Friends, this is old Rock Hasbein with the True Story of The Death of The Workdogs. The Workdogs were the very first rhythm section for hire and #1 Rambo Type Head Band - not to mention Yves Bisquet who was their (my) great manager.
One night I was at my pad listening to The Hound - I mean, Leila - on the radio station WFMU and I heard a brand new sound which was Roberta and the new Infotainment Blues Thing. Well on the backstrength of that I got to know Rob and then Scott, who were the Workdogs and it wasn't long after they were coming 'round to my place for meals. Which they come into the habit of doing. And they would ask me to play my guitar for them and maybe some day be their sideman.
See the way it worked it was a different sideman for every show, never repeating the same thing twice. Many a time I was to ask them when my time would come. They said "Rock," they said "soon." They always said "soon." So I continued to practice my guitar and to feed them and to prop them up when they couldn't stand - doing whatever I could.
One day, with the help of 3 J's and The Workdogs were doing fine - that's Jerry, Jimmy and Jim Beam - they was jamming on a Sonny Boy Williamson thing and I was just about to sit in when the telephone rang. I picks up the receiver and it's Easy Money - the front man for my regular gig - which was The Big Nothing - and we had a show that night, a Tuesday at 4am.
I jumps into my car, a Plymouth Valiant, and I rushes to the club - The Masterpiece Theater. And the doorman - which was Carlo - informed me of the death of The Workdogs. He said, "Rock," he said, "they have died no more than 10 minutes ago." Which was 3:33 am on a Tuesday - pardon me - Wednesday morning.
Awful sad I mounted the stage and told the audience of the Great Tragedy. Nobody said a thing. The band, Easy, Tony and Tony took up the beat (which was Tony Sharp and Tony Action) and that night we wrote the new song - The Death Of The Workdogs about Roberta, Haunted House of Love, Punk Rock Truck Driving Son Of A Gun and all the rest of 'em. And all the big names they played with (which was for peanuts) before they was big names. And the way Rob would play the Good Cop and Scott the Bad Cop and they would go out and cop - I mean go out and mess up all their business which was known to everybody in the New York better than which it was known to themselves.
Not to mention Badu Badu their World Beat thing or The AllStars Of Love or A Band Called Horse or all the nights they hosted down at the old House of Games. Now they're playing in that big rhythm section On High. No more $2 choir jobs (which was The Church Of The Little Green Man). Flying above all this mess. And now, up above it all: the false lies about their death (of which the sordid details are so well known) and beyond the suffering which is Business As Usual . . .
One band, one beat one never ending gig.

I climbs from the stage too sad to go on and the manager tells me - which was Bill Wallace , he says, "Rock, they're gone and no amount of riffing is going to bring them back. Call it a night."
He hands me our pay, which was 10 dollars and sends me out into the cold, cold world. With no where to go I drive back and forth in front of The 'Dogs' house thinking - which was on 12th Street - thinking about my lost chances to sit in.About how "soon" never comes and being that close and now its too late which was by 10 minutes.
You know, a man's chances come and then they go and when they're gone what's he got? The Big Nothing, which was my band, and maybe a chance to forget just how close I come to the one shining moment of glory jamming with The Workdogs. And maybe I would have died. Maybe I'd be up there with them now: Rob counting off the beat; Scotty taking off on something completely different and me in the middle holding on for dear life. Which was their style.
Easy comes up to where I'm parked and shakes my shoulders - I didn't even smile. "Rock," he said," it's time to go and put the old men to bed. But I can't get' em out of my head. And each day is a little bit darker since they left. Each day is just a little more gone.
The Workdogs. Great rhythm section. My good, good friends.
That's all.