picker Posted October 15, 2008 Share Posted October 15, 2008 ...lot less happy. Always remember that you are unique. Just like everyone else. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Tom Capasso Posted October 16, 2008 Share Posted October 16, 2008 I sing and play recorder. I'm not trained at either but love doing it. I'd probably try drums but not be very good at it. I'd definitely play piano. A llama. I see you've already got the "spitting" down. :grin: Tom www.stoneflyrocks.com Acoustic Color Be practical as well as generous in your ideals. Keep your eyes on the stars and keep your feet on the ground. - Theodore Roosevelt Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
lug Posted October 20, 2008 Share Posted October 20, 2008 ...less irritating to the ears of those around me. You can stop now -jeremyc STOP QUOTING EVERY THING I SAY!!! -Bass_god_offspring lug, you should add that statement to you signature.-Tenstrum I'm not sure any argument can top lug's. - Sweet Willie Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
jlrush Posted October 20, 2008 Share Posted October 20, 2008 I'd play tenor sax. I've always thought their tone is flat out cool (think 'Land of 1000 Dances'), and they don't have to haul heavy gear unless they choose to help someone else who does. Visit my band's new web site. www.themojoroots.com Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Cthulhu Fhtagn Posted October 20, 2008 Share Posted October 20, 2008 If I were not a bass player, something else I'd rather be... If I were not a bass player, a window washer, me. With a rub-a-dub-dub, and a scrub-a-dub-dub, I'd sing this merry song, With a rub-a-dub-dub, and a scrub-a-dub-dub, I'd sing it all day long. ... or something like that. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
alexclaber Posted October 21, 2008 Share Posted October 21, 2008 Drummer, fo' sure! Alex Barefaced Ltd - ultra lightweight, high ouput, toneful bass cabs Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
1111000 Posted October 21, 2008 Share Posted October 21, 2008 Drums, piano, and clarinet are all other instruments I'd really like to play well. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Basshappi Posted October 21, 2008 Share Posted October 21, 2008 http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/a/a2/Indiana_Jones_by_Harrison_Ford.jpg I've even got the hat(s) Nothing is as it seems but everything is exactly what it is - B. Banzai Life is what happens while you are busy playing in bands. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
jcadmus Posted October 21, 2008 Share Posted October 21, 2008 Why, I always wanted to be...a lumberjack! http://www.current.org/prog/prog0523lumberjacks.jpg "Tours widely in the southwestern tip of Kentucky" Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
picker Posted October 21, 2008 Share Posted October 21, 2008 ...a lot more unhappy... Always remember that you are unique. Just like everyone else. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
kenfxj Posted October 21, 2008 Share Posted October 21, 2008 If I were not a bass player, something else I'd rather be... If I were not a bass player, a window washer, me. With a rub-a-dub-dub, and a scrub-a-dub-dub, I'd sing this merry song, With a rub-a-dub-dub, and a scrub-a-dub-dub, I'd sing it all day long. ... or something like that. Absolutely the first thing that popped into my head where I read the title of this thread. Push the button Frank. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
... Posted October 21, 2008 Share Posted October 21, 2008 Why, I always wanted to be...a lumberjack! http://www.current.org/prog/prog0523lumberjacks.jpg I'd rather be a freemason. Masonry opens doors you know. I have a second hand apron. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Chewbubba Posted October 21, 2008 Share Posted October 21, 2008 If you weren't a bass player you would be a... an unemployed, starving prostitute. Or not. A stiffy somewhere in the city sewer system... Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
jcadmus Posted October 21, 2008 Share Posted October 21, 2008 Why, I always wanted to be...a lumberjack! http://www.current.org/prog/prog0523lumberjacks.jpg I'd rather be a freemason. Masonry opens doors you know. I have a second hand apron. You wouldn't let me in, would you, you blackballing b*stards! "Tours widely in the southwestern tip of Kentucky" Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
