Few musicians personify the insanity of rock n' roll better than Guns N' Roses' masked guitarist, known simply as "Buckethead." Yet the following excerpts from the reclusive musician's memoirs paint a portrait of an artist very different from the man known best for wearing a KFC container on his head.
Ah, dear Journal! It is to you I run once again as my musical purgatory continues. What torment I am in! Each night, forced to perform like some minstrel before a stadium of utter morons. I am Prometheus, and the audience the dreaded vulture waiting to tear out my liver as I arrive in Nassau, in Scranton, in Sacramento, to lend my talents to the pandering songs of some bandana-wearing American hayseed.
If only they knew, dear Journal! If only they knew what mad, glorious genius brewed beneath this upturned bucket of KFC. For what once contained a dozen pieces of Colonel Sander's extra crispy now contains glorious symphonies, Baroque concertos, Italian operas of such beauty that Zeus himself would shed a tear. And all of them, unheard! Unappreciated! Pushed aside so the brainless philistines of rural New Jersey can hear their precious "Sweet Child o' Mine."
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