After the gig is the hard part. There’s lots that go into being a musician, and only a little of it involves learning how to play your instrument. You better know how to do that before you step on stage, or before you show up for that audition, or before you walk into that music store and start trying to show off. 

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But being a musician involves learning tunes and buying gear and looking right and maintaining equipment and rehearsing and getting to the gig on time and being cool with stuff that happens on stage like guest singers who request songs you don’t know and surprise key changes and dealing with getting yelled at onstage by jerk band leaders when you’ve blown another change and not spilling your dinner all over yourself during set break and not getting too consnagulated to play when the talent buyer mistakenly says the musicians have full access to the open bar.  

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I sometimes like to think of bands I play in as engines. Like engines, they all have very necessary parts, without one of which the engine just won’t run right, or at all. Some engines are simpler and some are more complicated. Some engines get used a lot and some only rarely. When I play with a band, and all the setup is done and soundcheck is over and we’re ready to hit, I sometimes like to think, “This engine is about to be started.” Maybe it was running last week, and maybe it was running only last year, and maybe it’s ran for the last three nights in a row and I’m getting kinda tired of it, but there’s always that initial thrill. I watched this engine get built and now it’s time to fire it up. Turn the key, baby. Let’s burn this.  

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Of course, you can only run it for so long. Comes a point where you have to shut it down, and there’s always a little nagging doubt. Is this the last time I hear this engine run like this? Or at all? Maybe by next time someone will have quit, or died. Maybe the band leader will pack it in.  

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As the last note is ringing and you know you’ve made it, there’s always a level of welcome relief that is the counterpart to the nervous apprehension that precedes the gig. I like to reach down and switch the amp off as soon as possible. It’s like closing the hood on the car when you’ve either a) managed to fix something or b) realized you’re in way over your head and it’s time to call the tow truck. No arguments, no ambiguity. For better or worse, this is over.  

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I put the bass away next. Not because I’m afraid it will get (more) scratched; it’s just another way of saying “This story is finished; now I’m closing the book.” There will—hopefully—be other stories and the machine will crank itself up all over again, but we’ll deal with that next time.  

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Some band leaders like you to lend a hand with the breakdown. Some would rather you just stay out of the way. That’s fine either way; I’ve got my own gear to worry about. I try to keep things as simple as possible, though not just for making set-up and breakdown easier; I just believe in the simplicity of plugging in and turning on, and letting the bass sound like it’s going to sound. Old basses sound best; my Washburn sounds horrible and no amount of pedals or effects will fix that. It’s bass, line cord, amp. That’s it, and while other bassists will say stuff like “Man, you need compression!” or “Where’s the overdrive?” or “Without some kinda tube preamp, you’re dead in the water,” I believe that such things would help in the cases when the bass was standing out all by itself, like on a solo, which I hate, but for the rest of the time when the bass is thumping along nicely in the pocket where it belongs, that stuff just gets in the way. Plus, with my crappy luck, it’s just more stuff to go wrong. Lastly, it means all my ancillaries, like line cords and power cables, all fit in the gig bag. Less stuff means less to carry. 

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Some load-outs are easier than others. Sometimes, like on a festival, you can park right behind the stage. That’s great because then you don’t even need wheels. Sometimes, like on a wedding or a corporate dealie when you’re at some high-brow hotel and they don’t want the musicians carting stuff in through the lobby, you have to go out through the kitchen, and that SUCKS because the place is a madhouse with people and the floors are slippery and all too often your stuff won’t fit through that gap between the dish rack and the cart with the salads on it. Country clubs are even worse.  

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Let’s not forget the part where you get paid. I love to play music and am frequently on stage with players who are waaaayyyyyyy better than me, and with whom I have absolutely no business being on stage, and I am always, always grateful. I’ve said it before and will say it until I can no longer hold a bass that my level of playing puts me smack in the bushiest of bush leagues, and yet I play with people who, if they aren’t already famous, damn well should be. I’m grateful and mystified that I could possibly be so fortunate and I would gladly do it for free. But I ain’t allergic to money.  

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I would like to state for the record that I do not like money. I don’t like what it stands for and I don’t like what people are willing to do to get it. I also feel awkward asking for it. There’s lots of people out there that owe me some money and I will never ask for it. It’s just not something with which I am comfortable, and I’ve endured some derision over the years because of it. It’s derision I will gladly endure. I don’t like asking for money I’m owed and I never ask what a gig pays. I’m flattered to be asked to play and rarely say no. If I do say no, it’s not because of the money. But, like everybody, there’s bills to pay and stuff to get fixed and a chronically ill cat whom I love dearly but who always needs medicine and, on top of that, I still need to eat.  

