Sex, sleep, food, drums, and pain. To dull the pain, perhaps, involves imbibing in various illicit substances? Now repeat, over and over and over and over. This is when you begin to function on basic primal urges and things tend to get a little out of control. Communication breaks down into a series of grunts, shouts or maybe a single repeated word. You get a crazed look in your eyes and it starts to feel permanent. Personal hygiene and grooming take a leave of absence. Days blend into nights into days into nights and the cities start to look the same and it doesn't matter because you can't remember what city you're in tonight anyways. Smash something up. Play a gig. Pick up some chicks. Sex, sleep, food, drums, and pain. Now repeat, over and over and over and over.
It's not all bad. You're not Keith Moon. You appear on countless television programs, even in a few movies. You get to meet a lot of famous people and jam with some of your musical heroes. All the while you get to smash the hell out of your drums or, at least, some hotel rooms and chase skirts at the end of the night. It's not all bad, you're famous. Some may eye you warily, knowing of your penchants for freaking out, others embrace this wildness and are drawn to it like moths to a flame. They want to feed on your energy, your fame, your money, your charisma. They don't know the soft you, the guy that harbors a deep affection for impressionist paintings of Pierre-Auguste Renoir, they only know the public side, the wild man. The animal.
Your band breaks up and you end up in anger-management therapy. Your appearances are less and less these days and your attempts at meditation with your actor buddy James Coburn are less than successful. You talk with Dr. Teeth on the phone occasionally and you miss the rest of your old band, The Electric Mayhem, too. Yet, you soldier on and the people still love you, they still love your unhinged approach to wailing on the drumming contraption. You could possibly be the one at the root of all the drummer jokes that musicians like to trot out, yet these jokes are always told with a loving wink and a nod. They love you still, because you are Animal.
Here is Animal playing with some dude named Buddy Rich.