I know there are others out there that have found themselves hauling in hundreds of pounds of gear at terrible hours of the morning, soaked in sweat (which now may be freezing, depending on date and climate), ears still ringing, and stumbling along through exhaustion from playing hours on a 110 degree stage...and wondering what the hell you think you're doing.

Looking around at the other houses/apartments, seeing most of the lights out...because the people inside have been asleep for hourse already. The only sounds are from you wheeling in the cabinet-on which you've stacked half your gear- and closing various car doors as you yank axes, amps, and other random gig jetsam out of the car and walk them into your home. You stand, unsteadily, between the bathroom and the bedroom wondering whether you could stand through a shower or if you just need to collapse.

Welcome to the glorious post-gig traditions of the club musician!

Sometimes, as you knod off, your mind balances your weariness and the work involved vs. the pittance you were paid (and that's assuming you didn't drink your earnings)...and finds it to be an ugly topic indeed. You pass out wondering if all the labor and wear on yourself and your gear is worth it, just to be onstage.

I've been there, many many times. I may be there again as early as this weekend, though it's a short show that's paying pretty well. In any case, the truth is that regularly-gigging musicians work VERY hard for what is often very modest money.

So...why do we do it?

We do it because we have to, like breathing. We do it because any art that isn't shared with those who may appreciate it is art stifled. We do it to play with a change of scenery; to get a reaction from an audience beyond the loved ones we've drug into rehearsal. We do it because the gear sounds GREAT right now, because all the practice on vocal harmonies has to be for SOMETHING, we do it for all the hours we spent pretending to jam with our heroes in our youth. We do it because the will to act is often what seperates the performers from the audience. We do it for that woman or man in the audience that we can't look away from, we do it for the lost friends and family that we hope are watching.

And the audience...they're the people that have kept the town running, the businesses staffed, and the heartbeat of the area beating. They've just put in a hard week, just like you-but they're looking to you to forget their stupid customers, abusive bosses, unfaithful lovers, apathetic spouses, deceitful friends, numerous enemies, difficult parents/children, and the dozens of things that could've gone better since they last got out.

Some of them are regulars...even knowing your bandmates by name and buying you drinks. Some are only out occasionally, and some might be in the place for their first and last times. Some wave, some look away...but many are slightly awed by the SOMETHING that has you preparing to go onstage and them just there for the ride.

These are your people, tonight. These are the people you can lift out of their pains and frustrations and let them just experience some music for awhile. You may not know a one, but they think they know something about you, based on your band's name and the chosen songs. They're the gears and the grease of the machine that makes up your town...and they've come to you for a return to simple humanity. The applause and the cheering give back to you the energy you burn for them.

They need you, and you need them.

So as you lock the front door, and stagger through the piles of gear you've just unloaded all over your living room, it helps to remember that what you did and what you do is special, and beyond the capabilities and courage of most. Yes, you're drained...but you have given of yourself to a room full of people that needed you desperately.

So, I salute you, my brothers and sisters of the many dusty stages of our world. It's a fine thing we're doing, and we should be proud.