J.K. Simmons credited as playing...
Fletcher
- Terence Fletcher: Were you rushing or were you dragging?
- Andrew: I-I don't know.
- Terence Fletcher: Start counting!
- Andrew: Five, six...
- Terence Fletcher: In four, dammit! Look at me!
- Andrew: One, two, three, four.
- [Fletcher slaps him the face]
- Andrew: One, two, three, four.
- [Fletcher slaps him again]
- Andrew: One, two, three...
- Terence Fletcher: Now, was I rushing or I was dragging?
- Andrew: I don't know.
- Terence Fletcher: Count again.
- Andrew: One, two, three, four.
- [slap in the face]
- Andrew: One, two, three, four.
- [another slap in the face]
- Andrew: One, two, three, four...
- Terence Fletcher: Rushing or dragging?
- Andrew: Rushing.
- Terence Fletcher: [yelling] So, you do know the difference!
- Terence Fletcher: I never really had a Charlie Parker. But I tried. I actually fucking tried. And that's more than most people ever do.
- Terence Fletcher: For the record, Metz wasn't out of tune. You were, Erickson, but he didn't know and that's bad enough.
- Terence Fletcher: I was there to push people beyond what's expected of them. I believe that's an absolute necessity.
- [First Lines]
- Andrew: [Andrew stop playing because Fletcher enters the room] I'm sorry, I...
- Terence Fletcher: What's your name?
- Andrew: Andrew Neiman sir.
- Terence Fletcher: What year are you?
- Andrew: I'm a... first year.
- Terence Fletcher: You know who I am?
- Andrew: Yes sir.
- Terence Fletcher: So, you know that I'm looking for players?
- Andrew: Yes sir.
- Terence Fletcher: Then why did you stop playing?
- Terence Fletcher: [Andrew resumes playing] Did I ask you to star playing again?
- Andrew: Uh... sorry , I...
- Terence Fletcher: I ask why you stop playing and your version of an answer was to turn into a wind-up monkey.
- Andrew: Sorry, I...
- Terence Fletcher: Show me your rudiments.
- Andrew: Yes sir.
- [Andrew plays while Fletcher removes his jacket and puts it on a rack]
- Terence Fletcher: Double-time swing.
- [Andrew resumes playing]
- Terence Fletcher: No, double time. Double it!
- [Andrew resumes playing]
- Terence Fletcher: Faster. Faster!
- [Andrew continues playing until he hears Fletcher slam the door out]
- Terence Fletcher: [Fletcher goes back to the room] Upsy-daisy. Forget my jacket!
- Terence Fletcher: Nieman, you earned the part. Alternates, will you clean the blood off my drum set?
- Andrew: But is there a line? You know, maybe you go too far, and you discourage the next Charlie Parker from ever becoming Charlie Parker?
- Terence Fletcher: No, man, no. Because the next Charlie Parker would never be discouraged.
- Terence Fletcher: I don't think people understood what it was I was doing at Shaffer. I wasn't there to conduct. Any fucking moron can wave his arms and keep people in tempo. I was there to push people beyond what's expected of them. I believe that is... an absolute necessity. Otherwise, we're depriving the world of the next Louis Armstrong. The next Charlie Parker. I told you that story about how Charlie Parker became Charlie Parker, right?
- Andrew: Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head.
- Terence Fletcher: Exactly. Parker's a young kid, pretty good on the sax. Gets up to play at a cutting session, and he fucks it up. And Jones nearly decapitates him for it. And he's laughed off-stage. Cries himself to sleep that night, but the next morning, what does he do? He practices. And he practices and he practices with one goal in mind, never to be laughed at again. And a year later, he goes back to the Reno and he steps up on that stage, and plays the best motherfucking solo the world has ever heard. So imagine if Jones had just said, "Well, that's okay, Charlie. That was all right. Good job." And then Charlie thinks to himself, "Well, shit, I did do a pretty good job." End of story. No Bird. That, to me, is an absolute tragedy. But that's just what the world wants now. People wonder why jazz is dying.
- Terence Fletcher: And here comes mister gay pride of the Upper West Side himself. Unfortunately, this is not a Bette Midler concert, we will not be serving Cosmopolitans and Baked Alaska, so just play faster than you give fucking hand jobs, will you please?
- Terence Fletcher: Do you think you're out of tune? What are you... there's no fucking Mars Bar down there, what are you looking at? Look up here, look at me. Do you think you were out of tune?
- Metz: Yes.
- Terence Fletcher: THEN WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU SAY SO? Carried your fat ass for too long, Metz. I'm not gonna have you cost us a competition because your mind's on a fucking happy meal instead of on pitch.
- Terence Fletcher: You are upset.
- [Andrew nods yes]
- Terence Fletcher: Say it.
- Andrew: I'm upset.
- Terence Fletcher: Say it so the whole band can hear you.
- Andrew: [a little louder] I'm upset!
- Terence Fletcher: Louder!
- Andrew: [loud] I'm upset!
- Terence Fletcher: LOUDER!
- Andrew: [louder] I'M UPSET!
- Terence Fletcher: You are a worthless, friendless, faggot-lipped little piece of shit whose mommy left daddy when she figured out he wasn't Eugene O'Neill, and who is now weeping and slobbering all over my drum set like a fucking nine-year old girl! So for the final, FATHER-FUCKING time, SAY IT LOUDER!
- Andrew: [at the top of his lungs] I'M UPSET!
- Terence Fletcher: [going back to compose the band] Start practicing harder, Nieman.
- Terence Fletcher: Either you're deliberately out of tune and sabotaging my band, or you don't know you're out of tune, and that's even worse.
- Terence Fletcher: Now are you a rusher, or are you a dragger or are you gonna be ON MY FUCKING TIME?
- Andrew: I'll be on your time.