I found myself realizing how odd it was to feel that way. I've come to think of myself as someone who has played a lot of shows, and have had bad ones before. Still, last night really felt like the worst show ever.
Something about the atmosphere, the stale energy, the smell of sticky beer on the floor, the garbled heckling/chatter/laughter of many a drunk person. The fucking UFC fight! It was literally making me physically ill to play.
I mean, the whole thing started all wrong. Silly me, I decided to begin with what I thought was a fun/easy cover (Britney Spears "Hold it Against Me"), which I have played a few times already, yet managed to forget the chords during the climax of the chorus. Fabulous. I salvaged what I could of the song, mumbling inflections and strumming dead notes in a somewhat rhythmic fashion. Still, it seemed to set the pace for the rest of the night.
I got through the rest of my first set without much hindrance, even managed to keep a smile on my face the whole time. But the whole ambiance (if there ever was any) felt shattered.
Next up, the musician I had asked to play with me that night went through their set fine. The crowd continued with their general lack of interest with a hint of loathing toward the music that was coming from the stage atop the bathroom stalls. But I had had a couple of beers and felt ready to play again.
This time I stuck to the high energy classics (ala: Elvis, Beatles, Cash). The energy level seemed to increase a bit, I started feeling a little better about my life choices. And even though I broke a string in the middle of a song, it was OK. This would be the high point of the night, which would have been fine since it was supposed to be my last set.
So, the sharing musician goes on for their second set. Enter: the man in the vertical striped button up. The music coming from the PA is of the fiddle variety and it seems to be causing some sort of allergic reaction to the botox pumped into the face of the oh so delicious "candy" sitting next to the man whom adorns himself with the vertical striped shirt. This is apparently causing a fuss amongst the management staff who has started flocking to the "stage" and are making quick glances back and fourth toward the stage and myself. So I get up from my beer to address this unrest.
The verdict was bad. The man in the striped pajamas was the owner of the bar, and decided that fiddle was NOT what he had envisioned when he created this place for high-classies as himself.
Lucky for me, I had the duty of relaying the information to the musician (whom I actually respect and enjoy greatly) right in the middle of their set to, by the request of the owner, stop playing fiddle and stick to guitar at the threat of being pulled off the stage. Pulled off the stage? Yup, that's what I was told. yeah...
I suppose it's not hard to believe there was offense taken by my usually quite positive musician friend. Needless to really say, they stopped playing and left the bar after a bit of venting. Which leaves me to finish the night with all of this ULTRA AMAZING energy in the room. Whoo! I could've thrown up....
I limply went back up on the stage above the bathroom stalls and began to fake my best smile while strumming through my set (basically a repeat of my first set w/ a few extras). The crowd seemed to not notice much of the goings on behind the scenes, but their lack of enthusiasm and general resentment toward me was a continued pleasantry that helped my 45minutes remaining feel like the rest of my life.
Was it my fault?
I guess it's my fault. I should have payed attention to the fact that the crowd was going to be strange due to the fight, especially with the overflow of the sports bar next door. I should have known that my fellow musician tends to lean toward the quirky and not the mainstream. I should have known that the owner would have come in with his vertical stripes button up and tanorexic arm candy... um... yeah. I guess I should've known better.
So, here's to you greatest worst show of my life. Thanks for not really being so terrible that I had a small sense of sadistic enjoyment out of you. But for truly being terrible. Being terrible in that cold and unrelenting way of pummeling me into making me feel that I've somehow made the incorrect life decision. That music isn't really worth it. That no matter the work, the practice, the passion I have, that I could live with if even if no one cared. But the fact that people go out of there way to break you is almost too much.
Unfortunately for me, what I do is no longer a conscious decision.
