Episode 6: GUITAR GNOMES and the GHOST OF HELEN KELLER

I woke up this morning with a broken heart.  But I didn't immediately know why...

I wonder if there is a technical term for the b-side of "performance-anxiety." If not, I'm inventing one- "performance despair." The emotional state one is left to wallow in after every potential problem whose black fuzzy outline on the horizon has been causing you preemptive nerve damage actually goes wrong in real life. There's only one way I can describe this feeling... Anyone out there ever have pre-adolescent nightmares about going to school naked? Awful, right? I think we all had that dream when we were younger. A subconscious manifestation of that deepest fear, that lies inside of everyone, of being exposed. The terror that accompanies the very idea of having all of your protective layers stripped away and being revealed as a phony, an impostor. The moment when everyone realizes that you do, in fact... SUCK.
Well imagine waking up and actually being at school naked. Reality- no *whew, glad THAT was just a dream! moment. That's the feeling that often accompanies the first nasty little inklings of one's hangover when you wake up after a less-than-satisfactory turn on the stage. The light dawns on your consciousness, and the first thing you feel before opening your eyes is nothing short of sickening dread. And you know somehow that the "sickening" element in this equation has nothing to do with the cheap liquor you took to the face late last night just so you could forget your own failure. Which you have succeeded in doing up until... NOW.  BOOM, the first memory of the morning hits like a wrecking ball on what's left of your fragile little ego, and damn it hurts. Oh f**k, that's right! I was AWFUL last night. Plain effing AWFUL.  And despite reassurance from trusted friends, that's what I've got right now: Performance Despair. No, this is not me fishing to be told what a great show it was. This is me being honest, and that's what I'm really setting out to do with this blog. Not spew lengthy dialogues about generalities, and empty philosophies about this that and the other. And you know what I mean. This is a live journal, for better and for worse. And while I don't want to write a reality show script, it's important to stay honest, personal, and current.
I mean, it wasn't a BAD show. One thing that can always be counted on is my ability to "wing it." My mother likes to say that I "keep the pants-seat industry in business." And wing it I did, through BUSTED F**KING EQUIPMENT.        
So I'm a little nervous before the whole thing even starts, which is increasingly uncharacteristic of me, as I've finally broken through a couple crucial walls in my stage fright. I'm usually pretty psyched to get onstage these days, and I've learned how to convert fear and nervous energy into adrenaline and excitement. But tonight is different... For starters, it's at National Underground, which is a great venue (at least in name and in theory). Couple that with the fact that I have a bunch of musician friends showing up who have never heard me... and my friend David, who I really respect, is bringing several of HIS musician friends on the premise that I am worth watching. And let's just compound it all into one giant paranoia pill (aaaaaannnddd- swallow! *gulp) by deciding that this is going to be an "experimental" set, meaning I am going to try and pull a Jeff Buckley and play a solo set with my electric instead of my acoustic. Usually when I hear "experimental" I think drugs... probably would have all been swell if I'd had some to dole out to the audience beforehand. Double dose for me.
Last night was a great illustration of how things do not always go the way you planned them. Man. It was also, in my book, tangible evidence that there are such a thing as guitar-gnomes. You know, the little guys that hide in the hollow cavern at the back of the amplifier, wait til no one's looking, and come out to wreak havoc on your dials and machineheads (and your sanity). Because they can. That's the only reasonable explanation. Because before my s**t-show, I went downstairs for soundcheck... and tuned my guitar... and set the amp with the effects JUST how I wanted it... and went back upstairs to hang with my buddies while the venue got their hour-late act together and ate into my friends' personal time. By the time I got back downstairs to my precious melody-maker, it might as well have been tuned and set by Helen Keller. But considering the unfortunate state of affairs of Helen Keller's being long-dead, it would probably be folly to assume that she might have fumbled her way down to my stage area, eye-patches ablaze with malicious intent, and messed with my equipment. Therefore, the only explanation available is that the National Underground has an infestation of guitar gnomes, and should really have that checked out immediately. No one likes to eat at restaurants with roaches, no one likes to play at venues with gnomes.
