500 Shows

“You ain’t worth shit until you’ve played 500 shows!”

Such was the opinion of my buddy’s ex-manager. My pal took some time off from college to do a stint on the West Coast, drumming for one of the thousand (no joke) Orange County bands with big dreams buoyed by a few tenuous industry connections. The competition was real, and their manager wanted them to know it, dishing out the same warning to all of his new acts.

Harsh as it might sound, the guy’s math wasn’t too far off. If you’re in a proper hard-working band that’s booking shows every week, and if you keep up the hustle for a few years, you’re going to get pretty close. The gigs add up.

And he had a point. There’s something different about the guys that have been around the block. They exude a calmness bordering on the blasé when showing up backstage, They aren’t thrown by broken strings and lousy sound. They’ve been through it all.

That doesn’t always make them friendly. Far from it. Charm, kindness, and general human decency are separate skill sets, but confidence goes a long way to putting everyone else at ease. They know the job and show up. They do the work whether they’re feeling it or not, for there will be many nights when professionalism must prevail upon pretension.

A generation or two ago this musical work ethic was easier to spot. Rock ‘n Roll was the game that everyone wanted to play, and opportunities were everywhere. Every hick town had a teen dance night at the Grange Hall or the VFW, every bar needed a cover band on the weekends, and any decent city had a few clubs dedicated to showcasing local combos. But those days don’t much exist anymore. Most places that do live music now do so as a sideline, padding the schedule with karaoke, trivia, or hipster bingo. Less hassle, fewer egos. I can’t blame them.

Now that I’m pushing fifty, I figure that I’ve been on stage with a guitar enough times to make that crusty old manager happy. Between solo sets, the new-wave/punk project, the groovy college band, and a ridiculous amount of sleep-chasing Sunday morning revivals, I’ve averaged some sort of gig once a week for the last few decades. That being said, I’m not there yet. Break that number down between the various guises and styles I’ve signed up for, and I’m still learning the ropes. If you want to keep playing, you’ve got to snub the snob, stay flexible, and keep growing.

Things change. It’s been decades since I’ve dropped off a press kit — complete with the de rigueur black ‘n white 8×10 — to a grizzled, hungover guy ensconced in a dank office, peering past an overflowing ashtray. Now it’s a text or an email to a slightly-shy millennial who may or may not get back to you. Both exchanges are awkward, but at least with the old guy you knew where you stood. He only had to raise an eyebrow to let you know: “Call me once you’ve done 500 shows, until then you ain’t worth shit.”

I get it. I agree. But I’ll be back, sir — you bet I’ll be back.