Lucifer Called, There's a Gig...

Funny-Not-Funny-Story of a Working-Class Musician's Art Show Gig

Long before spring starts springing, working-class blue-collar musicians start to get that feeling in their stomach. It's a low growl, a sour swirl, an anxious, antsy anxiety that comes around in late January or early February when the calendar stalls in the filling of the job bookings for the year and that little voice in your head starts saying those words all Muso’s dread but ponder every damn year.

Is it over for me? Am I done? 

Now, of course, it's not. It won't ever be over for any of us, as we can continue to sojourn on and embarrass ourselves for a very, very long time. I am reminded of a certain '50s and '60s star now in his 90s, moving his lips while a backing track plays, and everyone pretends to believe he is actually performing—an emperor's new clothes for a former teen idol star. But there is a time, on a cold winter morning, staring out the kitchen window in this little palace of mine in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, that I wonder if the gigs will keep coming or will they just start fading away.  

At some point, there is a soft urgency for some of us, now lesser-relevant and currently out-of-cycle players, to fill up the engagement book. Income is still desired, and so is the joy and need to work. Hey, we love to play and earn, and it's good for us in so many ways. Playing gets us out there working on our chops, and we are still in the game. That brings us to the story. 

So, a call comes in to play a gig at a well-known local art festival during a peak part of the year, and I take it. It's a trio gig, as it's not a lot of money, and that's how these things go sometimes. Solo, trio, full band and big-ass band its all about the performance fee from the promoter, but thats just the start if you are a smarty-pants veteran like me. 

When you plan a gig as a band leader/musician, there are several ways to make dough: 

1. Performance Fee: Contracted guaranteed money with or without a deposit, but it's a sure thing. This money comes from the promoter or the venue booker. 

2. Merchandise. Stuff I can sell at the gig. This is where I can make some moula, some jingle, some sheckle. I produce records (Vinyl, CDs), T-shirts, buttons, stickers, etc. After deducting production costs and marketing expenses, I retain all the sales revenue, minus sales tax. I make tens of dollars as an independent artist!

3. Performance royalties. BMI, my performance royalties company, collects on behalf of venues and deposits a small amount of money into my account, which is paid quarterly. It does add up, and hey, as they say, every little bit counts. 

So,  back to the call from that dude. A nice dude. Let's call him Lucifer for the sake of having a laugh and keeping this story nice and light. Well, amid the thinking I would never work again, I take on this gig at this highly prestigious art festival, and voilà, I'm booked. Ahhh, I’m relevant again. My career is back on track, and I will live for another year as a struggling former minor rock star chasing after something that used to be there for me. Yes! Feeling good!!!

Fast forward to a couple of Saturdays ago.

The day of the gig it's hot. I mean, it's Ohio, humid and hot. The previous day, I had an outdoor thing, and it had Noah’s Ark rained minutes before the load-in, so everything was sticky, bee buzzing sweet, summer, honey-roasted sweat that only those of us who grew up in “these here parts” are familiar with—so the day after was ugly, moist heat. The kind of day where you take a shower, then step outside, and need another one. I thought that was delicious in its own right of a special chamber of horrors summer torture but I was yet to taste another platter salver from the banquet of weather menu of shit sammies. Mmmmm. 

We arrive at the venue and are informed that the unloading area is at least 150 yards from the “stage,” and there are no venue staff on hand to assist. Okay, that in itself is not unusual, but I am bringing a small Bose PA and have to lug that, my guitar gear, and my instruments in road cases, as well as merchandise cases, fans to keep from melting in the heat, and other smaller necessities. I am in luck, though, as I have one of those four-wheel pull-along hand trucks that are suitable for a picnic or for taking the kids to the amusement park. All Set! The other band members also arrive. We are told that, 'Oh yeah, you can't park here; you have to move your car back to the parking lot way the &%$# over there.' 

And so it begins—the gig in hell. 

Set up is brutal. The stage is covered with a thin something, I’m not sure. Maybe somebody’s old bedspread?  The power goes out as the breaker is overheated. The PA gear, which is in direct sun and is probably 95 degrees now, is acting strangely as if to say “Listen, asshole, I’m not supposed to be in the direct sun!” The venue staff member is a nice-looking fellow in a nice traditional polo with that cool guy on a horse with a stick that is home from school and not really interested in the work, but probably has the gig as an obligation to somebody his family is friends with, comes over to say, “Hey, in between sets, make sure you turn back on our JBL powered speaker.” And then, of course, the whole band realized in that moment that the reason for the hire was not to be artists, or to display the musical skills that took hours of practice; to play the instruments that cost many thousand of dollars to save and pay for, nope, no one was expecting to be entertained. What they wanted was:

“Wallpaper” musicians. 

Ugh, translation = Don't play loud, don't stick out, just play “nice music” and then go home.” A little tough on the heart. Onward.

During our break, we were searching for the cool dude venue representative to see if there was any hospitality, in other words, the bare minimum a venue will provide during a searing hot day for any basic employed staffer—a bottle of water. There was nothing. As the band leader, it was my job to provide this simple accommodation, so I stepped over to the nearest beer garden stand and asked if there was any courtesy pricing available for the event staff or performers. The look from the thirty-something bright-eyed blond lady was puzzling, as if I were speaking a foreign language. Silence. After a moment and a thought for an attempt at sign language translation, I said, “Never mind, could I have six waters please? 

$36.24

Ok. I got it now, Lucifer, you sly old dog, you got me! Ha! I should have known. 

The trio played well, and the crowd wandered by and occasionally even looked at us. Some even sat for a moment or two and enjoyed their libation under a nice shady umbrella on a picnic table. One guy even gave me a thumbs up as he hurried by. Actually, it was more of a stumble as I remember now, as he lost his shoe and had trouble on the turn back to retrieve it. I looked away. 

All in all, it was a successful gig. Ha! The guys and I, even with all that was happening, still had fun playing together, being together and being expressive music artists. Yes.

The handsome venue guy came by at the end and reminded me that he wasn't the one to pay me, but we had been tremendous and killed it every year! (Note: I had not done this gig since 2019), And the booker, Lucifer, texted me that he had “popped by and we sounded great” and that he would Venmo me the performance fee. I did not see him anywhere in the very sparse crowds at any time, and I had to remind him an hour later that he hadn't done that yet. But yes, we did in fact get paid. Amen. 

All in all, the gig in hell was a lesson, not a mistake. When the devil calls, ahh — put him on hold and do something else for the rest of the day.

At the very end of this magnificent command performance, and as we made our way with the last load, two men approached my wife and me, asking if we needed help. We had, of course, just closed our trunk with the very last load. 

They were the most ragged of staffers. These two poor Bob and Bill’s had probably been charged with everything —  all damn day and they looked worn and torn and ready for a beer. Still somehow smiling and wearing their big sun-protecting safari-like hats and reflecting Walmart glasses, these gentle, kind guys lumbered with a deliberate stride as if they were also sentenced to a term in a purgatory-like prison disguised as a High-Brow Art Show. One of the fellows smiled, relieved when we said, “No man, we are good here,  all done,” and I gave them both a $20 tip. They were stunned and speechless. 

As they walked away, we heard one guy say to the other in a low, exhausted sigh, “Man, I can’t wait to get out of here.” 

Exactly.