Think Twice Before You Marry a Musician

By Bob Wire, 7-12-10

My drummer, Jack, called me last week and said he’d decided to leave the band. I had hand-picked him (what is he, a turnip?) to play in my band when I formed it two years ago, and he’s been great to play with. I told him so, and said we’d miss having him in the band. He said he hated to let it go, but the time commitment had gotten to be too much, and it was putting a strain on his marriage. I understood completely.

You know what puts a strain on your marriage? Being married to a musician.

Musicians are flakes. Ain’t no getting around it, we all have some serious shortcomings when it comes to responsibility, consideration, and paying the rent. There’s an old joke going around: What do you call a drummer who breaks up with his girlfriend? Homeless. It’s funny because it has a kernel of truth in the middle, like a piece of chocolate-covered popcorn. Only, instead of truth, it’s popcorn.

Even though musicians are flakey and unreliable, the “bad boy” thing tends to spark women’s imaginations. They’re attracted to us like flies to chocolate covered popcorn. They might see a guy in a band as some kind of adventurous ne’er-do-well, a modern-day pirate who has a cheap Strat copy hanging from his shoulder instead of a parrot. All the travel, the late-night debauchery, the passion and creativity displayed onstage, it can make a woman think, “This guy might make an interesting partner. And look at those big hands!”

Well, ladies, let me clue you in on a few things. While that bass player with the smoldering good looks might captivate you with his faraway gaze and dreamy demeanor, what you’re seeing is the middle stages of a serious heroin addiction. You will probably spend all your time with this guy nodding off, scoring some black tar, or jamming a big needle into his heart to bring him back to life. I hope you like instant mashed potatoes and Sponge Bob reruns.

And that crazy drummer, man, he seems to have endless energy! I bet you’re thinking of a good way to put that to use (wink!). Well, you should know that the other guys in the band aren’t speaking to him because he failed to show up at their major-label showcase last week. He was shit-faced, out test-driving a Hummer, seeing how it handled on the downtown sidewalks. Trying to impress his new girlfriend, who turned out to be a tranny.

But what about the lead singer? The guy with no shirt, and five pounds of tattoos? He seems like a soulful guy. Look at the way he’s looking at you! I think he wants you! Yes, of course he wants you! And your friend! And the cocktail waitress! And those four teenage girls up front! And the bartender! And the drummer’s girlfriend! Yes, lead singers are the peacocks of the music world. We love how they strut, how they preen, how they bare their soul when they’re wailing a Journey song. But the band usually has to rent an extra trailer to carry their egos on tour. When a musician mentions LSD, he’s not talking about tripping on acid. He’s talking about Lead Singer Disease.

This guy might not know a bouzouki from a kazoo, but he has many opinions on how the rest of the band should play their instruments. You might enjoy watching him onstage, gals, but I’d steer clear of a guy who has his own Sex Tapes website.

What about the guitarist? Surely, he must be the sensitive type, look at that face he makes when he’s playing a solo! He must be feeling the pain of some distant heartache, some buried emotion dredged up by this soulful musical expression. Actually, he’s grimacing because his leather pants are a little too tight, and they’re pinching him in an area where men should never be pinched. Ever.

But it’s true that we guitarists are sensitive souls. We are sensitive to the fact that we want to get laid. That’s why we picked up guitars in the first place. Any guitar player who says different is a liar. Or he’s a drummer’s girlfriend. Yes, we followed the adolescent’s siren song of Rock Stardom and Endless Babes, learned to play “Smoke on the Water,” (note: for bass players it’s “25 or 6 to 4”) and most of us have been waiting to be discovered ever since. And god forbid if a guitarist is also a songwriter. His muse can show up at any time, usually accompanied by strong liquor or weed. “Hey,” he’ll say, interrupting your explanation of why he needs to Grow Up. “I just got an idea about a song: it’s about a circus made up entirely of barnyard animals. I gotta go get my guitar…”
When he starts getting all excited about diminished ninths and drop-D tunings and such, just nod your head and smile like it’s something a regular human would give rat’s ass about.
But I shouldn’t be too harsh on my fellow music-makers. There are, of course, exceptions to every rule. I happen to know a few musicians who are responsible, reliable, and somewhat normal. One of them is fixing my toilet right now.

[Check back frequently here for more nuggets of mossy wisdom from Bob Wire. Now git!]

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