It’s not even November yet, and there’s snow on the ground. It’s freezing, and the stairs are slippery. When you hit it big, there will be roadies. For now, grab a piece of gear and load up, it’s soundcheck in 15 minutes. You curse your choice of instrument and grunt as you heave your heavy hardware onto the stage. You wonder if the sound guy will be sober when you take the stage. You wonder if the cold will keep people inside. How many tickets pre-sold? Doors are in an hour and you hope that when they close, you’ll walk out with enough to pay for gas back to your jam space.
Cables twist like black vines weaving through a chrome jungle of cymbal stands. You roll your eyes as the sound guy asks you to put some dampening on your snare. You need more bass in your monitor, and you’re probably going to hit that microphone every time you go for a crash cymbal. You hear feedback from something, and there’s a painful few seconds while mute buttons and volume knobs are attacked. You strike up a few bars of a song that won’t be on the set list tonight, and everybody sounds good. You step off stage, wondering what it’s actually sounding like in the front of house. You wait.
You receive a handful of drink tickets. You sigh and pocket them, thinking how you’re likely to find them in a dresser drawer some time the following week. Alcohol makes you tired and less capable of driving gear back to your jam space to unload at 2 AM. One beer and you’re done for the night. You wish that the the value of those drinks came as cash instead. You nurse the bottle, sipping slowly.
You see people walking in, ordering drinks, chatting. The energy in the room begins to build. You tune your body to the vibrations of the voices and the PA speakers. Thousands of watts wait in anticipation for you to count them in. The mood in the room is good, and you notice the anticipation building all around.
A quick glance at the other band members, and you all nod and step backstage to tune, stretch, and get in the groove. You make some last minute changes to the set-list and argue about song order. This one is high-tempo; you suggest a slower number to follow for dynamics and recovery. The others nod.
The promoter pops his head in the door. “Five minutes?” No problem. You begin to feel the adrenaline pumping, and the excitement, and you breathe deeply and pace your heart, and you down the last of that one beer you’ll drink, and you order a whole pitcher of water with a straw.
Your heart beats faster now, and you vault up onto the stage. You hear the music fade and see the house lights dim, and you never get tired of that moment when the room gets quiet as people settle in and wait. You smile at your band mates as you take your seat in the back. The old adage about the drummer having the best seat in the house comes to mind. “Yeah, nothing better than a dead-straight view of your guitarist’s ass,” you muse to yourself as you pick up your sticks and wait for amps to switch on and guitars to be shouldered. You take a quick sip of water.
There’s still not enough bass in the monitor. You point and wave and gesture, hoping that the message gets across the room to the mixer and the knob-twiddler standing behind it. You close your eyes and release the tension in your body, and you abandon yourself and give your whole being to music. And you give a quick glance, making eye contact with everybody. And you get a nod, and you take a deep breath.
Ready? Click, click, click, click, and the beat drops. You count it in faster than you would in practice. Muscles and joints snap like cobra strikes, wild but precise, and you’re conducting an electric ensemble with your whole body as the baton.
The lights are tiny rainbow suns. The mood is as hot as the temperature onstage and you feel the thrill of making music. You’re locked in tight, and you smile with each crash and accent and well-timed ending. The dancing, spinning, stomping feet on the floor are all in time to the beat, and you play to the girl in the flowing white dress and the boy with the newsboy cap and the man sitting near the back with a beer in his hand and a thick moustache on his lip. Everything is elevated.
You hit the big crescendo, and you stand and toss your sticks to the crowd and wave as the applause and cheering die down. You jump off of the sage, riding the high, and you exchange a few sweaty hugs and high fives, and you accept a beer that you won’t drink and a joint that you won’t smoke, and you thank everybody, and your band mates all smile and you feel a little closer to everything. You hear the swell of the background music as it resumes, and the fun is over.
If it was a regular job, you would be earning less than minimum wage, and you do it anyways because you love the stage and you’re a bit masochistic. You accept the small envelope of cash graciously and step outside. The shock of cold stabs your lungs and burns your ears, and you breathe deeply and rub your eyes and step back inside to pack away your equipment. You curse your choice of instrument again as you trip over stands and shake off the cables that grab your feet, and you curse under your breath as you bang your fingers on the door trying to push it open with a full armload of gear. You slam the car door and sigh and make the long drive back to the jam spot, then back home to a darkened house, and you smile because she left the porch light on and a note that says “I Love You” on the table. And you can’t sleep, but it was worth it.
