Weekly Maintenance

There’s nothing more defeating than having an entire bar or brewery empty out over the course of the first set. When my step-dad talks about Rusty Weir, he says, “Man o man, could he be on. I mean, when he was on, he was ON. But when he was off, man was it shit. He was terrible. Not the same person even, a different specimen entirely.”

I’m sure ol Rusty, even into his later days cleared a bar or two based on that. I’ve certainly done it myself. It’s been awhile but it still stings. Having a weekly gig is a lot to think about. When I first started playing I’d write out set lists of all my cleverly crafted original songs and waltz into the bar with my shitty PA, 10 minutes before start time, set it up and begin to bang away on my guitar and yell into a some beat up SM-58 that looked like it had been run over by a truck. I had no EQ and no board. I had one JLB speaker my stepdad had bought to listen to his iPad with while sitting out on the back porch. On top of that I had a shitty 1970s pre Fishman pickup that you wedge in the sound hole of the guitar and pray it doesn’t fall in. I played a $150 Jasmin guitar with the wire coming from the pickup hanging out the front, and I would plug that and my mic into the back of that JLB speaker I had placed in the center of the stage. I went on like that for almost 3 years. So never underestimate heart and drive.

While teaching English in Spain awaiting my admittance into grad school at the University of Oregon, I found my first weekly gig. There is something sacred in meeting once a week. The place was called Capriccio and was run by two Argentinian brothers in Toledo, in the old quarter known as the casco viejo. After teaching a few months and living in a small town ah hour away from the city, I moved into an apartment with another American teacher, David, who also enjoyed music and had brought along his harmonica. Some how or the other we found a guitar player who lived in Toledo and in a round about way we scored a gig at this place. Sure enough all of the study-abroad-students and all the foreign teachers were hanging out there every Tuesday night. It was packed.

David played a little hand drum and blew the harmonica into our only mic. Ramon played his electric guitar through his amp, and since I’m so damn loud, I strummed and sang without amplification. There are a few videos out there. It’s not terrible, but makes you wonder…why the hell doesn’t the singer have the microphone? Well, because I wasn’t singing back then; I was yelling.

After we’d get done playing, the owners would take us upstairs and feed us for free. They gave us free drinks and would slip me a 50 euro bill every night. “Keep that for you. For you!” and they’d point to me. I did keep it. I had reservations about not splitting it, but in the end I kept it like a something a waiter’s palmed from the guy at the table who knows the cheapskate picking up the tab is about leave a big goose egg of a tip.

We played that gig until we all went home - back to our respective countries. It was then I realized how popular the blues are, and how well known John Denver is. And also Sublime. We sang Love Is What I Got and Santeria every night. It’s great to hear the Brazilian and French accents on American songs. The crowd would belt it out with us. It was so much fun. We’d pile out into the alley and smoke cigarettes. David and I had rented an old apartment that was an ancient palace and had a basement. We’d invite everyone back over there and stay up all night drinking and playing music, singing and dancing. Out of nowhere a saxophonist would show up and blow, and the harmonica would wale, the electric guitar would whine and the people were there, sweating, talking, living laughing and loving. It was amazing.

In the morning we’d wake up and go to work as English teachers in the local high schools. It was easy. If I could do it again, I would have renewed my contract to teach another few years, stayed in Spain and not gone to grad school. But alas, Oregon was calling and the teaching pay was dismal without providing a million private lessons to supplement. Those guys at Capriccio loved us until the end. You could sense it that they knew this was a special group for them and it would be hard to repeat a Tuesday like that in the next school year. They were right. I went back by in 2019 and they were closed.

As I accepted each 50 euro bill at the end of the night it felt good, but it also led me to understand there was definitely more money to be made. We were having fun and it was nice to be popular once a week, but I was the only one there really looking toward performing as a means of making a living.

When I got to Oregon for grad-school, I lasted just the one year before dropping out. I was on a full ride with stipend and I even taught some morning Spanish classes in exchange for tuition. I found myself during breaks out on the lawn yelling at the top of my lungs what ever song I was working on at the time. My tip case sat open in front of me and if I got a dollar I was happy.

Back in Toledo I would stand out in Plaza Zocodover where all the tourists are and belt Elvis Presley and Beatles songs at the top of my lungs. I was dating a woman from Toledo at the time and we’d scheduled to meet in the plaza, while waiting for her I decided I’d busk a little and maybe scrape up the coffee money we’d need. When she arrived she wouldn’t come near me. She sat at the other end of the Plaza laughing and covering her face.

I finished You Aint Nothing But a Hound Dog, put my guitar back on my back and walked over to her.

