Nomads

It was not going to be a special night at The Generic in Dullville. On Tuesdays like these, only the most persistent patrons would drop by the local bar for their poison of choice. The wooden sign board, reading ‘Tonight: live bands’ in intelligible handwriting, persistently held its place on the sidewalk, for no one in particular. One of those nights, in short, when you suspect to be mostly playing for the bar personnel.

A few frequent flyers were muttering to each other at the bar while my band had just barged in through the back door. ‘Musicians are nomads’, someone had just said, cringing to pull a flight case through the narrow door. ‘You take a whole shitload of things with you, build it up in hours to play for 30 minutes, then break it all down to start over at another place the next evening.’

While our band of nomads is settling up on stage – the drumkit tuned, the cables taped to the floor to prevent crashing into said drumkit – the back door swings wide open, the entrance shot of a cheap western movie. Five perfectly styled young men come parading in. ‘Ah, one of these nights’, one of them boasts, and his peers laugh aloud.

As a nomad you meet many different people. Consequently, they start to look alike – or worse, they become a parody of themselves. I had seen these guys so often before. Beard style: nonchalant. Checkered blouses. Converse shoes. Tight jeans. Our band leaps off the stage for a handshake, which they accept – barely. In their eyes the look of professionalism, completely uncalled for.

The professionals walk to the stage, and start unpacking their matching guitar cabinets. One of them – I just realize he’s their sound man – drops his bag next to the mixing panel and starts fiddling with the knobs. At this point, a shadow comes leaping in from behind the bar: the local sound man. Beard style: unkempt. Shabby clothes. Hanging belly. But a nice guy. Had been doing this job for ages, as he practically lived next door. No, never had the intentions of making this his job: he worked at a local factory and had started doing this by accident. Besides, he got some free drinks out of it. A nice guy. Probably still lived with his mom.

‘Please, could you stop messing around with my settings?’, he asks, a shy look on his face. ‘I haven’t written them down yet.’ The sound hipster pauses, looks up, and sighs. ‘Can anyone tell this guy that we have been promised to do the sound ourselves? You’re in my way man.’ A heated argument follows; the sound man is getting red. Embarrassed, perhaps, of the situation. He, as the resident engineer, should be more preponderant.

The other guy raises his voice even more, and when it’s over, the sound man walks away. At the end of the evening, he could be seen sitting behind his beer. At the other end of the bar, the sound hipster is talking to a local girl. He’s elaborating on the support act they recently did, and the actually famous people they have met.

Around two they have packed their van. ‘Screw this place’, one of them yells while slamming the door and driving off toward the nearest highway ramp. Nomads, yes. Unthankful, pretentious nomads.

Sounds familiar? Got a similar story to share? Comment below!

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Fourteen Twentysix is the cryptic alias of Holland’s atmospheric rock band that uses rain barrels for bass drums, embraces digital music distribution and reaches out to listeners worldwide through digital liveshows and living room concerts. Not afraid of change and experiment, the band shared the stage with both dark rockers Antimatter(UK) as well as folk legends Turin Brakes (UK).

Live Excess

Fourteen Twentysix is the cryptic alias of Holland’s atmospheric rock band that uses rain barrels for bass drums, embraces digital music distribution and reaches out to listeners worldwide through digital liveshows and living room concerts. Not afraid of change and experiment, the band shared the stage with both dark rockers Antimatter(UK) as well as folk legends Turin Brakes (UK).

I’ve always found the social strain of live shows fascinating. Sure, an ‘important’ gig – Booker X is coming to visit! Celebrity Y is in the crowd! – can turn the evening into a stressful undertaking by itself. But the truly weird stuff unfolds when you’re not playing, in the backstage room or in the crowd. Despite what you might think – that creative minds feel a certain connection to each other – reality is that by and large, musicians in amateur bands can’t seem to stand each other’s guts.

It depends a bit on the kind of night it is, and the relationship between the different bands (support and main act, band competition, local vs. foreign musicians). But one could argue that musicians come in two kinds of flavors. There’s the introvert, shy type, hanging out with solely his own band mates in a distinct corner of the backstage, trying to show what a good time he’s having by doing so. He’ll acknowledge you’re there in the same room with him, but that’s about it. Then there’s the total opposite: the up-front overconfident macho who’s desperately making jokes to reinforce his place as the alpha-male.

Sure, these are horrible stereotypes, but it remains true that the rat race to fame – that elusive concept everyone thinks he’s somehow cut out for – brings out the worst in us. Couple that with the confrontation with people doing the same thing as you (and sometimes, a lot better than you), and you have all the elements for a textbook inferiority complex.

Perhaps that’s what turns musicians into stuck-up idiots, loathing everything about that other guy who happens to be a musician as well. I can’t tell how many times I’ve seen a musician friend of mine give the stink eye to someone walking across the street with a guitar case. Or the snobbish behavior of employees in music gear stores (come on, you’re an employee in a music gear store!). The same happens during gig evenings – you’re never really safe from hearing some kind of remark that’s half-friendly, half-asshole. ‘Wow, that sure is a lot of electronics, do you guys actually do something yourselves?’

It gets even more difficult when you’re supporting for a big artist. It’s these kind of nights in which most aspiring musicians are so decidedly focused on ‘having a good time’ with the big guys that everything that’s said really just sounds a bit stupid. Every time a silence falls, it’s an awkward one. There’d nothing wrong with silences if everyone’s ok with everyone else.

On the other hand, there’d be nothing uncomfortable about it if everyone had silently agreed to be sworn enemies. That is not the case either. And why would it be: we’re all secretly aware of being brothers in arms, doing the thing we love most.

This is the way in which we regard one another: half as friends, half as enemies.

Perhaps the latter should just be on the musician’s mind more often.