Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Lyrical poetry brought to you via copy and paste

I started writing this little faux-folk ditty about a year ago. Unfortunately, I lost the original lyrics, so this is a remake. Basically, it's a song satirizing local music scenes, and the hanger-ons who serve no purpose but to be lampooned and/or lambasted by me.

Hanger-On Blues by Mark S. Johnson (the italicized explanation version)

Re-written on 4-24-10, 4-25-10 edited for political-incorrectness on 11-30-10

(chorus)

Hanger-on’s, they ain’t too funny

Hanger-on’s they cost too much money

Hanger-on’s they are quite scary

Hanger-on’s they killed Jerry

(Jerry Garcia from the Grateful Dead)

(verse)

Me and 3 of my buddies decided to start a rock band

We learned our favorite 5 songs (sort-of)

And while we played them out of tune and off key,

We just called it our own twist.

We got our first gig at the Polish Toboggan

And played our 5 songs, as well as 3 originals to an audience of 5

(4 males and 1 female for those keeping score at home)

We had their faux-intellectual wheels a turnin’.

By the end of the night, we had them in the palms of our hands, while they insisted that the drinks be on us.

We came back the same time the following week and played to our loyal 5 as well as 15 of their closest friends (12 guys, and 3 girls along with the 4 guys and 1 girl, which gets us 16 guys and 4 girls for those who are really interested in the male/female ratio of our fans).

At the end of the night, we spent our gig money to buy them drinks.

It was the least we could do with our O.G. fans.

We got a gig across town, and we (to the insistence of our 20 fans) borrowed our bass player’s mom’s minivan and gave them rides.

Again, it was the least we could do.

We owed them. They had been with us since day 1, and day 8 accordingly.

Weeks went by, and we got invited to Dingleberry fest. We hired the promoter to be in our band so we could headline the thing.

Then we took our 3 favorite cover/bar bands, formed sub-bands, and had a total of 15 bands playing the same 5 songs.

All 15 bands, consisting of the same 20 people played our 5 cover songs, and at the end of the night, we had a keyboard player named “contraceptive” who brought all 12 of his kids and their friends to the festival.

We had two backup singers named “Flower” and “Irony.” They were drunk and off-key, but they made us feel like we were a supergroup.

We also had two jaw-harp players. (we didn’t plug them in. they just stood there and posed).

(If you haven't heard "I Know You Rider" with an air jaw-harp solo, you ain't lived, my friends.)

And making up the front row was a “tobacco use only” pipe maker named Stink Pickle, and a guy with a Dashiki who was a self-proclaimed unique individual who went by the name Cliche. He liked all of the bands, no matter how much they sounded alike.

Well, the festival ended, and we all made 1 dollar each. The promoter spent 300 dollars on the festival, but we only sold two tickets, so the bands each kept a dollar, and the promoter took the remaining 5 and skipped town.

5 more festivals came and went to the same amount of success. Then we decided to make Dingleberry fest a “private” event.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t fool the people again, and nobody bought a ticket. We were certain the 250 dollar price would let people know how exclusive it was.

Then things really started getting bad.

Our guitar player, Vasectomy, had 12 baby mama’s and they started wanting their share of the band’s profits.

Irony and Flower (our backup singers) left to try their luck in a bar band three counties over.

Our two jaw harp players (who can’t be named due to contractual obligations) left to go tour with Sigfried and Roy.

Our bass player, Lil Pants Too Big, left to join a little-people version of a Vanilla Ice tribute band. (No dwarves or midgets were harmed, I promise).

Our keyboard player, contraceptive, wound up getting a large case of the crabs and opened a seafood restaurant. (What did you think I meant by crabs? Weirdo)

Our drummer looked in the mirror and realized he was white. He’s still in therapy.

As for me, I am left telling this story. I picked up the pieces and carried on.

I play solo shows now to an audience of 2 busboys, 1 cashier, and a bartender in between washing loads of dishes.

I can’t even get Cliche and Stink Pickle to come to my shows, much less return my phone calls. They are busy petitioning for a Milli Vanilli reunion. (No one has the heart to tell them that one of them has passed, nor do they know whether it's Milli or Vanilli who survives for that matter).

Nothing to show for it except for a chorus that goes as follows:

Hanger-on’s, they ain’t too funny

Hanger-on’s they cost too much money

Hanger-on’s they are quite scary

Hanger-on’s they killed Jerry

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