Rock Off

Hey, you, rock promoter. I’ve had it up to my white belt with your failed attempts to get me to go to “your shows.” Did you write the music? No? Are you playing in any of the bands on the bill? No? Then, sorry, dude, they aren’t “your shows.” Second, handbills almost never get bodies into venues, especially when you play dirty pool by sending your minions to flier cars parked at competing clubs. To paraphrase the late, great Mitch Hedburg, fliers are like giving someone something and saying, “Here. You throw this away.” And the cloying text messages you send people the night of “your shows,” filled with cutesy, coy promises of some sort of sexual favors if people come see the rock you’re pimping, make me sick. For some of us, text messages cost extra money, so unless you’re going to deliver on the sexual favors, don’t bother. If you book good shit, people will come. If you don’t stop with these ridiculous come-ons and ploys, I’ll find my rock elsewhere.

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