I remembered tonight why I started playing music in the first place.
I was asked by a couple of old friends, with whom I used to play in a couple of bands, to help them host an open jam they had lined up, but had no front man. Play some tunes, make a few bucks, I'm game. The lead up to the gig was particularly stressful for me; it's been years since I've even thought about most of the material we would be playing. My amp didn't work, and most of my gear was sketchy at best. So I got the gear working, went over some songs, packed my car up, and made the trek out to Harrison for the gig.
The gig is somewhere between open jam and open mic, with the fare being somewhere between blues standards and radio favorites, played by patrons between the best and worst of musician and singer. We back them all. One guy played with us for about an hour, playing songs we had all sort of heard, and we made him sound good. I fed off the mutual energy on stage, and the little bit coming in from the audience. I felt a high I haven't felt in years.
But the problem with a high is the inevitable crash.
As I sit here, I feel worn, deeply, as if my soul itself is exhausted. For me, there's a certain emptiness that comes with the crash; I gave of myself, and what I got in return has been spent, and so have I. It's a deep, dark place to be.
But it's worth it.
The high is well-worth the low, by far. I remember why I started playing in the first place. It was nice to see my old friend The Stage tonight, and I hope to see her again soon.
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