UN-NATURAL FUNCTIONS

(Anon - forwarded by Ray Harley)

It's one of those gigs that you wish you'd not taken,
But money speaks louder than pride so you bite.
Better judgement dispensed with, ideals are forsaken,
You kid yourself it'll be right on the night.
-----

The drive is a nightmare; you turn up last minute.
The bandleader's 'tutting' and itching to start.

Too late it dawns, it's hell and you’re in it,
The drummer counts in - you can’t find the first part.

-----  

As is the tradition with small town Masonics,
They've eaten their fill and they won’t leave their chairs.
They just sit morosely and down gin & tonics
While fixing the bandstand with long baleful stares.

-----  

The Worshipful Master is pissed & is swaying
His overdressed Worshipful Lady is saying,
Is this a Valetta the orchestra's playing?
You try to look cheerful and smile

-----

The drummer is dragging and starting to slumber,
The pianist seems to be playing a Rhumba
The Saxes (as usual) a quite different number
And their intonation is out by a mile.

-----

The Orchestra singer can't seem to remember
What the hell rhymes with 'From May to December’?
When all of a sudden the trombones dismember,
The last sixteen bars of the tune.
-----
The Barn Dance and Tango achieve scant approval,
The Waltz and the Foxtrot go down much the same.
The crowd starts to press for the band's quick removal,
The bandleader's wondering just who he can blame.
-----
Then the floor fills right up as the disco starts pounding,
The band makes a dash for the pub right next door.
It takes fifteen minutes to get the first round in,
There’s just time for 2 pints, so of course, you drink four.
-----
Then it's back into battle with all guns a blazing,
The bandleader calls all the crap in the pad.
The crowd whoops it up; the response is amazing,
The MC swears blind you’re the best band they've had.
-----
The barrel is scraped of the dregs from the 50's,
The worst of the 60's exhumed and laid bare.
Your musical taste buds are stripped of all feeling,
You’re playing bum notes and you don't even care.

-----

Then it’s quarter to twelve and the Worshipful Master
Is bidding three cheers for 'our musical friends'.
A quick 'Auld Lang Syne' and the National Anthem
And your private, functional purgatory ends.

----- 

You pack up in silence whilst telling yourself

That it’s not just the money that makes it worth playing.
Then the bandleader offers you two more next month,
And your brain can't believe what it hears your mouth saying.
-----
"Yes, those dates are fine, shall I ring to confirm?
It’s always a pleasure" you ooze with fake charm.
With an external smile and an internal squirm,
As the thin wad is pressed in to your cold, sweaty palm.

----- 

On the drive home, you swear that you'll cancel,
From now on it’s strictly for music, not cash.
But the thought of the gas bill just adds to your sorrow,
You just can’t afford to say anything rash.

----- 

So the following Friday you’re back counting junctions,
On the M-50-something, in nose to tail haste.
The hard shoulder littered with cast off compunctions,
Condemned to a life of Un-natural Functions
A resident gig,  in the graveyard of taste.

(Anon).