"Sometimes You're The Windshield..."
Or: "Two Nights In The Life"
As a working musician, one of the many things I do is a solo acoustic gig- I play acoustic guitar and sing fun pop and rock from the 60's to today. I like doing it for a number of reasons- I love acoustic guitar, I like being in complete control on a gig, I like the instant communication with the audience with no barriers; I like stripping a song down to the simplest arrangement possible and making it work. I like pounding on things that make music.
April 28 - solo gig at a restaurant not too far from my home. It's an upbeat pub atmosphere, and the audience loves what I'm doing. The place is jumping all night, I can seemingly do no wrong. Many friends and fans come, some family is there to celebrate the debut of my new guitar (a gift from a relative- incredible!). Complete strangers are coming up all night to shake my hand, tell me they love what I'm doing, getting on my mailing list.
Right up to the end I've got a great crowd, people singing along, shouting requests, every one of which I know. I get a rousing encore. Afterward, the management and even the staff take the time to mention how much they enjoy having me. I get once a month bookings four months in advance. The pay is good.
I poke myself to see if I'm dreaming, it's too good to be true. Life is good.
"Sometimes You're The Bug"
May 5 another restaurant, In Parkville, a long drive. I arrive at 9 p.m. Even though I am scheduled to start at 9:30, there are people seated at a table in my stage area. I ask the hostess how long they will be? No-one seems to know or care, so I don't either. I chat with a couple friends who came out, and wait. Finally at 9:30 the bartender decides to move the people's table out a few feet, so I can start setting up. How thoughtful.
First set I have a decent crowd, but they're only half listening- the Orioles game is on the TV, and a base hit or a good catch gets more applause than me. The bartender tells me three times to turn down. I am playing really raucous noisy stuff like James Taylor, Simon and Garfunkel. Is he kidding? No, later, he actually turns one of my speakers away from the bar, that's how little he wants to hear me play.
After the first set (and the end of the ball game), the place starts to empty out- there is no vibe here, no atmosphere, no scene. By the middle of my second set I am playing for three friends, the staff and the janitor who has already started putting up chairs. Of course, he starts running the vacuum cleaner while I'm playing. My allergies are acting up, I'm tired and my throat is sore. I finish the set and ask the manager (the third or fourth one in the last year) what she wants me to do. She says I can be done if I want to, and pays me in full. She is not unhappy, nor particularly thrilled.
Finally I inquire about future dates- unfortunately because of the management change, I was lost in the shuffle; they have booked through the summer already without calling me. It's now 1:30 a.m., I head home, pondering the meaning of it all.
Sometimes you love what you do; sometimes you just make the money. Would I rather be driving a truck, or working at a bank, or being a school teacher?
Not in a million years. But, being a professional musician means you work whether you are loving it or not. It's nice if you are loving it and getting paid, but it doesn't always happen. I feel lucky that I do love my work more often than I don't, and blessed that I get to play guitar and sing for a living. So I take the not so fun ones as learning experiences, and try not to take it too seriously. It's dangerous to have an over-inflated sense of self-importance on a gig, especially the less than ideal ones. You have to be able to laugh at the situation, and at yourself. Besides, if only three people are there to see me, I am playing my best for those three people. Every single audience member at every gig is important, and I try to always keep that in mind.
And I try to keep smiling.
Your comments welcome!
So, here's two nights in the life, on the acoustic side: