That clean hit when the call comes. Gig locked. You show up. Sticks ready. No drama.
The room breathes. Tunes sit heavy. Crowd moves. They jive because you make it inevitable.
Unusual shit? Sure, it crashes sometimes. But when it doesn’t? Pure oxygen.
Under-promise. Overdeliver. Every damn time.
Pactum Batteria.
Show up. Shut up. Hit drums. Collect cheque. Vanish.
No circus. No stress. Been there. Done that. Million times. Like rolling off a log into the groove.
Then the voice on the line:
“Hey! Come play for free. It’ll be great exposure.”
“Hey! Come play for free. It’ll be great exposure.”
Yeah?
You can die from exposure.
You can die from exposure.
Hard pass.
A worker is worthy of their pay. Blood law. Old as the first skin stretched tight.
So renew the pact.
Keep the code.
Demand the paper.
Play your fucking heart out anyway.
Keep the code.
Demand the paper.
Play your fucking heart out anyway.
Because the groove never begged.
And neither should you.
And neither should you.
Pactum Batteria.
Still in force.
Always will be.
Still in force.
Always will be.