I spent half of my set-time tuning my guitar and fiddling with the settings on the amp in the middle of songs. Like the classy broad I am. It was just epic- Intro (tune up flatted d-string), verse (guitar volume up, master down, low E is sharp), chorus (damn reverb, why is there NEVER enough of you? Up two more notches), hey, we finally get through a full verse and chorus without having to stop and mess with anything, and... my guitar cuts out. Just stops. That's it, all she wrote kids. But this is where I realize how absolutely AWESOME my friends are- my darling Adreanna just yells, "a-cappella!" and everybody starts clapping in time. And I just go with it, and sing. Finally the guitar cuts back on. At this point I might have appeared to be shoegazing, but I was really just checking the ground for any of those pesky little gnomes that needed their pitiful lives stomped out- when the noise resumes, the levels are totally f**ked AGAIN. So I fiddle some more. Then it cuts off again completely. And so on and so forth, over and over, until my buddy Mike Katz (a great performer who can be found all around town and amongst my FB friends) just shows up out of NOWHERE and places his guitar in my hands. WHOA. Actually I found out later that my friend Enzo kind of cornered Mike in some shadowy side area and intimidated him into it. Enzo also bullied those criminals at the Underground into coughing up a few bucks for my efforts. Thanks Enzo!
The show went on. Turns out it wasn't my guitar that was busted, it was either the house amplifier or my cable (which has never been problematic before). Throughout the set, it just kept happening- the guitar would die every now and again, forcing me to just sing through the parts. I guess it wasn't my fault... At least that's what everyone keeps telling me. They also say it ended up creating a good opportunity to showcase my voice. Whatever. David says it's "rock'n roll." I say it's poor preparation and a shitty performance.
We all had a great time, and then we rolled up a few blocks to see the Ne're Do Wells, whom I LOVE. One of the best local bands out there, if my opinion counts for anything. And watching them play- they are always TIGHT, well-rehearsed, have their sounds set perfectly and all their timings coordinated to the finest points. And the frontman is able to communicate all the "rock 'n roll" energy the band needs without compromising the integrity of the performance. They don't have to pull stupid stunts and fight their way through technical glitches just to keep the audience on edge.
I crashed Adreanna's couch after the show, then woke up in the same clothes and reported to my office to begin another Day In the Double Life. Hair disheveled, stuck broiling in my sweater 'cause the double wife-beater thing don't fly at Activ Financial, dark undereye circles (given my lifestyle, I really should give some serious consideration to turning to the Dark Side, and becoming one of those girls who always packs a deadly arsenal of warpaint). Oh yeah, and one contact lens because I blinked the other out in the cab. 
Why am I doing this, anyway? What is all of this for? I get very disheartened, feeling like I must be kidding myself for thinking that a musician's life could ever be for me. That I could ever be good enough. The 9-5 is always waiting there, taunting me, mocking me in the mornings. Telling me that it's the only fate I'll ever have to look forward to. The ancient elevator opens its gaping maw to swallow me whole, carrying me up its esophagus and spewing me out into the belly of the mundane beast. Is this really it? Am I just playing stupid games with myself at night, pretending as if the possibility of escape is real? I can't even fight my way through a tiny little set, like the ones I described in Episode 2, without laying down to sleep on the cold, rock-hard slab of inferiority and failure that I'm quickly coming to know as my bed.
At least I'm not Helen Keller. I have all of my faculties, and every opportunity in this world to make what I choose of. No excuses. Just like she'd never have known the feeling of playing a guitar, singing a song, or hearing beautiful music, I'll never know what it's like to overcome that level of adversity. And if the bitch's bitter ghost would just stop sending her minions the gnomes to sabotage my equipment... I'll have to overcome even less.