Just another day at the office

Because of conflicting schedules, my band and I hardly had a chance to practice this summer. But because I was itching to jam, I tortured Dan, one of the members, into practicing three or four days a week. Inevitably, he gave in and we soon had to start searching for a place to perform. So we packed up our guitars, a few small amps, a sax and our top hats to head downtown.\nThe night started off with a big disappointment when a certain bartender went back on his word about letting us play when he found out Dan wasn't 21. Instead of giving up on a Friday night off work we decided to see if Evansville's very own casino would be interested in something other than the middle-aged, well-dressed jukebox cover bands who play all your favorite hits from 1964-1967 in one big medley. \nSurprisingly enough, all the restaurants in the complex said they'd love to have live music but they didn't think we were right for them. Apparently you're not a real bar band unless you have matching outfits. The fancy Italian restaurants apparently prefer the exciting sounds of a piano player to live jazz. But in the casino's defense, they did say that they didn't know where they'd find the money to pay us. \nNot easily discouraged, we decided to play for free outside of the entrance. After about a half an hour of jamming on some of our favorite classic rock and blues tunes we started to draw a little crowd and even take a few requests. In the middle of an improvised jazz tune, we noticed a security guard walk by with her head bobbing to the rhythm. We figured everything was cool when she smiled at us and hung around for a few more songs, and we noticed a few people had dropped some cash in the guitar case.\nThen from out of nowhere I heard, "Get those two out of here" over a two-way radio. This particular security guard was not as pleased with our music. We were told that we would have to leave or be busted for solicitation. I thought, "Wow, now I know what I can do for a living if music falls through. But hey, I still want to be respected for my mind for now (insert laughter)."\nWith newly acquired gas money, we figured we'd go for it and check out the scene downtown where a car show had just begun to pack up. We waited patiently as the poor excuse for a '50s-style cover band left the pavilion. After they cleared out we found an electrical outlet on the edge of the park so I could plug in my Telecaster to get enough volume to match the saxophone. We had just finished our two man version of Booker T. and the MGs "Green Onions" when a couple walked over to invite us to play for them.\nThey were eating at a place called the Jungle. It's one of those coffee shops with a cigar bar in the basement and a patio for eating outdoors in the summer. A few months earlier, the Jungle had given up on booking blues and jazz bands. \nWe found the nearest outlet a few feet from the patio and played everything we could think of from originals, to folk tunes, to jazz, blues and every variety of rock. I remember that when we started I saw the sun set down the street. We finished just before 1 a.m. when we had convinced the remaining audience that we had to get something to eat or we'd never be able to play again. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I remember the manager walking out to shake hands with us, give us a few more bucks and ask for contact information. \nWe talked to everyone there and even noticed a handful of couples dancing. People changed plans that night to sit back, enjoy a few more drinks and hear something real. This is what music is about. That's one definition at least. Seven hours, one threat of arrest, three phone numbers, not being able to feel my fingertips, about $25 apiece and the feeling that you could die that night with no regrets, except maybe tomorrow…\nSeth Forster writes "In the Garage," a bi-weekly column about his experience in a local band.