Wednesday Night at Muffy’s was originally published in “Workers Write! Tales from the Key of C.” The book is available from the publisher’s website and from Amazon in both print and Kindle formats.
Wednesdays at Muffy’s are the worst. An all-ages night dedicated to new and recently formed bands—mostly groups of wide-eyed teenagers who’ve been playing instruments for just a few months. It’s sort of like an open mic night, except Terry, the club’s owner, pays the bands a small percentage of the door.
Terry never works on Wednesdays, though, which means I’m stuck doing everything: running sound, monitoring the door, making sure the bartender doesn’t sell to anyone without a wristband. If anything goes wrong, it’s on me, and something always goes wrong because Muffy’s is a shitty place that attracts shitty people.
Don’t get me wrong, while Muffy’s is a dive, it’s one of Chicago’s most popular dives. Tucked away in a squat brick building in Logan Square—sandwiched between an auto body shop and a sketchy jewelry store—Muffy’s is a destination for many. People come from all over to see bands here, and playing on Muffy’s stage is an important step in the careers of most musicians in Chicagoland. Sure, it’s a far cry from playing the city’s venerable clubs like Double Door or Metro, but it’s still notable. Of course, for most people who take to Muffy’s stage, it’s about as good as they’ll ever do.
That sounds harsh, but believe me, I know because it’s the best I’ve ever done. That’s not to say my career as a performer is over, but it probably is. At the very least, it’s on hold.
I moved to Chicago eighteen months ago with the dream of headlining sold-out shows, getting a record deal, and touring the world. Cliché as it is, that was my dream. It was a vague dream, I’ll give you that—one I’d never mapped out or even given much thought.
I hatched this plan years back when I was still an awkward kid living in a small town with no way out. All I knew for sure was that I wanted to live someplace else and that I was a decent guitar player. Oh, and I knew that no one in all of Cass County, Iowa, was a famous musician, so logically, it seemed like I’d have to leave if I was going to become one.
And that’s what I did. One day, at the wise old age of twenty, I packed up my shit and moved to Chicago. That was it. That was my plan. Get to Chicago, then become a rock star. I figured that was how things worked.
As it turns out, that’s not how it works, apparently. And when you fail badly at achieving your dreams, you end up running sound for shitty bands at a shitty bar.
“Eric, my man. How long you been here?” The voice booms from behind me; it’s a shock because I didn’t know anyone else was in the club.
I turn to look. It’s Paul, arriving for his shift behind the bar. I give him a quick head nod and say, “I have no idea. Feels like I never left.”
“I hear that.” He chuckles then disappears into the back room.
All right, I take back what I said. When you fail badly at your dreams, you become Paul. He’s thirty-something, has no wife or girlfriend, spends all his money on drugs or child support, and tends bar six nights a week at Muffy’s, where he’s worked in some capacity for a decade. On a scale from one to Paul, my level of failure is about a three.
Overall, I guess that’s not too bad, but Paul started working at Muffy’s at about my age, and I’ve been here a year already, so utilizing my stellar public school math skills, I figure I’m about nine years away from becoming Paul.
He’s standing over my shoulder now, invading my personal space. “What’s that?”
I assume he’s talking about the brochure in my hand. It’s for USC’s film scoring program, something I don’t want to discuss with Paul, so I say, “I don’t know. Someone left it on the mixing board.” I toss it into the gap between the console and the rack, then give him my attention. “Did you need my help with something?”
“Naw. Just wondering how many bands we got tonight.”
“Three.”
“Anyone good?”
“I’ve never heard any of them, but probably not.”
His jaw tightened. “Oh, shit. This is Wednesday, huh?”
“Sure is.”
“Oh, fuck me!”
“Sorry.”
“High schoolers only order water or pop, and none of them tip. Like, never. Not one goddamned dollar.”
I shrug. “I know. This shit sucks, but Terry wants to keep doing it.”
Paul turns away and walks toward the bar. Over his shoulder he shouts, “Terry can suck my hairy balls.”
I ignore him, and once he’s back behind the bar, I save the brochure from the black hole that is the side of the mixing board.