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So if you said you’re going to pay me to play, effin’ pay me. Some bandleaders are great. They hand you a check as soon as you get to the gig. That’s awesome and I certainly appreciate it. Others wait until the last note dies, and then they pay you. That’s fine. I don’t expect to be paid until I’ve played, and if a band leader said to me after a gig, “You played like shit. I’m not giving you a dime,” I would nod my head and pack up and leave. Others wait until all the gear, including theirs, is packed up and in their gigmobile, and if you want to be paid faster, you better help out. I can dig that.  

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The ones who say “Can you wait til the next gig?” Sigh.  

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The ones who say “I forgot my checkbook. Can I mail it to you?” Growl.  

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Lastly, the ones who make you chase them down for money they owe you. I lied when I said I never ask to get paid. I did, once. It was a month after the gig and I never worked for that guy again.  

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Most of the band leaders I work for are pretty cool about the money. They understand and that’s appreciated. Once you’ve made it through all that, and you’ve loaded the gigmobile and you’re on your way home, though--that’s the hard part.  

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It’s hard because you have to deal with yourself and how you played. Some nights are easier than others. It’s particularly easy when you’ve ridden with someone else, and hopefully one of the other musicians, because then you can vent to each other and you can say how good you feel about how you played and they can agree, or you can say how crappily you played and they can tell you how full of shit you are. Hopefully. And, of course, quid pro quo. 

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But when you’re driving home alone, it’s either the radio or the voices in your head.  

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Some nights you handle some surprise that comes up on stage pretty well. Maybe it’s a tune that someone requested that you didn’t think you knew, but when you get out of the way of yourself and let it happen, it turns out you did. I can think of a few tunes where that has happened. Gary Moore’s “Still Got the Blues.” George Harrison’s “Something.” Queen’s “Somebody to Love.” Sometimes it goes so well that others in the band, perhaps not as sure of the changes, are suddenly looking to you and now, for a little while, you’re the band leader. Unnerving, but cool. Or you jumped in and added some vocals, and, not knowing what you were going to do when you stepped up to the mic, just threw your head back and started howling. And what came out, surprisingly, worked. It fit what other people were doing and didn’t step on any toes. Or maybe—rarely, in my case—you soloed and didn’t hate it. Some nights, the music was so good, or the crowd was so into it, that you felt like a rock star and that feeling mercifully lasts for a while. 

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Nights like that, when you can sit back on the drive home and think back on what you did and feel good about it, are a blessing.  

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Other times, though.  

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That tune you thought you knew and didn’t.  

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Those lyrics you were supposed to learn and forgot.  

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The time your amp crapped out FOR NO REASON and everybody was turned around looking at you and laughing internally at the guy who thought he was pro but has garbage gear. Which, incidentally, worked fine at the next gig.  

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The time you tripped walking up the stairs to the stage before the last set when the crowd was at its drunkest.  

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The time you slammed far too many beers before the hit and spent the second half of the first set wondering if you were going to make it without soiling yourself.  

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The time you got wasted and fell over the drum set. Or maybe you fell over the drum set and weren’t wasted, and that’s worse because you had no excuse.  

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The time you broke a string and realized with horror that you didn’t bring spares.  

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That time you forgot to bring a power cord and ran all over the venue trying to get the management to lend you one while the band leader glared.  

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That time the band leader threw you a solo and, when you looked up, you saw him wince.  

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Those are hard. Sometimes, they make you want to hang it up for good. Get a hobby, or take tae-kwon-do, or adopt an alternate identity and go out at night and start fighting crime. 

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“Fender Marybrook: mild-mannered schoolteacher by day, Triumph-riding wild man by night. He prowls the streets of Joliet, looking to make a stand for justice. Criminals freeze with terror at the piercing glare of his beast-of-a-motorcycle’s dual headlights, as well as his unfailing aim with a dry-erase marker. Stealing from old ladies? Skipping out on a hefty dinner tab? Library books more than two months overdue? You better look over your shoulder when you walk down the street, because Mr. Zero’s on your trail. And he don’t grade on no curve.”

 

Ah, but while I can still play, I gotta. It’s true that the good times way outnumber the bad. I’ve never had more fun in my life than when I’m on stage somewhere. I’ve made good music with a lot of people, had a mostly good time doing it, and made a lot of friends. That always tips the balances back into the black.  

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I once heard an absolutely spectacular guitarist named Pat say this, and I’ve adopted it somewhat as my own: I’ll play ‘til I’m dead.