There are moments when being in a band is amazing.  There are also moments when the grind of being a nobody, in a nobody band, in a sea brimming full of nobody’s really starts to dull you.  Those moments of nothingness, of questioning validity, and asking “why” seem to greatly outnumber the amazing moments.

See, to be in a band is like having or being in an extended family that you also work with and then create with.  There are times when everybody gets along.  There are times when you fucking hate everything about what you are currently working on.  There are times when the tone of the guitar just sounds like ass.  There are times when as a singer, you just can’t sing your way out of a wet fucking paper bag.  Then there are the amazing times.  The time when something unexplainable occurs and sonic union is created.  The notes flow effortlessly, lyric lines having somehow already been written to unheard guitar melodies…and a song is born.  Love at first listen.

In time, if all the above doesn’t destroy your creativity, you and your pals decide that the rest of the world might want to hear the shit that spews from amp, kit, and mouth.  You bug your friends, family, co-workers and anybody else you think might give a shit about your band…about how you might start playing shows.  So you spend hours in your practice space.  It might be a rented room, it might be the guest room in your house, or it might be the smelly basement that is more moist than the underwear of a fat southern man on a 98% humid summer day.  No matter.  You ignore family responsibilities, work needs, even the occasional shower just to fuel the creative process with your time and band mates.

Polished.  Like a piece of chrome on the bumper of a ’59 Cadillac you form a set list of original material that is going to slay.  You start to bug your “contacts” for a show explaining how “amazing” and “epic” it would be if you could play a night at their club.  This process goes on for something like 4-5 months because you live in a saturated market (remember the sea full of shit above?) and there are lots of other bands that are “better” that could use a booking.  BUT, through effort, tenacity, and being just a plain pain in the ass you secure a night.  No it isn’t a coveted Friday or Saturday night…it is a SUNDAY night!

So you and your band mates promote…you bug every single person on Facebook, Myspace, twitter, at work, the fuck at Guitar Center…basically the world.  You poster the club as you are supposed to hang posters in Belltown, downtown, at the malls, anywhere you can muster the tack, tape, or promise of a poster hung.

Come the day of the show you have by now already re-strung your guitar, your bass, tuned your kit, replaced all batteries in everything battery powered, packed your car and start to head to the club.  You get there hoping that the other bands did some awesome-sauce promotion.  You hope that the club is having at least some kind of drink special night to help lure the locals in, or maybe a special “ladies” free with a friend door promotion…something.

Tragedy…it strikes even the best intentions.  The other bands only used the ill-fated Facebook event invite (that so many people now ignore).  The club has done nothing with regards to promotion other than put you on their calendar.  The bar staff could care less that you are in “the band” and don’t have the time to barely talk to you (even though you are the reason for their job).  There could be a total of 17 people in the whole bar.  Between 3 bands there might be near 15 people in the establishment besides band members.  Only 15 people.  Ohhh and the best part is that if those 15 people weren’t there for the bands playing…there would be absolutely nothing in the no food serving, otherwise very stagnate and boring “club”.  The pretentious bitch behind the bar would only have her pretentious bitch co-worker to look at and be a bitch to.  That would be an amazing show!

Your time to take the stage has come and you fucking destroy…slay…it is, was, and will be remembered as a set that was “abso-fucking-lutely ah-fucking-mazing” by one of your 7 people that showed up.  Yes 7.  Ohhh the war of atrophy.  Facebook told me that 34 would be “attending” and at least 18 were a “maybe”.  Pedro the sound guy made the band sound like they were fucking huge.  Bass destroying, rock kit slamming, twin amp ala The EDGE guitar playing, top rock vocalist, you should have heard these guys fucking huge…7 people.  14 after the first bands 2 guests left.

Wiping the sweat off of your brow, getting your gear off of the stage as fast as possible, your euphoria starts to hit…the post show high.  You know that if there were more people there to listen, if only the crowd would have been bigger, shit would have gone down.  No worry though because you played a fucking E-P-I-C show.  Your band is part of the 1%.  The very slim group of people that make it off of Craigslist, The Stranger, Seattle Weekly and other classifieds.  You practiced.  You recorded an EP.  You are now playing a show.  You get paid.  Oh what…?

Booker is walking towards me…definitely payout time.  We have stayed for the last band and supported them (as all bands should do as proper band protocol).  We chat about how amazing our set was.  The booker says that we KILLED the stage and the room.  He can’t wait to get us into another show.  The awkward silence is cued in……..and so I ask the question “So…was there a payout…?”.  The reply is “Ohhh no man, nothing left after the sound guy and the 10% booking fee”.  Crusher.  Flat crushed.

Sooo guess what mother fucker…that “free” PBR that you stocked in the “green room” that is nothing more than a glorified hooker closet with hooch?  I am taking that shit home with me.  I don’t play for fucking free.  I am taking the rest of the shit for my boys too.  See we need something to drink while we are writing Grammy’s.  And when I split the top open on that Hipster Junkie Juice I will curse you with a smirk and grin.  So here is

 to you and your “how many can you bring” club.  Here is to you and your $150.00 for the sound guy out of the door payout.  Here is to your bitch, cunt, ain’t had a dick for too long because they are pretentious whore bartenders.

Support your local musician.  The show he plays may be his last…

Now I know what it is like to play for PBR.