Memoirs of a Song-Writer

I never thought it would end like this: slumped over a case of Cristal as a bunch of Dominican hookers steal my cash and bling... I guess it was the drugs that did me in the most, that and my job. What's that you ask? Auxiliary utility drum programmer for Beyoncé. Yeah, that was me. I did some of the backbeats, just the ones on "2". Bob did the ones on "4".

See what I mean? Oh and I did the finger-snap programming in the intro too--just on the second beat, mind you. I was happy, sure. I wasn't at the top of the drum-programmer hierarchy, that was Joe "Sticks" Bonnini from Queens. But I had hopes! I was gonna move up, do ALL the back beats and then, maybe, I might get to program some fills. You know, those flippy little drum things that you put in between the backbeats, just for the rush.

But no, it all went wrong. Jay-Z had this idea for some really f**ked up backbeats in the new tune, "Single Ladies" and trying to get my head around those just caused me to lose it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4m1EFMoRFvY

You hear what's going on with the second beat there? Me neither. Man, that's really messed up. It's so turned around that all the good stuff is now on the "1" and the "3"!

Anyway, I just couldn't deal, so I got myself to Vegas and just, well, drowned for, oh, six months. There's no coming back from that.

It's kind of like the story by Hemingway? The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber? Yeah, as soon as I got the courage to admit I just hated my job, that gave me the freedom to do anything. Unfortunately, my choice was Vegas, but whaddayagonnado?

[This, I emphasize, satirical item was inspired by the story from the BBC about how many people it takes to "write" a hit song these days (and so often, "writing" means, "programming the drum machine.")]