tarsia Posted October 22, 2008 Share Posted October 22, 2008 2nd rate drummer, I've had the drums/rhythm thing going on since early school days, beating on desks with pencils etc... got into trouble for it more than a few times ! I own & play a nice kit (does anyone say that anymore ?) but I've played with enough good drummers to know that I don't have the stamina or fortitude to be a contender, 1 song maybe 2 & I'm looking to take a nap, or at least a break ! I'm Todbass62 on MySpace Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Juancarlin Posted October 22, 2008 Share Posted October 22, 2008 I'm with JC. I do play other instruments, and have had a living out of them. But.. If I were not a bass player, I'd probably be a criminal. What other way there is to make one refrain from doing all evil things? Now, the real question is... "If LEMMY would not be a bass player" (well... let's not discuss it here), what would he have been? On second thought.. I'd be Lemmy ... Brought to you by Juancarlin. www.juancarlinmusic.com http://www.youtube.com/JuanCarlinMusic www.facebook.com/JuanCarlinMusic Instagram: @JuanCarlinMusic Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Phil W Posted October 22, 2008 Share Posted October 22, 2008 Lemmy would have been a vicar like his dad! http://philwbass.com Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Flemtone Posted October 22, 2008 Share Posted October 22, 2008 hard-core unemployable. No, I'd probably be either a drummer/percussionist or a guitar player. I started on drums in the early 70s, switching to bass because there was less gear to carry around (besides, we got a 'real' drummer), and I've done the acoustic guitar solo/duo/trio thing in several incarnations since the dawn of time. Don't rule out the hard-core unemployable part, though... Play. Just play. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Foster Posted October 22, 2008 Share Posted October 22, 2008 if i weren't a bass player, i'd be a corpse. no reason living with a bass around Ibanez SDGR305DX Fender Marcus Miller IV Jazz Bass Ampeg SVT-3Pro Head 2 Ampeg Classic SVT-15E Cabinets Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
picker Posted October 22, 2008 Share Posted October 22, 2008 Why, I always wanted to be...a lumberjack! http://www.current.org/prog/prog0523lumberjacks.jpg I'd rather be a freemason. Masonry opens doors you know. I have a second hand apron. You wouldn't let me in, would you, you blackballing b*stards! Must have been all that Watney's Red Barrel... Always remember that you are unique. Just like everyone else. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Flemtone Posted October 23, 2008 Share Posted October 23, 2008 Why, I always wanted to be...a lumberjack! http://www.current.org/prog/prog0523lumberjacks.jpg I'd rather be a freemason. Masonry opens doors you know. I have a second hand apron. You wouldn't let me in, would you, you blackballing b*stards! Must have been all that Watney's Red Barrel... ...that's bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel... Play. Just play. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
mondoray Posted October 26, 2008 Share Posted October 26, 2008 Triangle, or xylophone 1977fender telecaster bass . Washburn status, ch guitar 8 string , schecter elite diamond series 5 string. Steinberger xm2 custom.the list goes on.. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Cthulhu Fhtagn Posted October 26, 2008 Share Posted October 26, 2008 Why, I always wanted to be...a lumberjack! http://www.current.org/prog/prog0523lumberjacks.jpg I'd rather be a freemason. Masonry opens doors you know. I have a second hand apron. You wouldn't let me in, would you, you blackballing b*stards! Must have been all that Watney's Red Barrel... ...that's bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel... Shut your bloddy gob! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Flemtone Posted October 27, 2008 Share Posted October 27, 2008 Why, I always wanted to be...a lumberjack! http://www.current.org/prog/prog0523lumberjacks.jpg I'd rather be a freemason. Masonry opens doors you know. I have a second hand apron. You wouldn't let me in, would you, you blackballing b*stards! Must have been all that Watney's Red Barrel... ...that's bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel... Shut your bloddy gob! What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day." And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Pow ell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane... Play. Just play. 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