Songs in the margins and my eternal search for the load-in door
"Smokers & Fire Pit: This Way"
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Show diary - A clear day in May, 2025:
I’m booked to play a show in a town I’ve never been to before. That may not sound like a big deal, but the town is not very far from where I live. So after all this time, I wonder: how have I never been there before?
To prepare, I rehearse songs I want to play and think about how they might line up in a setlist. I scribble down contenders on a piece of paper; some new songs, some older ones, maybe a cover.
Before long, the order comes together quite nicely.
As I work through my songs, I start to daydream about a wild crowd in this unknown town, insisting on an encore as I finish my set: En-core! En-core! They chant at the stage, pint glasses banging out a tribal barroom rhythm on the rickety tables above their knees. As my daydream unfolds, I write down some extra songs in the margins. These will be my encore songs. I write them down because I don’t want to be caught without tunes left to play for this adoring crowd in my imagination.
But I know from experience, the more realistic scenario is a disinterested audience kindly clapping when I disrupt their chatter to say goodnight as I finish my last song. I then graciously thank them and quickly start to “tear down”, which is a music industry term for “pack up my shit”. Then the nonplussed crowd goes back to their conversations and pints like nothing ever happened, up there on that stage. And not long after I tear down, the bartender yells “last call!” It’s at a volume that shatters their chatter and a mad scramble to the bar ensues.
And it’s around this time that I disappear into the night.
I’m hardly disillusioned when faced with this reality. I’m at peace with the fact the extra songs in the margins of my setlist paper are only hopeful numbers, unlikely to be played in the town I’ve never been to before.
It’s an hour drive and I know “load-in” is at 7pm, so I’m spending time packing and planning the right time to leave, allowing for traffic-dodging as we exit the city.
By the way, “load-in” is another music industry term that means bringing your guitar, amp and other music gear from your vehicle, into the hall and onto the stage. I often reflect on all the silly industry terms I’ve heard over the years by people in the music business who feel the need to wield them like codes to their secret club: tear-down, load-in, advance the show, setlist, guarantee, merch, rider, strike the stage, etc. There’s so much useless music industry speak out there. Pro tip: Don’t sweat the terms. You likely don’t want to be in their club.
I remember the first time I heard someone say ‘merch’ in a hip club in Montreal. I was a teen at a punk rock show and the dude who uttered the term seemed very important. He was wearing sunglasses in a dark club. And he wore a ripped jean jacket with patches that screamed rock and roll. He had one of those dangly chains hanging from his belt, that looped down and around to his wallet stuffed in his back pocket.
“Set up the MERCH here!” he yelled to the folks carrying boxes of t-shirts and records. “Did you count the MERCH?” he barked. Then, “Keep your eyes on the MERCH”.
“Ohhhh, so it’s merch.” I said this to myself, making a mental note. In those days I was desperately trying to break the music business codes and studied every move of every band and every character in every seedy night club I visited.
But I digress.
The drive to the town I’ve never been to before is beautiful. The phone app tells us to take a secondary route to avoid traffic and we end up on a magnificent country road just outside the city, following the edge of a mountain range, pressed against a national park. We gawk at the beautiful properties along the way and dream out loud of moving to the country. Ohhhh, look at that one. We repeat this phrase and I slow down each time. Ohhhh, look. Another one.
The sun is setting and the spectacular scenery takes up most of the hour-long journey before we’re spit out onto a main road that loosely follows a river. Not long after that, the pavement pours us into a tiny town and we pull up beside a 100-year old tavern. It’s here where I’ll play my songs for complete strangers tonight. As I think about how beautifully bizarre that is, I imagine myself as an old-time rural doctor paying house visits to strange homes to heal the wounded, weak or sad.
I’m here with my little black bag of songs to make you feel better.
When I step out of the truck, the smell of campfire hits me and I’m overwhelmed by a sense of calm. The evening is cool and twilight is not far off. The large river we followed along the main road is to the south and there’s a high mountain range just to the north. I note the spectacular 360 view and I’m in awe of the beauty of this little town, way out here in the middle of nowhere. The anxiety I feel about playing in a strange place starts to evaporate like the sweet campfire smoke on the springtime air.
