My friend and I used to take so much acid that my drug dealer didn’t want to sell us anymore in case we done ourselves permanent damage. Turns out he was right to be concerned. You should take that as a sign to stop when your drug dealer is more worried about your health than his profit margin.
So almost every night for about a year after that gig, I used to take a tab or two, pick up the bass guitar and try to learn it before the walls melted. After about thirty minutes, the neck of the guitar would start going behind my head.
I’d be like, ‘Jesus Christ, what’s goin’ on? I’m not Jimi Hendrix …. I’m more like Billy Andrex. I’m total shit. I think I’d better put this guitar down and lie down on the floor for the next eight hours and stare at the artexing’.
Wow, rock’n’roll, eh? Eh, no. Just a victim of Tavistock propaganda and a general loser actually. I was severely losing touch with reality at this point and I had been moved from the ethanol plant to the benzene plant where I couldn’t stand the new shift team in a big way. Probably because I couldn’t drink the product to help get me through the shift and I had fuck all in common with them.
Once, before a two-week break, I told them exactly what I thought of them in no uncertain terms because I believed that during the time off that I would sign a record deal, thus negating the need to ever see them again.
I couldn’t even tune the guitar by ear, far less fucking play it! How the hell I was going to get a record contract in two weeks? Humble pie was eaten sixteen days later when I did return to work with no record contract in the offing. Aye, I was severely out to lunch. No wonder they thought I was mental …. I was!
Cheers!
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