Ritual

It never fails.

Its late on a Friday night, several hours after work, and you find yourself standing in front of a stage at a local music venue that reeks of stale cigarettes. The band you are watching - the band before yours - is loudly blasting through their last song while you nervously nod your head and tap your foot on the beer soaked floor. You’ve enjoyed the band’s set, but are now focused on absorbing their energy in order to play a good show.

That’s when it starts.

Your inner monologue of self-doubt begins describing all of the horrible and embarrassing things that are going to happen tonight: the broken guitar strings, wrong notes, equipment failures, forgotten lyrics, and the number of times your voice will undoubtedly crack when you take the stage. The voice in your head tells you that you are no good and everyone is going to think that your music is mediocre at best. Relentlessly, it informs you that you are just pretending to be a musician and nobody here wants to listen to your songs. It’s wearing you down.

The saboteur inside continues to bang his negative drum by pointing out that you don’t fit the profile for this type of artistic expression. You don’t even look like a musician. You’re standing there, wearing what could best be described as; “business casual,” while everybody else appears to fit in perfectly. They huddle together in their painted-on jeans, perfectly wrinkled vintage button ups, thick black glasses, strategically mussed hair, cool tattoos, and ironic mustaches - appearances that say, ‘unlike you, I belong here.”

The band on stage finishes their set and tells everyone to, “stick around” for your band. A torrent of adrenaline wildly courses through your body.

Your stomach quivers as you wrestle your amp onto the stage. Your hands tremble just enough to give you away as you tune your guitars. Closing your eyes, you briefly run a mental checklist of everything you needed to bring to the show. You are positive that you have forgotten something.

“Two vocals,” you tell the sound guy as he passes by with a microphone and a web of cables clutched to his chest. He grunts a confirmation of understanding and it’s obvious that, after the five bands before yours, he is ready to go home.

You look up from your guitar and notice that the crowd is focused on the bar. The clinking glasses and loud conversations confirm that they couldn’t be less interested in what’s happening on stage as the thump, thump, thump, of the kick drum is sound checked. You swallow hard and barely spit out, “Check,” into your microphone while the silhouette behind the soundboard at the back of the room adjusts the levels.

Okay guys, we’re ready whenever you are…

Settling into your usual spot on stage, you take a deep breath and look at your band mates as your nerves hit their peak. You smile and nod to tell the others, “I’m ready,” then focus on the neck of your guitar. The music that has been pumping through the PA is turned all the way down and the crowd turns in your direction. You’ve reached the point of no return. It is time to ignore the nagging paranoia and insecurity that’s plagued you since you walked in the door and play your music.

As you strum through the introduction of your set and step up to sing your first line, something happens. The fear and self-doubt that you previously manufactured melts away as your voice booms through the tall speakers on either side of the stage. Surprisingly, it is clear, on key, and doesn’t waiver. As your lyrics pour out of you, a strange confidence grabs hold. You suddenly remember all the times that you played and sang your heart out in your bedroom as a kid. Back then you were dying to sonically share your thoughts and feelings with anyone that would listen. You were dreaming of this moment…

The entire band comes together perfectly on the downbeat of the first chorus and you immediately let go. You let go of everything: pride, heartache, judgment, fear, anxiety... all of it is destined to be left on the stage before the night is over. You are miles away from the insecure wallflower that showed up at the club an hour earlier. As you acknowledge this transformation, the atmosphere of the room changes and the crowd slowly begins inching forward.

People sporadically emerge from somewhere beyond the bright lights and reveal their faces as the intensity of your playing increases. You make eye contact with them while you sing and play even harder, inciting a two-way communication. The people that you assumed would write you off for petty reasons are completely engaged in the discussion. Like you, they are aching to feel something. You jump, you dance, you scream at the ceiling and they are right there with you. You are no longer just sonic decoration in some bar. You are a contagious force of musical intensity.

The longer you play, the more you realize that you do belong here. Clothes, cliques, and politics are irrelevant when compared to what truly brings all of you together. The nodding heads and dancing bodies collectively disregard ego for a few short moments as the band on stage - your band - is playing its heart out. Everyone in the place is linked by a passion for this age-old art form and addicted to the meaningful feelings it can invoke. Music, as demonstrated by this moment, is a powerful equalizer.

Before you know it, the show is over. You’ve struck your last chord, sung your last line, connected beautifully with the crowd, and its time to pack up and head home. You are a trembling, sweaty mess. Your shirt is soaked and your legs are shaky. At some point during the set, you cut your cuticles on your guitar strings as you wildly played with no regard for pick/string accuracy. You smile at the little pink flecks of blood splattered on the pickups as you place the guitar into its case.

You go on this intrinsic journey of self-discovery every time you play, but each trip feels more intense than the last. These moments teach you profound truths about yourself, this scene, and the universal power of music – lessons that shed light on what music can do to us.

Tomorrow you will go back to work wishing you had the ability to conjure this feeling at a moment’s notice. The dramatic and revealing nature of the whole process makes you laugh as you tear down the rest of your equipment. You’ve played long enough to know that this shouldn’t happen every time, but acknowledge and appreciate the fact that this same ritual will undoubtedly unfold again at your next show.

It never fails.