So I’ll be playing at Cole’s Bar Tuesday, and I’ve been pulsing nervous and calm, off-and-on, for the last couple weeks thinking about it, preparing for it. On the one hand, this is far from my first barbecue. On the other, it’s going to be my first public performance in almost a year.
I keep thinking about this thing that my brother Scott put on The Monologue Bombs’ Facebook Page. He put it under “band interests,” but I swear he was referencing a conversation we’d had early this year, where we were coming up with some cardinal rules of performing. I think what he wrote was half-remembered and impromptu, but still, the points were:
- Know your song well before you start singing
- Mean what you say
- Have fun (it’s allowed)
- Reach out
Actually, come to think of it, these weren’t rules for performance so much as potential LEVELS of performance. At the first level, you’re merely well rehearsed (but at least you’re well-rehearsed), so you soldier through a set with demonstrable competence, hoping the songs speak for themselves. On the second level, if it’s not a horrific scenario you’ll loosen up enough to invest in the songs a bit, or “mean what you say,” regardless of whether the crowd is into it. At level three, there’s at least some percentage of the audience that’s smelling what you’re cooking, who are tuned in or whatever, and so between songs you can joke around, or fuck up a chord with impunity and humor, etc. Finally, at level four, you know there is a connection happening, but instead of letting this psych you out (hey, it’s happened), you seize the opportunity to “reach out.” I’m not enough of a believer (yet?) to say “reach out,” though. I’d rather say that level four presents the potential to really and truly “give them the bicycle,” as J.D. Salinger (or more accurately, Seymour Glass) would say.
But what’s this “levels” business, anyway? Maybe the most important thing to remember about this gig — or about any gig — is that there will be another one after it. Wasn’t that what stopped me the last time? Placing too much importance on any given show, or song, or moment? Wouldn’t that be the dictionary definition of diva? I think of all the Chicago-area musicians I’ve met who grind away at this, who have good shows and shit shows, who I’d imagine get to a point where they’re not so phased any more. I’d like to be like that.
At first I was young and I thought I was important, so even though I played a lot, I never could handle folks not paying attention. (Yikes! Sorry, but it’s true.) Now I’m older and I play so infrequently that the same thing threatens to happen again — but not because I think my songs are so damn important any more, but because I’ve “bothered” to practice, damn it, and this takes effort, and I have to put in a late night and…
Wow, without realizing it, I think this has become part three of my “in front of people” rant. Way back in part 1, at the end I made a note to myself to explore “defining ‘worth’ and ‘it’ when wondering if a gig is ‘worth it.’” And I think what I’m trying to say, and what I’ve come to realize in these past few weeks of preparation for this show and of just “getting back into music” in general is that I can’t really weigh this show-by-show. In other words, every show is “worth it,” because it’s an excuse to become well-rehearsed. Every show is “worth it,” because the “it” here is my sanity overall. I’ve really MISSED playing out this past year, and leaving it out of my life has emptied me in ways I never could have imagined. I don’t want to get too sweeping and dramatic here, so maybe I should just say that it Gives Me Something To Do…and idle hands…and all that.
And, you know, hell. With all this talk about girding myself against bad shows, let’s not forget that it’s not exactly impossible that a show can turn out GOOD. I mean, you never really know — though staying home like a scaredy-cat will assure that you’ll never find out. A cold comfort at best. Not to sound like a liquor ad, but screw that.
So come on out Tuesday. We’ll see what happens.
