Back in my day, onstage violence was commonplace. Why, I used to work with a drummer who would routinely saw my fingers off during gigs and eat them with horseradish. Our singer impaled the saxophone player with his mic stand three times a night, four on weekends. When our manager didn't like the mix, he would take pot-shots at us from the balcony with a squirrel gun. One time the lead guitarist thought I was playing too loud - he wrapped a high E string around my neck like a garrote and hung me from one of the rafters above the stage. Then the entire band danced around my corpse singing "Kumbaya" while flogging the keyboard player with a live cat. Yeah, things were tough in those days. I can remember walking sixteen miles to rehearsal and back, carrying a half stack, two wedge monitors and three instruments on my back, barefoot, in the snow... and it was uphill both ways! My feet were bloody stumps and all my hair fell out, and we were so poor we had to perform tonsillectomies on one another in the van on the way to the pawn shop between gigs, and the record company repossessed both the tuba player's glass eyes after he failed to put enough posters up on telephone poles, which was difficult because we didn't own a hammer or a stapler or any staples so we had to use six penny nails, which our manager rented to us for eight pennies each, and we had to drive them in with our foreheads and then pull them out again later with our teeth, which were rotten because we only owned one toothbrush between the sixteen of us and no toothpaste, and the bar owners used to pay us off in dog turds at the end of the night, which we felt lucky to have because we'd all grown up with nothing more nutritious than hamster turds. But you tell that to kids these days, and do they believe you? Nahhhh.