I’ve ranted this before, and I’ll rant it again:
One of the worst things you can do as a booking agent for a music venue is to cancel a show.
[sarcasm] And you know what’s fuhrkin awesome? [/sarcasm] I have to do just that. Why? Because somehow, I wasn’t paying attention, and let two resident artists — or “recurring artists” for those of you who don’t speak venue — book (ie. reserve) the same night. What does that mean? It means either one show gets moved and the other gets priority, or one show gets to play while the other gets straight up canceled.
No matter what happens, I am an asshole.
What makes me more like an asshole is that line from Dante in Clerks: “I’m not even supposed to be here!”
But hell, that’s true. I’m a musician. I’m made to hate the music business. Sure, some musicians are great at it, but I didn’t ask for this job. This job fell into my lap because nobody else wanted to do it and I supposedly represented this booking company in a good light. But oh, how I loathe this job, and I hate it even more when shit just goes wrong. I would like nothing more than to sit around singing melodies and strumming a guitar. And I never get to do that because this job’s basic tenet is that I’m supposed to help others do just that.
Every Saturday night, I’m jealous that it’s them on stage and not me. When you play on stage, strangers come up to you, tap you on the shoulder, ask you questions about what you listen to, when and where you’re playing next, saying “good job!” in all of their empty-praise glory just to see what you’re like as a person. And sometimes you’ll get the sincere ones who keep the conversation going, and then they actually do follow you to your next gig, and it snowballs and these people learn to sing along to lyrics that you wrote in your bedroom or your garage or on a napkin in the parking lot of a Denny’s. Then when you run into them at parties, they make it a point to ask when your next show is so that they can show off to their friends they know a musician. And then those friends come to your shows.
It’s not the attention that matters – it’s that you created something people get to share with each other. A memorable melody, a night out they can recall to their friends with “Hey, remember that show when…”, a way to make their lives that much more intimate with this thing called music.
And everyone likes music. Even deaf people like music. No, I’m serious. Phil, back me up here.
I used to be that music-maker, but not anymore. This damn bar job is so f’ing thankless. When I walk through the crowd at the venue it’s like watching cockroaches scatter in the lamplight. Oh, they think, don’t get in the way of the sound guy, he’s doing something important so that the show goes on. Nobody congratulates me on a job well done. I hate having to be nice to musicians all the time even when I think they’re complete douche-cacca. And I hate being nice to the prick musicians in front of other musicians because when I’m genuinely nice to the awesome artists I do like (which is actually the vast majority of them) they think I’m being insincere.
I can’t win.
And waaaah waaaah waaah, Nico, why don’t you do something about it?
Oh, I’ve tried to find a replacement. And now I’m trying it again. So let’s see what you’ve got for me, Craigslist. Get me the fack outta this rut!
you just explained why musicians are musicians.
you’ll figure it out. you want it badly enough, i can tell, and that’s what matters. (that you want it badly enough, not that i can tell…)
I’ll back you up on all accounts. First on the bar vibes, because even though it wasn’t the norm, the night I went certainly had the drama.
And deaf people totally like music. My proof is the fourteen 12- and 13-year-olds I had to live with when I was a counselor at a deaf camp. It was eight days of rap in the form of twelve tracks on constant loop from one of the crazy kid’s [tiny pre-iPod] mp3 player. Needless to say, I was soooo glad once that week was over. Dayum.
good luck w/that
In time, it’ll be you up on that stage!