Terence Bundley

YES! Say it a million times. Then say it a million more. And the word you will have said two million times is…

You can't audit life, my friend.

If the molehill won't come to Terrence...

Terrence will come to the molehill!

You're dead, Carl. You say no to life, and therefore you're not living. You make up excuses to the people around you and to yourself. You're stuck in the same dead-end job, you have been for years. You don't have a girlfriend, you don't have anything close to a girlfriend and you lost the love of your life because she couldn't be with someone who didn't live theirs. And on most nights you're so bored and filled with ennui, you can't even summon the enthusiasm necessary to masturbate. Am I right, Carl?

Words That Rhyme With Yes. Guess. Mess. Tess. That's a name. Less. A word and a name.

I don't think people understood what it was I was doing at Shaffer. I wasn't there to conduct. Any fucking moron can wave his arms and keep people in tempo. I was there to push people beyond what's expected of them. I believe that is... an absolute necessity. Otherwise, we're depriving the world of the next Louis Armstrong. The next Charlie Parker. I told you that story about how Charlie Parker became Charlie Parker, right?

Exactly. Parker's a young kid, pretty good on the sax. Gets up to play at a cutting session, and he fucks it up. And Jones nearly decapitates him for it. And he's laughed off-stage. Cries himself to sleep that night, but the next morning, what does he do? He practices. And he practices and he practices with one goal in mind, never to be laughed at again. And a year later, he goes back to the Reno and he steps up on that stage, and plays the best motherfucking solo the world has ever heard. So imagine if Jones had just said, "Well, that's okay, Charlie. That was all right. Good job." And then Charlie thinks to himself, "Well, shit, I did do a pretty good job." End of story. No Bird. That, to me, is an absolute tragedy. But that's just what the world wants now. People wonder why jazz is dying.

THEN WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU SAY SO? Carried your fat ass for too long, Metz. I'm not gonna have you cost us a competition because your mind's on a fucking happy meal instead of on pitch.

And here comes mister gay pride of the Upper West Side himself. Unfortunately, this is not a Bette Midler concert, we will not be serving Cosmopolitans and Baked Alaska, so just play faster than you give fucking hand jobs, will you please?

You are a worthless, friendless, faggot-lipped little piece of shit whose mommy left daddy when she figured out he wasn't Eugene O'Neill, and who is now weeping and slobbering all over my drum set like a fucking nine-year old girl! So for the final, FATHER-FUCKING time, SAY IT LOUDER!

Everybody remember, Lincoln Center and its ilk use these competitions to decide who they are interested in and who they are not. And I am not gonna have my reputation in that department tarnished by a bunch of fucking limp-dick, sour-note, flatter-than-their-girlfriends, flexible-tempo dipshits. Got it?

So, imagine if Jones had just said, "Well, that's okay, Charlie. That was all right. Good job." So Charlie thinks to himself, "Well, shit, I did do a pretty good job." End of story. No Bird. That to me is an absolute tragedy. But that's just what the world wants now. People wonder why jazz is dying.

Just listen for a minute. Six years ago, I came across a kid in a practice room, working on his scales. He was early second year and he'd started at Shaffer with a lot of hope. Like all you guys. But the truth was that he barely squeaked in to begin with and, uh… he was really struggling. The faculty were all telling him, "Maybe this isn't for you." But they didn't see what I saw. This scared, skinny kid, cursing himself because he couldn't get his scales right. I saw a drive in him. And I put him in Studio Band. And when he graduated, Marsalis made him third trumpet at Lincoln Center. A year later, he was first. That's who you're listening to now. His name was Sean Casey. I found out this morning that Sean… died yesterday… in a car accident. And I just… I wanted you guys to know he was a beautiful player. I just thought you should know.

At 5:30, that's in exactly 11 minutes, my band is on stage. If your ass is not on that stool with your own fucking sticks in hand or you make ONE FUCKING MISTAKE, ONE! I will drum your ass back to Nassau where you can turn pages until you graduate or fucking drop out! By the time you're done at Shaffer, you're gonna make Daddy look like a fucking success story. Got it? Or, we can let Johnny Utah play the part. You choose.

Sorry guys, hate to put you through this. If you need to fuckin' take a dump, or get a coffee, whatever, now might be a good time because we're gonna stay here until I find a drummer who can fuckin' play in time. I apologize to the musicians. Seriously, take ten, twenty, a fuckin' hour.