What’s Your Number (Not what you think)?
Gigs can get to be by-the-numbers — Until they’re not.
It was a winter night, and I was running late. Call time was 7:00 for load in and soundcheck. But I didn’t have to bring my drum set, so I calculated to leave a little later than usual. 6:15 would give me plenty of time.
Besides, we were only playing one set: 12 songs in 55 minutes at 10:00. That would mean sitting around for nearly two and a half hours by the time we were set to go.
Those hours can often feel like an eternity. I liked the band I was playing with. We all got along nicely. But when there’s no green room, sometimes there’s only so long you can sit around in an empty club.
Sometimes it’s taxing even when other bands are there. Making small talk with the other groups is how you make friends, forge alliances and hopefully have a better show when everyone feels a little more invested in each other.
But, just because you have the same job doesn’t necessarily mean you’re on the same wavelengths.
I’m not much of a gearhead, but some drummers are. Conversations with those guys can be a chore. Or, they don’t last long.
Back when I worked in a call center, I blended in with a decent haircut and stable of khakis and polo shirts. Drew, on the other hand, looked as if he’d stepped off the back cover of an early Metallica album. He was young, maybe 22, with a wispy mustache and long, curly hair parted in the middle. On casual Fridays, he’d wear a denim jacket decked out with patches.
So, one day we started chatting about music over email. It turned out we were both drummers. Now, it was time for gear talk. Drew wrote:
“I’ve got a Tama Superstar Classic seven-piece set with maple shells. Three toms, 7-inch, 8-inch, 9-inch. Two floor toms, 12 and 14. Nice 18 x22 bass drum. I added a Porkpie 14-inch snare, picked it up for just $120 used. I’ve got the toms on a Gibraltar Chrome Series curved rack.
“Cymbals I have 14-inch and 16-inch Sabian AAX crash. 23-inch Zildjian Sweet Ride, 18-inch Wuhan china crash, six-inch Zildjian splash, and Paiste Signature Sound Edge hi-hats. I have all Tama stands with three-foot booms and a hi-hat stand with a pop clutch. DW 500 double bass pedal, but I wanna upgrade to an Iron Cobra with dual chains. You?”
I wrote back:
“Word. I have a DW PDP five-piece. I have an old Zildjian ride, hats I got from my uncle and a Sabian stage crash. I forget the sizes.”
He was a nice guy. We chatted every so often after that.
At any rate, on this night I was running late despite only having to pack my cymbals (since upgraded). But, I had to pick up a new pair of sticks. Vic Firth 5A, but who’s counting?
Thanks to that, plus traffic and finding parking in Center City on a Saturday, I walked in at 7:15. The club was more or less as I imagined it, except that it was on the second floor of the building. It was a long, rectangular room at the top of a dark, narrow staircase.
The stage was about four feet off the ground. You need to climb a few steps to get up there, but it’s not so high that it seems over-the-top for local bands. It also had a decent lighting rig.
There was a bar on the far wall across from the stage and maybe four cast-iron tables with chairs. It was the kind of place that’s good for rock or dance bands, on-your-feet music. Depending on the band, you could stand and dance. If it was a thoughtful indie group, people cross their arms and nod knowingly if they’re into it.
This band wasn’t dancey, nor introspective enough for the cross-and-nod. Most of our fans stood and cheered. But, none of them were there yet. After soundcheck, I checked my phone: 7:40.
We could kill time at the bar, but then you risk ruining your set. A guitar player I know says there’s a certain number of beers you can have at a show that’s just enough to loosen you up without making you sloppy. It’s usually three, accounting for weight and tolerance.
Most musicians have plenty of the latter. Blame it on, if nothing else, the number of hours we spend waiting while near rows of beer taps and shelves of liquor bottles.
But, the time between rounds inevitably shrinks as the number of drinks you’ve had increases. You may take an hour between the first and the second, but 20 minutes between the sixth and seventh.
I checked my phone. 7:43. Math was never my strong suit. I got a water.
7:52. The singer and bass player opted ate at the restaurant downstairs. The guitarist and I got dollar tacos across the street.
8:22. Any longer and I’d start thinking too much about what I’d done in my life to get me into this position. Finally, a few friends arrived, and we had more people to talk to.
The first band went on at nine. We mostly crossed our arms and nodded. Then it was our turn: 55 minutes to justify the past 140. Well, 177 if you count my errand and drive to the place. But, who’s counting?
Even when you’re just another local band, it’s a rush to walk up those few steps as people applaud while you take your position. Especially if there’s a lighting rig. When you can’t see most of the audience, you know you’ve moved up from the bar scene.
We performed as practiced. But the devil, as always, is in the details.
You focus on whoever you can in the audience and make a connection with them. You can’t talk to them in real time and figure out what’s working or not. Instead, it’s all feeling and instinct.
If the crowd wants a straight set, you give it to them. They may be uninterested, or want to relax or gently take it in. For better or worse, you lean back and present your wares as if it were a Ted Talk, or maybe a Tupperware party.
Sometimes, people want the Feat of Strength. They key into complex passages, noticing when you’re playing something difficult. They’ll clap after a particularly acrobatic bridge or whip out their phones to document it. Mostly, you feel the eyes on you.
Guitarists notice this quickly. They step forward and play more licks and flashier solos. I get in on it too sometimes. It’s a delicate balance not to play too much, but do it right, and you’re admired as if you broke a power-lifting record.
Other times, there’s the Primal Vibe, a close cousin to the Feat of Strength. You get the feeling people are in it for the pure power of the experience. I’ve been the audience for this, too. You want to be pummeled by the sound. When you go outside afterward, the silence and cool air hit as if you just dove into the ocean. If that sounds masochistic, ask yourself why people like roller coasters.
This night leaned toward the latter. I have a trick where I unfocus my eyes and really lean into the song to pull power out of it. The room went fuzzy, pivoting up and down as my head moved but my eyes remained steady on the ride cymbal. The sticks went by in blurs. My arms made long, sweeping motions, one part histrionics, and two parts technique.
I heard louder bass plucks and more grit in the singer’s voice. The guitarist stepped forward and pointed the neck of his guitar up as if he were sacrificing it to some pagan god.
We wrapped up to big applause and walked off the stage, returning to mere mortals, just audience members for the next band.
We also got a pleasant surprise at the end of the show. I was expecting $40, but the place was packed, and the door ring was much more than expected. I walked off with $100. Not bad for 55 minutes of work. Well, 230 if you count the whole ordeal.
I got in my car, still buzzing a little from the show and financial bonanza. It had started snowing, and roads were a little slick. Crossing Arch Street, the traffic stopped suddenly. I braked, skidded, and made contact with the bumper in front of me. Mixed with the snow, I saw bits of styrofoam falling from the other car’s bumper absorber.
The guy got out, as did I. We assessed each other and our respective cars. Both were a little beat up. My inspection was overdue. He looked at me.
“Man, I’m about to call the cops.”
“All right, let’s not get hasty. What’s your number?”
“A bean-fifty.”
“Huh?”
“Bean-fifty. Hundred fifty.”
It was a lot for a roadside payoff. But the long-run alternate — higher insurance rates, a couple of tickets — would be worse.
“Alright, gimme a second.”
I took out the remainder from a nearby ATM. A bum, apparently with a law degree, advised me not to pay him that much. I politely reminded him that the idiot tax is assessed on a sliding scale.
I ended the night $50 short. But, who’s counting?
