The first time I can recall playing guitar and singing in front of more than two people was at the Midtown Mission in Atlanta. I'd practiced one of my songs on my electric, but at the last minute chickened out of playing an electric in front of this particular group of people (who would have undoubtedly been fine with it, but I apparently needed things to be nervous about). So I borrowed Will Bozeman's brand new acoustic. As I walked up to the music stand (too nervous to trust my memory for the lyrics) I whacked the guitar really hard against the massive, steel, music stand. I tried not to think about what Will was going to say about the dent in his new guitar.
When I started to sing the music stand collapsed on itself. I nervously mumbled the first thing that came to mind, something about the magic stand I brought as a joke. I somehow made it through the song despite wondering how I could afford to replace this lovely guitar. My knees were knocking, my voice developed a tremolo, and I was sweating so much I figured the people on the front row were ready to build an ark. Everyone was shocked later when I told them how nervous I had been. ("You seemed so relaxed, making jokes and stuff!") And the guitar was intact. It was a couple of years before I played outside my living room again...
I met a guy named Alan who wanted to start a band. We jammed a little and decided to practice some songs together (I had a couple and he had a couple of dozen). After two or three months, when I was just beginning to think that some day I might be good enough to play in public, Alan says, "I got us a gig next week." The phrase "panic attack" hadn't been invented yet, but I had one, anyway. "Oh, don't worry, it's just a small party at a friend's house. They'll have food, and we'll just play 20 or 30 minutes while people hang out. No big deal."
I practiced like a driven man the next few days. By the day of the party I was confident I could play a set for 15 or 20 random strangers who were all concentrating on their food and talking to each other. Background music, no big deal. We arrive at a pretty big house... and there are 20 to 30 cars.
"What's all this?" I asked
"Don't worry, maybe it's a little bigger party than we thought."
We carry the first load of gear in (two amps, a small PA, a few guitars). There's a stage set up with drums, keys, a half dozen amps and stacks of guitar cases nearby! There are 40 to 50 chairs set up in front of the stage.
"Alan???"
"Um, well, I didn't want you to be nervous, so I never got around to mentioning that everyone here is a musician, and they'll all be playing tonight." Further questioning revealed that the other bands had all been playing together for years.
Years.
We were on first. Of course.
Alan and I had worked out an introduction with a little stage patter. I have a vague recollection of forgetting everything and ad libbing something as Alan stuck to his lines. (I had the script on my music stand, but momentarily forgot how to read.) I fumbled the intro to the first song (Alan's song, my lead part). The next song was one of mine, and just as I started to sing, the mic cut out. Vague jokes, panic, somehow we got things working again. Maybe someone swapped mics; it's all a hellish, vague memory. As we started again, a string broke. Swap guitars, start AGAIN. I don't really remember the rest of the set except that the room was very attentive, much too attentive, rare specimen under glass attentive. My vocal tremolo returned. I don't recall ever flubbing anything so horribly in public. I was sure the applause after the set was either for Alan or sheer relief it was over. As we started to remove our amps and guitars for the next act to go on, I excused myself to go put some of the gear in the van. I stowed the gear, then stowed myself on the van floor where I sat in misery for a few hours.
Alan finally brought the rest of our gear out. "Where have you been? Everyone wanted to meet you and tell you what a great job you did!" We hardly talked on the way home. Eventually he convinced me that I did fine, that everyone felt that way some days ("though not to the extent of hiding and snubbing the hosts and guests"), and that if I ever did that again he would feed me my guitar and maybe my amp.
We had some crazy gigs after that (and I had plenty more running sound for a couple of bands), but no matter how weird things got, after these first two times playing in public, the others were all much, much easier.
If there are lessons to be learned here, I guess they are:
- It's not nearly as bad as you thought it was. It might even have been good.
- Get over yourself.
- Don't embarrass Alan unless you are prepared to eat a guitar and maybe an amp.
For the record, I never had to eat my guitar or amp.
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