I'm off out to a gig in a minute or sixty. The two main dudes of the band, a brash loud affair no doubt, were in a band with me for 11 years. I gave in because my crushed ego couldn't take it any more. They carried on cos they are less egotistical and until recently when one of them fathered a child, neither were dads.
It's gonna be a bit like watching your old girlfriend dance with her new guy. However, I shan't envy them carrying all that nasty 1960's heavy muvvafukka equipment back into the van and home.
No doubt I'll find it within my bigheaded capabilities to be able to criticise the bass player. Drummers rarely impress beyond the fact that I can't do it for real, only in my head.
The Guitarist, Sol, is the best I've ever played alongside. Nobody can stump Baz for his enthusiasm and grit, not to mention fuck off bar chord mania.
I can't be arsed with all that dressing up for Halloween either. What a grumpy old sod I've become.
No matter, a couple of beers and all will seem cordial, loud and fluffy. Let's just try to keep a lid on the hooch guzzling though. Hangovers are such a bore at work.