I was once in a very nice blues band with two alcoholic guitarists who were exceptional players.
One would drink all day everyday, walked around with a 12-pack wherever he went. He was spectacularly unmotivated about the band’s prospects, reasoning that we were ‘too old for Madison Square Garden’. He played with incendiary emotion that you could feel—when he could get over his indifference.
The other one couldn’t handle any amount of drinking and knew it, yet sometimes insisted, and would become an idiot zombie after a beer-and-a-half, forgetting his parts and staggering around. He might have been the best pure player I ever played with. He could master ANYTHING—except a drop of alcohol.
If one didn’t get you, the other one did. Sometimes, they both got you. It was enough to make you crazy.
After experiencing one-too-many wrecked gigs with these guys, I found another band. In the end it was just more junk on the pile of broken dreams, but often I catch myself saying, ‘Man, what if....?’