As pointed out by longtime commentator Nickothenabunchofsevens, Billy’s having a hell of a week, From spending 4/20 in Denver at the Cannabis Cup to this week’s performances in New Orleans with
Jazz Is Dead Voodoo Dead Dead Feat, which is a band made up of players so good they don’t need to rehearse, and who haven’t.
Billy was walking quickly down Bourbon Street; he had just tackled Ernie K. Doe’s stuffed corpse and Mrs. K. Doe was hot in pursuit. Having lost the woman (if she’s still alive, she’s in her 70’s,) Billy stepped in the nearest bar to slake the powerful thirst he had earned himself.
When from the stage, he heard the band slink into Scarlet Begonias. Billy quietly slid in behind the drums and he played with those young men the rest of the night.
It wasn’t a gig, thought Frankie, but it was a gig. Something to do, somewhere to go, to be. It’s good to have to be somewhere somewhen.
Wes was fine. Willy. He could play, and he could lead a band–the bullshit and money and phone calls and bullshit–but no charisma and a face like an overgrown parking lot.
Adam played bass and didn’t shoot up anymore, just like Frankie. They had fucked up together and were making this comeback together. Who better? They played with each other better than anyone else in the world, and Wes wanted to take care of the nonsense while they got better? Fine.
Frankie had heard of the Grateful Deads and their dead person, Hairy Mendoza. (To Frankie, who was 24, all the old bands had at least one dead guy in them.) When Wes wanted to play the Scarlet song, Frankie was okay with it. He was confused at the next band practice, though: he had looked the song up on YouTube and was convinced it had two parts that had almost no relation to one another, so he had learned both, but Wes was adamant that just the first part was the song, so whatever. No need for hassle.
It was a decent tune and they were all looking forward to trying it out that afternoon. There was almost no one in the bar, but it was the middle of the day and Frankie was getting paid to play the drums; he was happy. He smiled and didn’t think about the needle and didn’t think about his dying mother and didn’t think about the chances pissed away and lost himself in the music until, out of the corner of his eye, a crazy old fuck appeared and punched him in the dick, stealing his drums and playing the fuck out of them.
Frankie overdosed hours later.