Unless your last name is something like Mustaine, Romeo, or Loomis, then you’re probably doing a lot more than just playing guitar for a living.  If you’re anything like me, playing guitar probably doesn’t do much more than cover the beer you’re drinking, especially if you’ve noticed how much beer costs at your typical club.  Since most of us have no desire to live in the back of a car, eating Ramen noodles (no relation), that means the day to day drag of a full-time job.

Division is playing at O’Shaughnessy’s is Old Town Alexandria this Friday (three sentences in and I’m already plugging a show!), and that means there is a lot for me to do before then.  I have two guitars to change strings on, band practice Thursday, and a ton of gear to load.  With a new car, I also get to figure out how to load all that gear.  4×12 cab, 5 space shock rack, amp head, toolbox, pedalboard case, couple stands, and two guitar cases don’t fit in a trunk, even if your trunk, like mine, is large enough to hold three or four dead bodies.  Not that I have any people in mind to fit back there…or do I?

I can’t change strings tonight before practice, since Murphy will simply guarantee I break a string on Friday.  I’ll have no time Friday, so it happens on Thursday after band practice.  Who needs sleep, anyway?  It’s also fun to have the wife grumble the whole time you’re doing it, since you haven’t been home for 14 hours.  At least all the gear will get loaded tonight, since I need to take it to practice tomorrow.  Here is where I pine yet again for a rehearsal studio that is ours, with a lock on the door, where we can leave all our equipment, instead of loading and unloading it two or three times a week.  So, two days out of the week, I get to think about the sign in the parking garage at work: “We are not responsible for unscrupulous employees breaking into your car, stealing your shit, and selling it on E-bay, that will be $6 to park,” or something to that effect.  Then, after working all day, I get to drive from the traffic capital of the DC Metropolitan area, Tyson’s Corner, clear over to the other side of the Virginia beltway.  Maybe I’ll get a chance to eat in peace, since it is closer that the King George, Virginitucky gig last Friday.  July 2nd.  With everyone trying to leave town.  Plus weekend traffic.  Dammit.

Does any of this sound confusing yet?  The life of a working stiff slash working musician is a confusing place.

Onto time number four of six for the week that involved my car and gear.  If my last name was Mustaine, Romeo, or Loomis, I’d be chilling out in a bus while someone does this for me.  That reminds me, does anyone know a good chiropractor?  Does anyone know where to park in Alexandria?  Does anyone know why the hell I choose to do this with my free time?

Playing a local show is a bit like working for the federal government: no one seems to be in charge of anything, yet you need everyone’s approval to blow your own nose.  Most clubs don’t really know what they want, but they’ll let you know what they don’t want if you try it.  All sorts of surprises generally await you, like setting up on a postage stamp in a corner, not having enough outlets to plug into, no one there to work the door, and on and on and on (it’s heaven and hell?).  With no one taking charge of the show, locals generally squabble over start times, set times, what order to play in, who gets how much for what part of the PA they brought, what gear (if any) you’ll be sharing with each other.

At the end of the night, I get approximately nine dollars and seventy-three cents for your trouble, and I get to do the car/gear thing for the fifth time.  After I walk halfway across Northern Virginia to find my car (seriously, if anyone can tell me where to park in Alexandria, I’d really appreciate it).  I usually get home after three in the morning, shower, and collapse into bed.  Weekends are better, since I don’t have to wake up at get ready for work time, but the family still wants to more than watch me sleep all day.  It is far, far worse when the kids are really young, though, since they don’t give a damn that daddy has only been out for four hours when they start jumping on daddy’s chest.  Ah, the joys of parenthood.  Luckily, mine is thirteen and likes sleeping in more than I do (suck it, Mike!).  Doing this on a weeknight is sheer torture, and coworkers usually wonder why you look like you contracted mononucleosis the next day.

None of this was enough for me, though, which is why I play in two bands.  Did I mention that I’ve got five gigs this month?  I’ll sleep when I die…

–Noodles

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