In the background with my trusty Squier VM Precision at Papa's on the Lake in Montgomery, Texas
Today would have been Waylon's 75th birthday. Y'all remember Waylon's song "Are You Sure Hank Done it This Way?"
Actually, it's amazing to me that anyone Done It This Way. While the rest of the world's income has increased exponentially over the years, musicians' income (meaning, the pay your local band receives for playing at your Friday night watering hole) hasn't increased a dime since something like 1964. In the early 1960s, professional musicians were paid on par with doctors, while today it's commonplace to see a hardworking, dedicated and professional band splitting $300 five ways for a day's work – and I've seen it way less than that.
Gigs are harder than ever to get, because there are more of us out there than ever before. Club owners in my area, for instance, have literally dozens of bands to choose from when they're booking their weekend entertainment: everything from classic rock to reggae, zydeco to country.
Club owners can run the gamut from absolute angel to the lowest form of life on the planet. Some will pay you extra just for showing up, in an effort to stand by their mantra of supporting local artists - while others will refuse to pay at all until you threaten to get a lawyer involved (or to sic your outlaw bass player on them).
Most of the band leaders I've worked with are awesome folks, but some band leaders can be effusive and distant, undedicated and unresponsive. They may spring a new show on you with a few hours notice, or call a new song you've never heard of halfway through the second set. They may promise you a hundred dollars and pay you sixty, and you can show up to a gig only to find that it's been cancelled for two weeks and no one told you. Sometimes a band leader might turn around and scold you like a child, on stage, if you hit a bad note, or threaten to dock your pay if you don't show up two hours early.
Promoters, agents and managers can be wonderful people, or they can be horrible monsters who need to be mowed down like zombies. You can put everything you have into a band – all your time, money, effort, all your blood sweat and tears – only to be completely ignored by your own booking agent, because he's too busy promoting a different band with nicer tits.
Your fellow musicians can suck, too. Most of the folks I've jammed with, including the guys I work with now, are way better than I am (some probably thought I suck), but then, every now and then, I've come across the guitar player who got drunk and tried to fight me on stage during a show, the drummer who completely crashed the song because he couldn't remember the beat ("wasn't feeling it"), the lead guitar player who never showed up on time (ever!), and the singer who got so drunk that he forgot all about the last set and disappeared with one of the bar's employees for the rest of the night (we found them passed out in her car in the parking lot, half-naked).
I once got a gig filling in for a bass player who'd been choked to death by an angry fan. I've driven to another state for a show, only to learn that the promoter who'd booked us didn't have anyone's blessing to do so, and we weren't going to play. I've had to return to a bar the next morning to strong-arm the owner or manager in order to get paid. And in the twenty-seven years since I first picked up a bass guitar in Rock Hill, South Carolina, I've never made more than about $500 or $600 a month by playing music. Usually, it's around $200 or $300 – and, of course, that number can range all the way down to zero.
But there's something about it that I can't ignore, something that won't let me walk away from it. When I'm on stage and one of my favorite songs is next on the list, there's this certain something that grabs me and keeps me locked into the business. When I overhear people in the crowd (they don't think the musicians on stage can hear them, so they say all kinds of things) telling each other that this band's bass player is better than Geddy Lee, this bass player ain't quitting any time soon. (By the way, it ain't true; I'll never be fit to carry Geddy's spare strings – and that ain't modesty or politeness – but it's still cool to hear).
And when you look at it like that, it's extra cool that you can collect $80 or $100 afterward. It may never pay all of my rent, but it comes close to paying for itself. And when all is said and done – when the last song is played and the gear is all packed up and we're sitting at the bar having one last Sprite before we get back out on the road, someone walks up and tells me how much he enjoyed the show, how much he appreciates us coming out to play tonight. Once, a man with a severe speech impediment told me he'd once been a bass player, but then he had a stroke and couldn't play anymore, so he enjoyed watching me play. So you tell me – How can I NOT love this business?
And yeah, just for the record, I believe this is pretty much exactly how Hank Done It.
