Last year I had a gig that did not go well. It began with not being able to find parking (in Boston this is not a new one, but it’s particularly painful for the musicians hired to entertain you). When I finally got to the venue, I was late. As I attempted to get set up my gear, my brain went into meltdown mode. I went cord by cord, switch by switch, volume knob by volume knob to get myself up and running and took as many deep breaths as I could to shake off the anxiety I had brought in with me. But it did not shake off. I felt awful.

Then, dear friends, I was supposed to sing for an hour. I did, but it wasn’t pretty. By the end of it, I thought I was done gigging forever. Was it that bad? Probably not. But you couldn’t tell my lizard brain that. It was in survival mode, and everything and everyone looked like a predator. It left me asking what the heck had happened. Didn’t I used to do this a lot?

After that night, I decided I needed a break from gigs. As a devoted music fan, I love hearing excellence and truth in music. I wasn’t presenting either, as far as I could tell, so I went to seek it out elsewhere.

It’s subtle, but I’m really glad I did this part with intention. I could have just stopped and not thought about why. Was I running scared? Somewhat, yes. But I think what I really wanted to get curious about was why I perform at all. Do I even enjoy it? What about performing gets musicians to leave their homes with all of their gear, find parking, unload, set up, soundcheck, and perform to a crowd of adoring, indifferent, hostile, or oblivious people? If money is your answer, then I think any musician will tell you it’s more complicated than that. So I decided to spend time re-discovering why I love live performance and why other people love it, too. I decided I was going to be an audience member with the sole intent of enjoying music. Not judging, or networking, or scoping out a venue to see if I could perform there. My only goal was to enjoy some music.

I started by going out to Toad (sadly, now closed) to see the Blue Ribbons perform for their monthly residency. It was a beautiful community made up of many longtime fans and friends, who loved the band and felt at home at the venue. I would often go alone and sit at a stool on the bar if I could find a spot, and I felt welcomed. Don’t we all just yearn to belong? How nice to happen into a little bar and sit down by yourself and feel perfectly at home while listening to great musicians who make you feel like you’re being let in on a big secret, or joke. You can never tell with these guys.

Later I began stopping and listening to buskers. I noticed and appreciated the wagons they rolled out with their speakers and amps and microphones, a whole show they put together that absolutely no one asked them to. I was jealous of the expert way they could thank someone for a tip without losing their place in a song. The way a huge truck could swallow their sound and they could keep going like it didn’t matter. Like that train rolling into the station didn’t make us miss half of the song, your audience dissipating with the open doors and swarms of people trying to get somewhere else. Then there’s the children dancing. That alone is a reason to busk, or at least sit and observe a busker for a while. You can be an audience member to someone else’s delight. The non-attachment of busking is freeing.

I also began going to see shows at Berklee to support students I knew there, which is a pleasure, because many are already professionals. It made me remember my own recitals as a music student and how special it made me feel to see the adults that worked in administration come and support me. I forgot and then remembered how important even one butt in a seat is at this stage. And here is what bubbled up for me:

When you know how important something is to someone and you show up, you give them the assurance so many of us desperately want to have: “you got this.”

I went to see Jessye DeSilva at the Lizard Lounge, and remembered that special venue. They played a favorite of mine, “Thrown,” and the whole room was quiet, like a spell cast. Soon after, my friend Samantha Farrell began her monthly residency there, and everyone that gathered there for her was full of good will and good humor, and Sam and the band were fantastic. The Lizard Lounge is one of the best listening rooms the Boston area has. I marveled at what it means to be truly immersed, and both of these performances gave me that feeling.

There were many other performances, but those were some of the ones that gave me my reasons for performing back. I began listening more deeply because I knew that each musician had undergone a bad gig day. They had done the schlep. The double parking in Boston, perilously trying to get their gear into the venue without being sideswiped or having something stolen. They had the existential dread of whatever was happening in the world on their shoulders, and still they showed up, sometimes to an indifferent crowd. And MAN! They still did it. How amazing. And they played beautifully. They shared generously. They made perfectly timed jokes, and drew everyone in and let them know that they were family. They created a little bubble, even for a little while, for humans to feel safe and to belong. To forget, or for me, to remember.