Cables twist like black vines weaving through a chrome jungle of cymbal stands. You roll your eyes as the sound guy asks you to put some dampening on your snare. You need more bass in your monitor, and you’re probably going to hit that microphone every time you go for a crash cymbal. You hear feedback from something, and there’s a painful few seconds while mute buttons and volume knobs are attacked. You strike up a few bars of a song that won’t be on the set list tonight, and everybody sounds good. You step off stage, wondering what it’s actually sounding like in the front of house. You wait.
You receive a handful of drink tickets. You sigh and pocket them, thinking how you’re likely to find them in a dresser drawer some time the following week. Alcohol makes you tired and less capable of driving gear back to your jam space to unload at 2 AM. One beer and you’re done for the night. You wish that the the value of those drinks came as cash instead. You nurse the bottle, sipping slowly.
You see people walking in, ordering drinks, chatting. The energy in the room begins to build. You tune your body to the vibrations of the voices and the PA speakers. Thousands of watts wait in anticipation for you to count them in. The mood in the room is good, and you notice the anticipation building all around.
A quick glance at the other band members, and you all nod and step backstage to tune, stretch, and get in the groove. You make some last minute changes to the set-list and argue about song order. This one is high-tempo; you suggest a slower number to follow for dynamics and recovery. The others nod.
The promoter pops his head in the door. “Five minutes?” No problem. You begin to feel the adrenaline pumping, and the excitement, and you breathe deeply and pace your heart, and you down the last of that one beer you’ll drink, and you order a whole pitcher of water with a straw.
Your heart beats faster now, and you vault up onto the stage. You hear the music fade and see the house lights dim, and you never get tired of that moment when the room gets quiet as people settle in and wait. You smile at your band mates as you take your seat in the back. The old adage about the drummer having the best seat in the house comes to mind. “Yeah, nothing better than a dead-straight view of your guitarist’s ass,” you muse to yourself as you pick up your sticks and wait for amps to switch on and guitars to be shouldered. You take a quick sip of water.
There’s still not enough bass in the monitor. You point and wave and gesture, hoping that the message gets across the room to the mixer and the knob-twiddler standing behind it. You close your eyes and release the tension in your body, and you abandon yourself and give your whole being to music. And you give a quick glance, making eye contact with everybody. And you get a nod, and you take a deep breath.
Ready? Click, click, click, click, and the beat drops. You count it in faster than you would in practice. Muscles and joints snap like cobra strikes, wild but precise, and you’re conducting an electric ensemble with your whole body as the baton.
The lights are tiny rainbow suns. The mood is as hot as the temperature onstage and you feel the thrill of making music. You’re locked in tight, and you smile with each crash and accent and well-timed ending. The dancing, spinning, stomping feet on the floor are all in time to the beat, and you play to the girl in the flowing white dress and the boy with the newsboy cap and the man sitting near the back with a beer in his hand and a thick moustache on his lip. Everything is elevated.
You hit the big crescendo, and you stand and toss your sticks to the crowd and wave as the applause and cheering die down. You jump off of the sage, riding the high, and you exchange a few sweaty hugs and high fives, and you accept a beer that you won’t drink and a joint that you won’t smoke, and you thank everybody, and your band mates all smile and you feel a little closer to everything. You hear the swell of the background music as it resumes, and the fun is over.
If it was a regular job, you would be earning less than minimum wage, and you do it anyways because you love the stage and you’re a bit masochistic. You accept the small envelope of cash graciously and step outside. The shock of cold stabs your lungs and burns your ears, and you breathe deeply and rub your eyes and step back inside to pack away your equipment. You curse your choice of instrument again as you trip over stands and shake off the cables that grab your feet, and you curse under your breath as you bang your fingers on the door trying to push it open with a full armload of gear. You slam the car door and sigh and make the long drive back to the jam spot, then back home to a darkened house, and you smile because she left the porch light on and a note that says “I Love You” on the table. And you can’t sleep, but it was worth it.
Word count: 1,045.
Yep, that's pretty much exactly it. :)
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