I apologize for this in advance. Blame
CapSkippy for noding
Too long, too close. It brought back my one brief sojourn in a
punk rock band. It's the typical tale of
sex and drugs and rock and roll - minus the sex.
In the fall of 1977, I was in college, attending MIT in Cambridge, Mass. One of my roommates picked up an album by the Sex Pistols. My roommate, myself, and one of our drinking buddies quickly realized that WE could do that. The fact that none of us had ever played a musical instrument seemed more of a plus than a detriment.
I went out and bought a used $40 electric guitar from a pawn shop. My roommate bought a bass guitar. We used assorted cardboard boxes for a drum kit. All we needed was a song. Out of a pot and Jack Daniels induced fugue I emerged with the lyrics to our soon-to-be hit song:
Dead Dog
Well it's a hot afternoon
In the middle of June
And your tongue's hangin outta yer head
An' I'm tellin' you friend
That this is the end
'Cuz dog yer gonna be dead
Dead dog!
Dead dog!
'Cause you sweat and you stink
And you shit on my bed
Soon my best friend
Will be a dog that's dead!
Dead dog
Dead dog
Dead dog is a lyin' in the middle of the room
'Cuz I just bashed his head in with the handle of a broom
Dead dog!
Dead dog!
Well you've been loved and honored
Since the days of Rome
But even in death
You had to mess my home
Dead Dog!
Dead dog!
Dead dog is a lyin' in the middle of the floor
'Cuz I couldn't stand his face no more, no more, no more
Dead dog!
Dead dog!
I'm tellin' you dog with your busted spine
I'm glad you're gone -- you were no friend of mine
Dead Dog!
Dead dog!
Well it's a hot afternoon
In the middle of June
And your tongue's hangin outta yer head
An' I'm tellin' you friend
That this is the end
'Cuz dog yer gonna be dead
Dead dog!
Alas, the only problem was
we sucked. I was the only one that could remember the lyrics, so I had to sing. That alone meant we were in trouble. Though we practiced
irregularly for a couple of weeks, the project quietly died the unmourned death it deserved.