I’m extremely grateful to those friends of mine who came to Brightness Falls’ inaugural performance last night. It went reasonably well, as well as could be expected, and a café in Saint Paul seemed as good a place as any for a low-stakes first gig. We even earned ourselves one new fan, a walk-in, and I found myself uttering those terrible words, “Well, we’re on MySpace, so look us up.”

I realized in the midst of last night’s set that I really crave and depend on the semi-obscurity that being the drummer at the back of the stage affords, being able to hide behind the other band members not only visually but aurally, sometimes not even able to see the audience for the brightness of the stage lights. Last night there was nowhere to hide, and I felt exposed and awkward, bit my tongue more than I usually do when I play, and found that I could barely glance up and look at any of the few people—nearly all of them good friends of mine—who comprised our audience. Suddenly, I felt accountable.

Which is not all bad. Sometimes I’m astounded at how many bands I’ve joined or established and shepherded to various stages of bandhood—gigged with, toured with, drank with, recorded with—and then bade farewell. Eight now, by my count, over the last fifteen years. Given the fickle, mystical, tenuous nature not only of a band’s popularity but also its internal cohesion, it’s by now a given that I’m in this for the process, not the product. And the process, while rewarding, is daunting in direct proportion.

Loading my stuff out of that café and driving back west on 94, I felt farther away than ever from the Sunday afternoons in ninth grade I spent jamming in Mark’s attic with him and Phil and Wes. There was a time when I found it not just undesirable but inconceivable that the four of us would ever not be in a band together, much less find ourselves in any other permutation of musicians, but that’s now been the norm for longer than it hasn’t.

Starting new bands is exhausting, and it’s a young person’s pursuit. In my weaker moments it seems like a foolish endeavor for a thirty-one year old, and when even a relatively small city like Minneapolis seems to have as many struggling bands as it does inhabitants, it’s easy to wonder what the hell the point is. But it’s usually not long, thankfully, before I recognize this line of thinking for the bullshit it is. My optimism about playing music grows even as I get more realistic about it. I mean, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll never be Tad Kubler or John Herndon—I don’t have nearly enough tattoos on my arms, for one thing. But after writing, playing drums is the only constant in my life, and it’s fun as hell, and I think I’m okay at it. So I’m going to keep doing it until I no longer physically can, or I’m told to stop, whichever comes first.

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