Ritual
Porter at The Uptown Tavern

It's a Friday night and we've got a show to play at the Uptown. There is a process to these things, a step-by-step progression that can be wearisome at times, not unlike crossing the desert on your hands and knees in religious pilgrimage and then turning around to head home the same way…

Load up
We start at the practice space, loading up everything we need for the show that night: amps, guitars, drums, mics, cords, extension cords, guitar stands, CDs, everything down to guitar pics-believe me, you don't want to forget them.

Travel
After packing the van, leaving the car seat behind, we drive-sometimes twice as long as the gig will last-to wherever the show is. This step usually involves some bitching and complaining.

Set up
There is a certain feeling in clubs before they open, a camaraderie of the penitent. The buzz of expectation is in the air. There's lots of milling about and mixing of band members as people trade gossip and unpack their equipment. Drums and amps and guitar cases crowd the corners and empty nooks. Waitresses filter in. They usually keep to themselves. Probably having learned that being friendly only lengthens the amount of time they get hit on later.

The wait
The lights are brought down, the house music is turned up, and we wait for people to show. Oh, and maybe drink a little beer. Or a lot.

The show
So this is it. The first band has played and you can judge how the crowd is: noisy, quiet, raucous, maybe mean. You prepare yourself for that mood, or convince yourself to change it. We help each other get our shit on stage and make sure cords are connected, drum hardware is tightened, guitars are tuned.

And if there is any magic to being in a local band, this is when it happens. Three guys standing in the corner, we've got instruments strapped around or lying in wait before us and all it takes is for one of us to start the rhythm, begin the song. The music surfaces as though pushed up out of murky, watery depths-music is a solid thing, the chords and melody and beats all moving because it is alive. And standing there in the pale red and green lights we are subjugated by song; leading, following, cooperating without need of consent. Music is a vast ocean and as players we connect to it, channel some small wave through us, allowing the source to speak. What it says decides who listens, who walks away. Musicians are pushed and pulled, raised up or drowned in its wake. In the right place at the right time, music can consume a crowd like nothing else in the world, friends and strangers alike united in head-nodding, foot-tapping, body-swaying agreement. That's the magic. That's why we do it.

Break down
Then before you know it, it's over. The minutes like nanoseconds, songs lost in hazy, bleary lights and ringing ears. The three hours preceding the show now go in slow motion reverse order for another three: take the shit off the stage, wait for the management to pay, load out all of the equipment, pack the cars, drive back to the practice space, unload everything and hopefully make it home in time to sleep before morning comes. Amen.

-Keith Demanche

Keith Demanche can be reached at hippo@hippopress.com.