I walk across the dirt road in search of the load-in door and I step up to the massive two-story building. I reach for the handle on what I think is the main door, but something has it jammed from the inside. I gently push until the door opens and I see toddler feet scurry away. As I step through, I see a bar full of families corralling little kids. Surely this isn’t where the show will be. And why are there so many kids running around inside an old tavern?
Small towns, I think to myself. No one cares about these things in small towns.
None of the family members acknowledge me as I step through the door, even though I smile a silent apology to the Dad who is retrieving his toddler from being a doorstop. He doesn’t look at me as he whisks the kid away. I float towards the bar unnoticed by all the kid herders and try to catch the eye of the bartender who either doesn’t see me or completely ignores the fact I appear to be looking for directions, let alone a cold pint. After a few moments, I decide it’s the latter and give up. I turn to explore deeper into the building and search for the load-in door myself.
Turning left through a curtained entrance, I step into a dark hallway with a row of slot machines. An old man is sitting alone at one of them, slumped on his stool and transfixed by the digital glow of the gambling game. He doesn’t see me either. I immediately decide it’s pretty depressing in the little slot machine hallway, so I quickly walk through it. My Blundstones clomp across the ancient green linoleum and I swipe through another curtain, out into a bright foyer. There’s a large stairwell heading up to the second floor and more doors out to the main road. Maybe this is the main entrance? This place goes on forever, I think to myself. I walk through the foyer and around another corner. I finally see a massive room with an elevated stage at the far end, lit up by purple and pink lights.
Here it is.
I’ve found it.
But where is the load-in door?
I take a deep breathe and start to examine the large empty hall and envision my carefully crafted setlist being played up there on that stage.
As I scan the hall, I notice the room is divided up by long tables and dozens of wooden chairs. These old drinking hall chairs all look the same to me and incidentally, they will always remind me of my friend Rodney. One time he was dancing on one, stomping along to a band in a hall just like this. We were rowdy teenagers then. We all laughed at his dancing skills until he put his cowboy boot right through the chair and fell off, nearly wiping out a table of friends and drinks.
Scanning further, I catch the eye of an old man sitting alone at the empty bar. He slides off his stool and makes his way across the room. He welcomes me with a big smile and hearty handshake. His hand is large and his palm feels calloused with the texture of horse saddle leather. Farmer’s hands, I think to myself.
The man guides me toward the other end of the hall. As we approach a door I notice a sign on it that says: “Smokers & Fire Pit: This Way”.
I walk outside and see the source of the divine campfire smell that struck me when I stepped out of the truck. A fire pit in the middle of a gravel lot is crackling away with a sweet inviting tone. There’s no one in sight, so I figure the old man sitting at the bar must be tending to it.
I walk across the lot and out to the dirt road where I parked the truck. I grab my guitar, amp and pedals and let my partner know I’ve finally found the load-in door.
As I make my way back toward the lonely fire pit, I reflect on my 30 plus years of playing live music in strange venues. I think about all the times I’ve spent trying to find the load-in door. I think about how I used to get so excited on these adventures and I’m amazed that I still do. I also feel anxious and unsure, questioning why I still do this. But I know when I start to play, that feeling usually melts away and I’m reacquainted with the joy of playing live music. Walking across the empty lot, I catch myself craving that feeling. I think about the old time rural doctor again, with the little black bag, visiting a strange house to perform healing. But this time I wonder if I’m the doctor. Or the patient.
I pull open the load-in door and the man from the bar is standing a few feet away. He scurries to hold the door and offers to help me carry something.
“So wonderful to have you play for us tonight,” he says, his tone incredibly genuine.
Small towns, I think to myself. People are so genuine in small towns.
He reaches out to take the little amp from my hand and he smiles.
“One thing I’ll tell you for sure,” he says. “I just know tonight is going to be a great night.”
This is a photo of the actual load-in door from this story. By sheer coincidence, I saw this when I was writing this piece. This is a still from my friend Laura Taler’s new film “Matryoshka Crush”, currently screening at AXENÉO7, in Gatineau, QC. You should go see it if you can. (And look…Kukeri found the load-in door too!)
I remember my band being shamed so hard for not knowing what “backlining” meant. The dude shaming us must’ve used the term 50 times in the span of an hour.