One day many years ago when my first son was a baby I was taking him for a walk around the neighborhood in his stroller. As we strolled I heard the sound of a garage band nearby and walked over to see the band. They were fifteen year olds rehearsing in a garage and I introduced myself as a lifelong musician and publisher of PaperCuts, The Illustrated Lyrics Magazine, being published at the time, and I offered my guidance.
The talented guitar player relished the opportunity to get some experienced advice and I came to their next rehearsal, sans the baby carriage. The band was set up in a semicircle with the amps all pointing at each other and they all faced the drummer.
“First of all,” I said, “put your amps in a line facing your audience and you guys all face forward.”
“This is how we like it, man,” the lead singer snapped back.
“But when you’re playing a real gig at a club they’re going to want you to set up your gear so the audience can hear and see you. You wouldn’t want to pay money to see a bad that has their backs to you.”
“This is how we do it, man,” he reiterated.
“Okay,” I said then I turned around and left.
When opportunity knocks it is unwise to tell it to get the hell off your front porch.
The talented guitar player relished the opportunity to get some experienced advice and I came to their next rehearsal, sans the baby carriage. The band was set up in a semicircle with the amps all pointing at each other and they all faced the drummer.
“First of all,” I said, “put your amps in a line facing your audience and you guys all face forward.”
“This is how we like it, man,” the lead singer snapped back.
“But when you’re playing a real gig at a club they’re going to want you to set up your gear so the audience can hear and see you. You wouldn’t want to pay money to see a bad that has their backs to you.”
“This is how we do it, man,” he reiterated.
“Okay,” I said then I turned around and left.
When opportunity knocks it is unwise to tell it to get the hell off your front porch.
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