Yesterday I shared video of a live performance of my song “Hipster Girl Next Door” with an extended, absurd, frequently sloppy medley of songs tossed on at the end(s).  It was great fun, even though I mixed up the lyrics to my own song!

Before the gig, regular reader and contributor Ponty asked if I’d be recording the performance.  Ponty lives in Merry Olde England, so obviously could not make it to the performance here in these United States.  I was happy to oblige my Anglo-Saxon friend, but I must explain a somewhat unfortunate, visceral reaction I had initially upon reading the request (disclaimer:  Ponty, I am not upset at you.  —TPP).

I hate it when people ask me “will the performance be recorded?” (with the exception of Ponty, who, again, lives in England, or Audre, neither of whom I would ever expect to travel to hear me play sloppy cover songs in a coffee shop).  I imagine if you ask most small-time indie musicians, they’ll confess to the same sentiment.  For me, it boils down to two things:

1.) You’re clearly indicating that you have no intention of even attempting to make it out to hear me play live.

2.) You’re asking me to perform extra work to record a video of a performance you have no interest in attending, and you’re probably not going to watch the video anyway.

Again, there are exceptions:  people who live abroad/far away (Ponty, Audre, readers of this blog more than thirty minutes away), parents of school children for school performances (parents want recordings for grandparents and family members who live far away, or because work won’t allow them to attend a performance), and the like.

But it kills me when locals ask for a recording.

The lay person does not understand the work that goes into even a simple live show at a coffee shop.  Even with two performers—or solo!—there’s a good bit that goes into it:

• Rehearsing/practicing pieces
• Putting together set lists (I’ve largely stopped making set lists for my own gigs, instead feeling out the audience and adjusting my repertoire in the moment, but that came only after years of performing live and practicing; most musicians still need to make set lists)
• Loading and unloading equipment multiple times—home to car, car to venue, venue to car, car to home
• Loading extra equipment in the event that:
  • The venue does not have the equipment you need (check on this advance if possible)
  • Your existing equipment decides to die or malfunction on you ten minutes before the show (it happens more than you’d think!)
  • One of the musicians you’re playing with forgets a piece of his equipment (not a problem with John, fortunately)
  • The venue’s equipment stops working or is incompatible in some way with your gear
• Setting up a merch table that is attractive and appealing to potential buyers/supporters/fans
• Setting out tip jars strategically to maximize potential tips
• Checking your sound, either with someone at the venue or (typically in a coffee shop) by yourself
• Figuring out the house’s sound system, especially if you’ve never played the venue before and they don’t have someone dedicated to run the board (keep in mind, at most coffee shops, a barista might check your sound for you, but he’s selling and brewing coffee, drinks, etc.)
• Mentally preparing and “pumping” yourself up to perform

I’m probably forgetting several things.  Keep in mind, most of these steps are on me personally to perform, or I (at the very least) must establish a rapport with whoever is the point-of-contact for the show that evening (not always the person with whom I booked the gig) to make sure everything runs smoothly on both ends—the venue’s and mine.

By that point, the last thing I am thinking about is the fair-weather friend at home playing Call of Duty who asked me to record the show.

Plus, who really wants to listen to an entire concert recorded using a cellphone?  I’ve gotten some great cellphone footage for my YouTube channel over the past few months, but that’s for three-or-four-minute songs, not hour-long sets.  I’ve done Facebook livestreams and the like in the past, but I lack the equipment to make those compelling and enjoyable for listeners, and it’s—again—another item I have to keep up with mentally.  It’s no wonder I forget the lyrics to my own songs sometimes!

Speaking of, I’ve only discussed the prep work that goes into a performance.  I haven’t even touched upon the performance itself.  While I’m singing and playing a song, I am performing multiple mental and physical tasks at once:

• Playing piano
• Singing
• Reading lead sheet/sheet music (when needed), including turning pages (as needed; I try to get all of my lead sheets down to two pages, max, but it’s not always possible)
• Playing chords and singing lyrics from memory (which, in my case, can be faulty!)
• Adjusting the mic stand (a droopy mic stand is a singing pianist’s worst enemy)
• Making a note of the people in the room, making calculations about what genres they are likely to enjoy
• Planning my next song (granted, a set list would alleviate this one), or considering how I might seamlessly weave the existing song into the next song
• Planning when to make merch and tip jar pitches
• Considering my post-/pre-song stage patter
• Acknowledging fans who tip during a song
• Selling merchandise (seriously—a lady bought a CD from me once while I was playing a song)!
• Paying attention to what John is doing so we are in sync
• Sending John telepathic messages about whether or not we’re cutting a song short or extending it (okay, it’s not actual telepathy, but musicians have ways of cueing to each other that are subtle)

Managing a recording or livestream on top of that, again, is doable, but annoying.

“Well, Port, why not get someone to film, or hire a videographer?”  Musicians do both of these things, but it usually depends on a dedicated fan being present in the former case, or shelling out significant cash in the latter case.  A musician hires a professional videographer only if they’re trying to get high-quality promotional footage or create some kind of live performance sizzle reel.  That’s a big cost (more on that in a moment).

It’s also a huge imposition on a fan to sit with your phone or device and film for the entire time.  It’s not fair to the person who did come out for the show to record it for the “fan” who did not attend.  Fans usually love filming one or two songs—it makes them feel like they’re part of the action—but they have come to enjoy an evening, not work for free.  They want to get coffee, maybe a scone, and enjoy music and conversation with their friends, not stand awkwardly filming me the entire time.

It’s also worth considering that, for all of this effort, the financial payoff for coffee shop gigs is low.  I have had three-digit coffee shop gigs before, but they are rare, and depend upon highly-motivated merch buyers and generous tippers.  Most coffee shops do not pay a guarantee (a “guarantee” is just what it sounds like—a guaranteed fee for your music, regardless of who attends or not; they are higher for bars and restaurants that serve alcohol and large numbers of clientele, but the atmosphere of those venues, as well as their requirements for performers, are quite different).  They will typically “pay” you in coffee and bottled water, and maybe some food.  They might also split their tips with you.  It all depends on the venue.

To give an example, with a fairly healthy local audience last on Friday, 22 September 2023, John and I brought in exactly $31 in tips, and I made a single, $10 merch sale.  $30 of those tips were actually to the coffee shop itself, which had promised us a split of their tips.  We should have only gotten $15, plus the measly dollar from our tip jars (which came, from all people, a student of mine, God Bless her; the mostly older crowd, brimming with disposable income, was not so generous), but the manager of this coffee shop loves John and me, and in a burst of generosity, gave us the whole take (thank you, Joe!).

That meant John walked home with $16 (if there’s ever an odd number, I give John the difference, rather than messing around with splitting a dollar) and yours portly walked away with $25 ($15 from tips plus $10 for merch).

I’ll squeeze a few more pennies from the gig in the form of ASCAP OnStage royalties for playing my original tunes, and maybe garner a couple of cents in ad revenue for this blog post, but that’s it.

To be fair, I knew all of this going into the gig.  I’m not complaining about the take (well, that’s not my intent, anyway); my point is that, these gigs are already a labor of love.  I understand people can’t make it to shows for a host of reasons, and I never begrudge anyway for not coming.

However, when you ask for a recording, it cuts to the quick.  I’d much rather you say, “Sorry, I can’t make it, but have fun!” than say, “Sorry, I can’t make it, but can you make a recording of the show for me?”

Better yet, how about get off the couch and come do something fun?  We’re all exhausted, I get it.  But if we want nice things—like live music—we’ve got to support them.