Life is too short for Vince Welnick. I still haven’t heard the entire European run from 1972. Or the ones from 1974 or ’81, for that matter. When I work my way through all of that and everything else, then I’ll get around to taking a jaunt through Vinnie’s oeuvre. He only sounded good when Bruce Hornsby AND Branford Marsalis were there, too, and I could probably sound good hiding behind those two AND I’VE GOT NO HANDS. I’M A MONSTER!
It’s like a friend of mine would say when people asked him if had read Harry Potter: “Yeah, first I’m gonna read all the adult books and then I’m gonna circle back around to catch the quidditch match, thanks.”
For the last ten years, he just didn’t want to be there. He wanted to be in a darkened room with a muted TV and his guitar and locks on every window and door. Him and his Persian. Couldn’t stay in the room all the time, though. You see, he had let that deal go down years earlier: everyone–every single person around him–let him do whatever he wanted as long as he threw on his adorable summer shorts and did the three goddamn tours a year. They carted his nearly-immoblile, foul-smelling ass around the country for ten years because the beast had to be fed. You know how much ranches in Marin county cost?
And we filled every seat in football stadiums watching it happen.