Being a starving kid musician ain't fun. Even if your name is Yoko. It gets a lot of compliments, sure, but I'm no Yoko Ono. I tour with my dad's metal band. They don't even have a name, they're that bad. I honestly think I could be doing a lot better things instead of throwing my life away with my father's band at 13. I play bass in his little outfit. Compared to my favorite bands, such as The Clash, we're horrible. I really wanted to get out of the music scene.

I remember the day when I played my last gig. It was some place called Agrus Tavern in central London. It was my dad's favorite bar. My father was the ugliest person I had ever met. He was extremely tall and had greasy dark blonde hair. He always has a toothpick in his mouth and dark glasses covered his icy eyes. He was always dating some woman. After every gig, he would add a new woman to his "collection", as he would call it. I would usually fall asleep in the van afterwards. Our lives and views on things are obviously pretty different.

The two other people in the band were late that night. My dad, the lead singer, was having a fit because we were literally going to need to step on the stage without them. "Those little…" he continued to curse loudly. The backstage was anything but pleasant. Trash was lying around everywhere. My father lit a cigar and took a long drag. Smoking calmed him. He sighed. "Yoko, go outsi'." He mumbled. I had to obey him, there was no choice. I stepped over an abnormally large mound of old cigarettes and proceeded to open the rusty, old door. A parking lot faced me. Men and women loitered in the alleyway the door opened to. A small, moth covered light was the only brightness. There were drunken buffoons collapsed beside the door. Women were dressed in skimpy outfits. It was then that I realized what my life had become: a mess. No school, no money, no house, nothing. This band was my life. I didn't even like it, either. I sat down beside the drunks and held my knees to my face. I couldn't continue like this.

SCREECH! All of the drunken idiots stood up and ran. A large white van had crammed itself into the alleyway. The doors opened. The other band members had decided to show up. The two men got out. My least favorite, Joe, stepped out first. He had long black hair that had a wide purple streak in the front. He always treated me like rubbish. Whether it be breaking down what little self esteem I had just for the fun of it or screaming at me if I hit a bad note, he had done it. The other one was Paul. He never really noticed me. He's kind of thick, but he's better than Joe. "Come'un, ya dullard!" Joe screamed. Joe never had to bring his drumset anywhere, so it was only Paul and me that had to haul something around. Paul played guitar. He wasn't that good, although most people in the places we played were so drunk that they could care less. Paul was also a mute. He turned around and got his guitar out of the back of the van. "Go on, close the door!" Joe yelled. He was obviously agitated that Paul was being worse than usual. "Where's your father?" Joe asked. "Insid'" I replied quietly. The two men slinked through the door, Joe smacking my head in the process. I grunted and followed them in.

After a long screaming match, my father was determined to go on, even though we were 30 minutes late. We walked out onto the puny makeshift stage and performed. Little did I know that a man that would change my life was sitting right in the audience.