The dream job

“Hi, I’m Devin,” he said, blinking while his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the club. “I’m looking for Bill.”

The man that greeted Devin at the door was short, with long, gray hair that made him look older than he was. “You got him,” he answered shortly, without offering a hand shake. “You’re late.”

“Sorry about that,” Devin replied, moving further inside, “we ran out of gas.”

“You only have half-an-hour til sound check. Better be quick about it.”

Devin had been driving all night and all day with his rock band, The Fever Pitch, across two state lines. He had never heard of this town until he saw the tour schedule. It would be better to say the name of the metropolitan area from the stage, he thought to himself, just to be safe.

He was hungry. There wasn’t much to eat in the van besides a couple of generic Pop Tarts and a Cup Noodles. The band usually ate what the venues provided, using what little cash they earned on gasoline to get to the next stop.

After gathering a few more details from Bill, Devin joined the rest of the band who had already begun unloading the trailer.

The club was small, but it came recommended by the tour manager. Along the back wall was a brightly-colored bar, stocked with cheap liquor and domestic beer. A checkered linoleum floor gave the place a kitschy feel. The stage, if it could be called that, was just inside the front entry. Devin wondered if the whole band could even fit on the stage. A row of silver lights pointed down on the stage from the ceiling, nearly in the center of the room.

The band didn’t talk much to one another as they sat all their gear up on the stage. After two months on the road, not much could be said that hadn’t been said. Everyone knew what everyone else wanted, and stage real estate was claimed intuitively. The drums were always to the back, on stage right. Bass and keyboards aligned with the drums to stage left. Devin would be center stage, flanked on either side by guitarists who didn’t get along very well off stage, but complimented each other perfectly on stage.

As people began streaming into the club, Devin wondered how many were there to see him perform, and how many of them would be here regardless of who was on the bill. There was a sense of camaraderie amongst the patrons only seen in the smaller towns. It didn’t matter much to Devin why they were there, the whole point of touring was to play in front of people to develop the fan base.

Devin felt he had been lied to. He’d heard the stories of songwriters who were discovered by a record label and became a huge overnight success. Nobody told him audiences only wanted to hear other people’s songs, and that millions of other people were also trying to be “discovered.” This was no dream; this was work.

All the muscles in Devin’s body trembled. He hopped from foot to foot as his heart rate steadily rose. There really wasn’t a backstage area, so the band was preparing themselves in the restroom. It didn’t matter how many people they would play for, Devin always went through this nervous anticipation. He’d pace around the room to boost his confidence, and then hop in place to get his blood moving. In addition to helping his nerves, he felt it helped provide energy to the performance.

The lights were darkened in the main room as the band was introduced. A smattering of cheers were heard in the crowd as they took the stage.

“Come on, man,” Devin pleaded, “we need the money.”

“Sorry,” Bill said, again, “that’s all I’ve got for you.”

“You don’t understand; without our full guarantee, we can’t afford to get to our next gig.”

“That’s not my problem,” the club manager gestured with his palms forward, shoulders shrugged.

Devin was used to this by now. A lot of club owners would stiff the band out of pay if they didn’t think enough people came. He was upset, but he understood. They’re both in business for themselves, and times are tough. If the bands take too much, the club can’t stay open, and the bands wouldn’t have a place to play. But it is so hard to travel around the country when you’re paying for gas from the food budget.

It’s a tough job, but maybe one day it will pay off.