The booking person for a local venue (well, local as in, where I used to live/where my band still lives) sent me an email yesterday inquiring about my availability to play an acoustic show sometime in April. After I had a hearty chuckle and a “where were you 12 weeks ago!?” reaction, I wrote it off as a missed opportunity. I suppose maybe it was kismet that made her email, since I was mid-way through patching up (or, at least, assessing) some non-pregnancy related damage to the band that went down in October. Oh sure, I’ve patched up MY issues, but this still leaves two grown men to their own prideful devices to work out some kind of reconciliation. I put out some feelers on what it would take to get us back up and running for a show this Fall, and perhaps my meddling triggered something in the universe, prompting the email offer to play an acoustic show.
I bounced it off my wife, my guitarist (who would be playing the show with me), and facebook for their gut-reaction, and all of which were pretty supportive. I thought… well, the timing would have to be right – the earlier in April the better, a weekend night would be ideal. Now let’s all stop and consider that nine times out of ten, when I schedule a show, it usually falls sometime within the worst time ever, so the odds of me getting what I want were pretty slim to start. But I asked the booking lady what she had available, and she shot back exactly that – the second Saturday in April. Fancy that. What started off as a missed opportunity is apparently now confirmation to play a two hour acoustic show while I’m seven months pregnant.
Sometime yesterday afternoon, when I got home from work, I ran through a few songs while sitting on my couch. Man, I’d love to play and sing just once more. Then sometime last night, while trying to fall asleep, I decided I would email her and decline the offer. What pregnant lady needs that kind of stress? Two hours? I don’t even play two hour shows WITH my band! And 9pm-11pm? I can barely stay awake until 9:30pm! But THEN sometime this morning, I got fired up and hyped about playing a show. It’ll keep me from getting too rusty. It’s only two hours, right? And it’s acoustic, which means low-key, which means no pressure to jump around the stage like a rabid lunatic. I can stand there, guitar sidled off to the side of the belly, sing a few songs, and call it a night. Think of the stories I can tell Vegas. This would be such an awesome follow-up to when I played a show in October when he was merely a bunch of unrecognizable cells. The hype got to me, and I found myself firming up the details of the show with her, all while nursing the PIT OF DOOM in my stomach. Can’t leave well enough alone, can I?
So now I need a haircut. And some quality time getting my voice up to singing par. And an on-stage maternity t-shirt? Good luck with that. Update the website, start some promo, learn a new cover song or two to fill out the set. I suppose this is an example of a bit of parental advice I will give to Vegas: Make good decisions. Even as I sit here wondering if I’ll have the stamina to perform for two hours in (practically) the middle of the night, or if I’ve gotten too cocky in my pregnancy, I feel like it was a good decision. Time will tell.