Pay attention! Buddy's just getting warm...
(In the bus between sets)
You guys are gonna be back in New York on the bread line so fast you won't even know that you were on this fuckin' band. How dare you play a fuckin' set like that. Since when did the fuckin' trumpet players become the leader of this fuckin' band and decide how long they're gonna hold a chord? What the fuck do you think your doin'? You think you're playin' with some kid up there? I expect one-hundred-and-ten percent fucking perfection every fuckin' tune, you got that? If you can't do it, get off my fuckin' band to-NIGHT! You had a day off yesterday and you come back like this and you suck! What the fuck kind of music do you think you're playing here anyhow? And who do you think you're playing for? You think I'll tolerate that shit? You're worse than any fuckin' high school band I ever heard. You come in wrong because you leave one fuckin' beat out, you can't find one!? I don't know what kind of drummers you think you're playin' with, but you'll play with me or you'll get out! And I mean NOW! I don't need this shit. I have a home in Palm Springs and I can go sit on my ass the rest of my life and not worry about a fuckin' thing...and don't have to meet your fuckin' payroll, and pay you for playin' like a fuckin' high school dropout! How dare you do that! ASSHOLES!! You can't play a simple fuckin' tune; you can't hold a chord; you can't play time when you play solos. What kind of solos am I hearing tonight? (as he turns to the Trombonist) You want to rehearse and practice, get a fuckin' band in Sydney and play the kind of shit you want. Over here you play TIME!!
(all are frozen stiff in a freeze frame as stage darkens)
Go to Act Three