Bad Gigs

Every musician has a bad gig story—probably several. If they say they don’t, they’re either lying or repressing the experience.

Bad gigs come in all flavors: cranky crowds, terrible venues, deafening noise, bad weather … or, if you’re really lucky, a spirit-breaking combo of them all.

I’m a solo classical guitarist. My jobs are supposed to be the quiet ones: background music for small groups, weddings, dinners, memorials. Nothing rowdy. At least, that’s what people promise when I’m hired. But I always bring an amp, because “quiet event” can apparently translate to “louder than a sports bar.” And if the gig’s outside? Forget it. Even with an amp, Mother Nature wins the volume battle every time.

Case in point: I played a sunset wedding on the beach in Cape May. Sounds romantic, right? Ocean breeze, streaks of golden light, gentle guitar music … Nope. The waves roared louder than a jet engine drowning me out, the wind shredded my sheet music into confetti, and the mosquitoes treated me like dinner.

And weddings? Don’t get me started. Bridezillas love requesting music that has no business on a solo classical guitar. Cartoon jingles, disco, a whole concerto? Yes, really. And there’s always that one tipsy guest who staggers over with a boatload of stupid guitar jokes:

• “How’s it strumming?”
• “You’re fretfully good!”
• “Stop fretting!”
• “No strings attached!”

I plaster on a polite smile while questioning every career choice I’ve made.

From my employers, I have one simple request: a chair with no arms. That’s it. You can’t hold a guitar properly with an armrest jabbing you in the ribs. About half the time, I actually get one. When I don’t, the caterers often save the day. They’ll scrounge up a chair, bring me water, and sometimes even slip me food. (Shoutout to caterers)

But one of my worst gigs wasn’t a wedding at all. It was a house party in a mansion on Philadelphia’s swanky Main Line. Gorgeous place—wall of windows, oak trim everywhere, vaulted ceilings with chandeliers, plush Persian carpet, the whole Architectural Digest spread.

The hosts hired me for background music. Or so they said. Did they even ask for my credentials? Of course not. Just as well, I don’t think “music faculty” and “Carnegie Hall debut” would have impressed them.

But when I showed up with my amp, sight-readable music, all ready to blend into the background, I got a nasty surprise.

They expected a concert.

My stomach dropped, and I felt a migraine coming on. I had three concert-level pieces memorized and in my fingers, so I figured I could mix them with background pieces and hope for the best.

They sat me in a massive wingback chair that looked like it came from a medieval castle. Regal, sure—but a nightmare if you’re trying to play guitar without spraining something. I sat sort of side-saddle and did my best.

The twenty-five or so guests arranged themselves in a semi-circle around the edge of a long rectangular room with me at the head. They gave me polite applause after a few pieces … and then stopped listening. They sipped their wine, ate Hors d’oeuvres,and chatted. It was like I was playing background music after all.

Then it happened: a middle-aged man, three or four glasses in, shouted, “Play some Bruce!” Within seconds, others chimed in. That was it for me. Could I have fumbled through Dancing in the Dark? Sure. But I was hired to play classical music not Springsteen covers. I packed up, grabbed my check, and bolted before anyone demanded Born to Run.

Not my worst gig, but the way it morphed from background music, to concert, to drunken karaoke hour? The full musician’s trifecta. And it made me wonder—why do some people feel entitled to jerk musicians around? Are we still seen as part of the serving class, like in the 1700s, when we ate at the servant’s table? Or are we trapped in the 1800s Romantic cliché of the poor, starving artist, who suffers nobly for their art—thanks for that one, Beethoven.

So, what do you think? Are musicians still servants, starving artists … or maybe something else?

Musicians: tell me your worst gig story.

Non-musicians: have you witnessed a musical train wreck from the audience?

Drop it in the comments—I’m all ears.