”Joseph…you can’t do this…. you voice….it’s just too powerful.” She was so sweet and kind. I showed her the more than 30 euro I had made in the half hour and she smiled, “Oh my but Joseph you can’t do this…oh my god….Joseph…”

She is Toledana. They are a little suyo as they say, but she didn’t cancel the date. We went off for coffee. I can see now that she might have been a little embarrassed even if she wasn’t from there. Anyone would have been. I was literally yelling some of the most beautiful songs and not killing it at all, but maybe making people want to kill themselves. What I had back then more than anything was a yearning to be acknowledged, a longing to be accepted and appreciated. People were appreciating me for my effort - that’s for sure. I think now maybe even in some cosmic way I not only earned ever cent dropped in the hat, but every single hello, every single eye contact and word of encouragement because they could see, above all the bad notes and terrible guitar playing, that I wanted to do this with my very soul and I was enjoying it. Those early passers-by that supported me could see my vision with me. The Toledana could also see it, but she had to remove herself a little by sitting off to the side until I was finished singing. She was much more dignified than I was.

So there I was back in Oregon singing and belting out songs from Bob Dylan and The Beatles, Elvis and The Grateful Dead - at the top of my lungs - right on the sidewalk leading to the Department Hall. I was embarrassing. I was still not dignified. My professors either got closer or ran in sheer terror. Inside I couldn’t shake this feeling…the yearning and ultimate longing to sing. To belt my voice to the highest of highs. To sing and be heard and to sing and feel the notes and words. I still feel this…this calling.

I went to scouting a place for a weekly gig again during those first weeks of grad school. Eugene, OR is a great place for blue grass jams, picking circles and open mics, but not for paying gigs. I didn’t care, I just needed a base to create a scene. To create the fans I needed. It was common place to see a picker on a café patio singing a tune here and there and so I approached a place called The Last Stand Coffee Co. The named seemed fitting, especially now that I’d quit school, moved into my VW Westy Bus and was literally living down by the Willamette River. I had about $1000 bucks until I was flat broke.. The owner of the café sat at his roaster, a treadle peddle sewing machine in which he roasted just 5 lbs. of beans at a time. He was the coolest thing I’d seen in a while. He agreed with me to start the Last Stand Sunday Showcase. It would be all acoustic - good for me as I didn’t own a PA or even a mic - still. They didn’t serve alcohol either, just coffee.

Once we had it rolling, I started passing the hat to about 20 people who regularly showed up. Reminded me of those Greenwich Village stories I had read, and we used that money to buy materials to build a small stage in the back garden. As time went on I started working for the cafe every day and for free. I’d even take my tips and buy the homeless guys coming up from the mission down the street a coffee. It was wild. I don’t know if I was trying to be a musician or a teacher of some sorts. I was without a doubt - really not ok. Quitting grad school and going for this alternative life style, at that time with a mind filled with grandiose ideas about what could be, was hard and taxing. The weekly event went great for awhile. I was a great host, and back then I concentrated on reading poetry as well as singing.

One day a guy named Captain Blasty came out of nowhere and scored the gig from under me by offering to provide a PA. That was it. I tried to make a big deal out of the situation, but as I would find countless times again, losing a gig is just the way it goes. Losing a residency may seem more of a big deal because of the frequency, but it’s the same. You move on, someone else comes in and the place continues to try and make money.

These days are no different and I’m fortunate to have my weekly gigs. The differences are astronomical. My gear is top notch. I play a Martin d-18, through a Fishman Platinum pickup with two 1000 watt EV 15 inch speakers. I’m singing through an EV N96 super cardioid mic. All this allows me to be super soft but have a nice full sound. I’m not as bothersome and I can usually say that even if you don’t like the music I’m playing or the choice in cover songs, you won’t be bothered and want to leave the room. Most of that is singing softer, and being more inviting to the environment and the people around. Making money in bars and restaurants is miles away from singing and busking on the streets and begging to be paid. These places are paying for a service and that service is ambiance and nice vibes, not to hear someone hoping to be discovered, although I can’t quite kick that thought from my mind. I’m singing better as well. Recording albums helps hear all your terrible tones and self indulgent phrases. It makes me want to do less and with more precision and honestly, I think that’s what allows me to play so much. Attempting to really sing is fun to watch.

I always know that there’s a chance a weekly gig might not work out at some point down the line, but I still invest in the night. Paying other artists to make posters and print shops to print them creates a local commerce that benefits everyone. That money the venue is investing in you can reach other avenues of the industry and the venue can be proud to know some of their payment for my services goes to supporting other local businesses and artists. I’m proud to represent these establishments week in and week out. It’s my duty to have good equipment, back up strings, back up guitar even; basically have everything i need to guarantee not just a show, but a quality show.

Another way to hold on to weekly gigs is to cut out the excessive drinking and drugs, but the main thing is just being grateful and knowing it’s all really out of your control. There’s no telling when the next Capitan Blasty will show up and have a better offer, so it’s important that I show up and make the most of the time I have. Providing tailored cards and marketing schwag to the people at the weekly gig is a great way to retain them as a listener even when the gig is up. Showing appreciation and giving back whenever possible is a great way to attract the attention of other offers for yourself as well, and although I haven’t had to leave a residency for a better offer yet, I hope that it will happen for me. My goal would be to keep the weekly shows I have running until there is just not enough capacity to continue to do them at those specific venues. It would be a amazing to see a string of sold out shows at my current venues on my way up to bigger things. Hey, We can dream, can’t we?