All About You FRIDAY – Lessons from a Gig

That’s not me. That’s just how I pictured myself standing on that stage last Saturday night at the Arboretum Music Venue in Saline. I had practiced for months for my first gig with Vinyl Vara. I packed everything up hours before the performance.

Guitar. Check. Amp. Check. Extra picks. Check. Cables. Check. My iPad was fully charged and I was ready to go. Mostly.

My mind was racing with all the solos I had to remember. I was thinking about lyrics I had to sing. I had opted out of meeting up with the band earlier for practice. It felt too much like studying really hard for a test and then sitting and waiting to take it while my classmates quizzed each other outside of the classroom door. If I didn’t know it by now, I wasn’t going to know it.

The butterflies in my stomach felt like they were waging war against each other.

We pulled up to the venue at 6 p.m. as instructed. Doors would open at 7 to the public. Showtime at 8. We figured we had plenty of time.

I passed a couple of little kids with dirty faces as I walked my stuff through the door. The owner walked by me, looking a bit like he had over indulged in some ganja. I’m not sure he even saw me.

We set up and waited for the sound guy to show up. And we waited. And then waited some more. People started walking in.

Live performance is never as seamless as it appears to be. There is a lot that goes on behind the scenes to make a show run smoothly. A few years back, I worked as a sound assistant at 20 Front Street in Lake Orion, a true listening room. Jim, the sound guy, was a consummate professional. He knew that room better than anyone and it didn’t matter if the talent was a singer song-writer, a blue grass band or a rock band, he knew how to make everyone sound great.

I ran the cables and set up the mics and he sat behind his mixer and worked his magic. I sat through a few sound checks in my day and I remember the appreciation the musicians had for our professionalism. Many said it was the best experience they ever had performing. To me, it was just how things were run.

The clock was ticking on our performance. As we sat waiting for the sound guy to show up, an interesting thing happened. No longer was I worried about the solos. We had bigger fish to fry.

Frantic calls were made to the owner, who eventually made his way back to the venue, still a bit “unfocused” and mumbling something about his sound guy having family issues. He walked up onto the stage looking a bit perplexed.

“I know how to set this up,” he mumbled, as he reached for a small mixer sitting on the floor.

“Do you have something bigger than that?” our keyboard player asked.

“I have a large mixer in the back,” he replied slowly. We told him we would probably need that one.

He disappeared for a few minutes and returned carrying a large mixing board mounted on a piece of plywood which he placed on the stage floor. My eyes got big. This was going to be interesting.

And it was.

It took him 45 minutes to get sound to two mics so my duo, Thirty Year Divide, could open up the evening (15 minutes late without a sound check). We sang for 30 minutes and then Vinyl Vara took the stage…without a sound check.

We figured our first song would serve as that. And did it ever.

From the first note, all I could hear out of the monitor to my left was a crackling sound from an over driven keyboard (which had no overdrive on it). I couldn’t hear my guitar or my vocals. And all anyone could hear in the audience was the drums.

The lights came back on. New cables were run across the stage. Things were plugged in and unplugged. Knobs were turned. It would be another 35 minutes before our sound guy came to the rescue and helped the owner get our sound dialed in.

And then we played…like rockstars. Without a break for the next hour and 20 minutes. 22 songs. 7 solos.

Did I nail every solo? No. But I nailed most of them. And I guarantee at the end of the night, nobody was thinking about the notes I missed.

As we played the last notes of the night, and cheers and applause filled the room, I was overcome by a huge sense of relief. Like crossing a finish line after a half marathon. Or passing a state licensing exam. It felt that huge to me.

I whispered a prayer of thanks to the heavens above. I was exhausted but victorious. And I earned $60. I would have made more, but we paid our sound guy $100 for saving the night. I’m officially a pro.

This is what I learned:

Most people weren’t focused on me. They were looking at our lead singer, who is hotter and has way better dance moves. I preferred that.
I can’t play in the dark. At one point, someone turned out the lights to enhance the mood and this venue didn’t have stage lighting. So, they pulled up a lamp to my corner of the stage. Sorry. I’m old.
The thing I spent months worrying about wasn’t a thing I needed to worry about at all.
It’s true that the life of a musician is way less glamorous than it seems. I’m keeping my day job.
Hoisting your guitar overhead at the end of the night as the crowd cheers is a pro move. I did it. Felt good.
Music soothes the soul and brings people together. For this reason, we should keep playing.
Doing hard things is worth it.

This quote captures my sentiment:

“There were many terrible things in my life and most of them never happened.” Michel de Montaigne

Thank you to all of you who sent encouraging words. I took each one to heart and carried that vibe onto the stage. You were the wind beneath my wings.

It’s been a long week. Don’t forget to celebrate.

Until next time…