"Today I learned an important lesson about self-respect. I have none."

My band's manager stopped me in the middle of practice today and told me I shouldn't improvise anymore. I present to you some excerpts from his lecture, which was--or at least seemed--about twenty minutes long.
"I like your solos," he said, possibly attempting to be diplomatic, "but the ones on the demo were crafted to fit the mood of the songs. It's really important that when we play live, the solos sound the same as they do on the record."
What he failed to mention there, but what he had told me earlier, is that the solos on the demo were composed by a male 50-something studio guitarist, not the female 20-something guitarist who's actually in the band. Um, girl power?
"I'm sure you're used to playing, you know, frat parties and keggers. But maybe there's a reason your band never played for more than fifteen drunk people."
Well, yeah, because I go to a tiny liberal-arts college where the type of music I played in my old band is accepted about as much as would be a guy in a wifebeater and trucker hat extolling the virtues of John Ashcroft while capitalizing bell hooks' name.
"If your music has energy, and passion, then it doesn't matter how it sounds--you'll be able to play it in front of any audience. All these college bands, you know, just kind of screw around...And that's OK, but we're trying to do something different."
This man has never heard my old band. We practiced twice a week, every week, even though we only got a couple of shows a year. By the time we had our final performance last month, our shit was tight.
"It's really easy to make it in this business, you know. It's all just smoke and mirrors."
Milli fucking Vanilli was smoke and mirrors. What's wrong with the real thing? Especially at a time when there are no female instrumentalists to be found on the radio or MTV. If I were a little girl starting out on guitar, and I finally found a female guitar hero to look up to, and it turned out she was playing something an older male had written for her, I'd feel almost as disillusioned as I'm feeling right now.
"Practice doesn't make perfect. Perfect practice makes perfect."
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
"We're very close to making it, you know. We have a possible sponsorship from Carls Jr."
I'm going to stop there, and just say that I think my tongue is now permanantly disfigured from all the times I was forced to bite it during that harangue.
After several hours of soul-searching and a couple helpful venting sessions, I decided not to quit, at least not until I see what it's like to play a show in front of more than fifteen drunk people. I just hope that I'll be able to live with myself later. And that I'll be able to refrain from beating the manager over the head with a blunt object.
The heading, by the way, is a quote from Comedy Central's short-lived "Strangers with Candy." It's very funny and has Stephen Colbert in it.