fuher as Mein Fuher!  Or maybe it was because I really didn’t practice playing that pretty bass of mine and really didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on.  It’s still hard to say……
 
Texas Lee