The gig is on the calendar. 

Your friends will be there.  Your family will be there.  Even Cousin Frankie and “that weird guy” he hangs out with will be there.  (Or, at least, they’ve all been invited, and they said they’d be there.) Your fans will be there. You know, the ones that are not already in the “friends and family” category.

Rehearsals are under way.  News songs are in the set-list.

The band will be ready to rock the house.

This gig will be huge.

Nothing can stop you.

Until….five minutes before show-time…

“Where the fuck is everyone?”

[The question above must be posed with a tone of voice simultaneously indicating anger and that you are about to cry.]

It happens to the best bands.  It happens to the worst.  And usually more often than most bands care to admit, especially in those critical “early years.”  Or “early months,” as it goes.  But it happens.

As a pretend rock star of the highest order, I have had my share of “Where the fuck is everyone?” moments.  One that sticks in my mind occurred in September 1996, when my disbanded band, Plaid, lined up a gig to open for county singer Ronnie McDowell at a fairly large venue called Jaxx in nearby Springfield, VA.  Well, wait, let me describe that a bit more accurately:  The owner of Jaxx offered the opening slot to “my band” (which didn’t exist), and we’d be opening for a singer who had Scotty Moore as his guitar player.  Scotty Moore.  Like, the guy who played with Elvis up until 1968; like, the guy who played on Elvis’s early records.  Scotty Moore. So, my band had just broken up, and I was offered to play on the same bill as Scotty Moore.  My response?  “Sure, we’ll see you in September.”

Now all I needed was a band.

I hung up the phone, thought for a minute, then dialed my three band-mates, one after the other.  My argument was simple:  Scotty Moore.  We have to play this show.  I have to play this show.  Don’t say anything, just do it.  Thankfully, everyone was on board, so we rehearsed once or twice, and with a strong set-list under our collective Plaid belt, we waited for the big night.

As it turned out, though…

Big Night Forecast:  Rain. Torrential, nearly violent downpour.  Starting at 6:00pm.

Big Night Medical Update (from Jaxx owner at 4:00pm):  “Scotty Moore is sick, he won’t be playing.” 

Big Night Sigh of Relief:  “Whew, we won’t have to play since Scotty is sick.”

Big Night “Screw You” (from Jaxx owner at 4:01pm):  “You have to play the gig anyway.”  On our own.  No Ronnie.  No Scotty.  No headliner.  Just us.  The band that broke up three months ago.  The band that got back together just to play this show. 

Within two minutes of hanging up the phone, the rain started (early).  Three hours later, we were loading in equipment wearing ponchos and cut-open garbage bags.  Or we put those over the amps and drums, whichever.  Then we did a sound check.  Then we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And…

“Oh, look, some people are coming in.”

“That’s your wife and the bartender.”

“Yeah, but that guy…”

“That’s Neal.”  (Neal = uncle of drummer, Dave.)

“No big deal, we’ve got awhile before show-time.”

“Our set starts in five minutes.”

(Here it comes. Cue anger and tears.)

“Where the fuck is everyone?”

Given the circumstances, I did what anyone would have done in the same situation:  I drank eleven screwdrivers.  It made the set better, and it kept me from cursing pretty much everyone I knew outside of the few people on the stage, and the three people standing out in front.  Three.

So what lessons have we learned from my rock and roll misfortune?

First, never play a venue larger than an apartment.  You are just setting yourself up for a soul-crushing let-down.  If you must play a larger room, drink a lot, and have confidence that your friends and family will abandon you.  They will.  Trust me.

Second, check the weather.  Unless it’s clear and eighty degrees at 7:00pm on the night of the show, don’t play.  If the venue owner won’t let you give him an answer until 7:00pm on the night of the show, assume he is out to screw you and look elsewhere.  This rules out any gigs from about October to May, but better safe than sorry.

Third, you’re better off just talking about playing shows, than actually playing any shows.  Send out demos, make phone calls, put a press kit together…but don’t play any shows.  Ever.  This mitigates, and may even eliminate, the huge dump-truck load of disappointment that you will inevitably face.

And finally, if you must play a show, take notes so you can write about it 25 years later.  You’ll feel better.

[SGB ©2024]