Was happily playing 3-4 times a month before the sniffle panic. Two unique, well rehearsed, bands that I was very proud of are now down the toilet. No place to play, so my bandmates threw in the towel. A third project that would have been my dream band: stillborn.
To say that I'm bitter would be vastly understating.
Yes. I call it my “noisy therapy”.It is a creative and energetic release that I need in my life.
Going to try for a new start in Music City USA, but it's hard to find the energy to find the right people and do it all again in a new place. Optimism is a stretch goal.Sorry to hear that. That really sucks.
....
I have zero interest in playing live anymore. Trying to find dedicated, non-egomaniac band members who actually learn the songs and have the gear is more stress than its worth. Also, I'm 50. No local band that does original music is going to be interested in someone my age. At best, I'd hook up with some dad rock band that does 70s, 80s and 90s covers. Woohoo, I can get up on stage with a bunch of over-the-hill geezers and muddle through "Pour Some Sugar On Me" at some run-down dive where the owner doesn't want to pay and the audience is a bunch of drunk grandmas and grandpas still trying to fit into spandex and wearing the same denim jackets they wore in 1988. No thanks.
Over the past five years I've recorded seven full-length albums and played guest on a few more. The last club show I played was in 1993, with a really terrible garage band I was in. None of use had tuners and we had cheap Peavey and Marshall solid state amps. Last time I played live was around 2019 with a community college guitar ensemble.
I have zero interest in playing live anymore. Trying to find dedicated, non-egomaniac band members who actually learn the songs and have the gear is more stress than its worth. Also, I'm 50. No local band that does original music is going to be interested in someone my age. At best, I'd hook up with some dad rock band that does 70s, 80s and 90s covers. Woohoo, I can get up on stage with a bunch of over-the-hill geezers and muddle through "Pour Some Sugar On Me" at some run-down dive where the owner doesn't want to pay and the audience is a bunch of drunk grandmas and grandpas still trying to fit into spandex and wearing the same denim jackets they wore in 1988. No thanks.