“Booze and drugs. For the record I’m not against either. However if you think booze or drugs make you play better it’s probably that these assortment of lovely mind altering substances just make you think you’re playing better. Play straight. Embibe after. ”
Booze and the haze-makers? Hell, I’m no puritan preacher—I’ve raised a glass post-gig to toast the triumphs and drown the near-misses, let the smoke curl around a late-night riff that needed no notes. They’re old road dogs, loyal for the unwind, the unburdening after the last bar fades. But here’s the snare in the setup: if you’re chasing the delusion that a belt or a buzz sharpens your stick, loosens your lick into legend, wake up. It’s the velvet trap—the substances don’t elevate the groove; they just fog the mirror, convincing you the flubbed fill’s a flourish, the dragged pocket’s poetic license. That “I’m killing it” glow? It’s the high talking, not the hi-hat. I’ve watched wizards wilt under the warm-up pour, turning precision to porridge, while the sober sway holds the house down. Play straight—sober as the stool’s shadow, wrists wired to the real wire. Let the emotion elbow in unfiltered, the consistency carve clean. Imbibe after, when the echo’s earned, the crowd’s cooled, and the truth tastes sweeter in the silence. The real high? The hit you hit clear-eyed. Your throne’s too true for the tint.
Booze thinks it’s the backbeat; gear swears it’s the savior. Both? Just shiny distractions from the stool’s stark whisper: ‘Hit me true, or hit the road.’