He didn’t cut his teeth in top 40 bands, nor play skiffle and sessions in London as a young hotshot.
He didn’t pay his dues in the back of the van. If there had to be a van involved, it would go from the airport to the Four Seasons and to the venue and back and he would prefer the sandwich waiting on the seat to be toasted, thank you.
He didn’t know you weren’t supposed to play rock and roll in 13, or 11, or seven: so many sevens you could bust Vegas.
He didn’t grow up glued to the AM radio, ear cocked and ready for the next Motown hit so he could run to his room and cop the latest James Jamerson lick.
He didn’t bounce around the scene for a while until the Dead stole him from another band.
He didn’t know that real bass players play Fenders.
He didn’t know he wasn’t doing it right.
He didn’t want to be a bass player: he wanted to be a musician.