Los Angeles. Film scoring. A new dream.
***
A band from Skokie is setting up on the stage. A trio that’s been a band for all of six weeks. I’ve already forgotten the stupid name they came up with, but right now, the rich-kid guitarist is wheeling a second Marshall four-by-twelve cabinet onto the small stage.
I try telling him it’s overkill. “You’re going to have to keep your amp really low or you’re going to overpower the mix.”
He looks at me like I’ve just spoken a language he’s never heard.
I try again, saying, “You don’t need that many speakers in a small room.”
“I just like how it looks, you know? I’m hoping to get two more cabinets soon.”
“Right. Well, like I said, for this space, one is already way more than enough.”
Ignoring my words, the one-hundred-pound kid proceeds to lift one cabinet on top of the other. Hoping for plausible deniability when his rich parents file a lawsuit after he’s crushed by his own speaker cabinet, I head over to the bass player.
I take a look at his small combo amp, tilting it back to view the specs. It’s clear his parents aren’t as rich. “This the amp you always use?”
He nods, his long black bangs covering his eyes.
It’s a respectable amp—a hundred-watt Ampeg with a twelve-inch speaker. But compared to his guitarist’s rig, this thing is a toy.
I stand up straight and face him. “You guys always play where there’s a PA?”
Nervously, he looks at the stage floor and says, “This is our first show really.”
I nod, figuring as much. “Well, for tonight, I can connect a DI and run you straight into the board, but if you guys end up playing places without a PA—like a house party or whatever—this little amp is going to be completely drowned out by your guitarist. Down the road, you’re probably going to want to get something with at least three hundred watts.”
He nods awkwardly. Again, it’s like I’m speaking a foreign language.
I take a look at the rich boy on the other side of the stage. Somehow, he’s managed to stack the cabinets without killing himself. Returning my attention to the bass player, I say, “Either that or talk him into getting something with less power, at least for smaller gigs.”
Again the bass player nods without speaking, and I move on to the drummer. He’s got a basic Tama five-piece with some decent Sabian cymbals. Nothing high-end. His parents must have regular jobs, too.
He makes eye contact with me. “Hey, man. If you need it, I’ve got a kick drum mic.” He reaches into a bag and produces it.
It’s a decent mic, but the club has a way better one. “I’ve got a good mic we’ll use, but I’m impressed that you have your own.”
“Yeah, I just know that not every place has the capability to mic drums, you know?”
“How long you been playing?”
“About three years.”
At eighteen or so, he’s by far the veteran musician in this band. “Cool. Well, let me know when you’re set. and I’ll mic you. We’ll do a quick soundcheck and then get things underway.”
“Sounds good, dude.”
Hopping off stage, I head to the door to check on Josh. I find him leaning against the door frame, staring at the street.
Standing beside him, I say, “Another slow one?”
“Looks like it.” He’s staring straight ahead, watching the traffic on Milwaukee Avenue.
“How many we got so far?”
He shrugs and says, “Maybe twenty.”
“Well, the last band is supposed to have a decent following, so maybe it’ll pick up a little later.”
“We shouldn’t do these stupid shows.”
“Yeah, I know. Anyway, Rachel is gonna stop by when she gets off work, so be sure to let her in.”
“You got it, boss.” Still, he stares at the street.
I head back and find that the band’s about ready for their soundcheck. I still need to mic the drums and the guitarist’s ridiculous stack, but I swing by the bar first to make sure Paul is all set. The bar area is empty, except for Paul, who’s leaning against the wall in the corner.
He nods his head at me and says, “We shouldn’t even be open tonight.”
I ignore his words and ask, “You good? Need anything from me?”
“Patrons that are old enough to drink.”
I ignore that, too, then head back to the stage. It’s already been a long night, and the first band hasn’t played one note.
***
The band from Skokie is gathering their shit from the stage. They weren’t the worst I’ve heard, but they weren’t good, either. Normally at this point, I’d be checking out the next band’s gear, planning how I’ll mic them, but the dipshits haven’t even unloaded their van yet. It’s going to cause a significant delay because the Skokie band will have to load out first because the alley behind Muffy’s is too small to accommodate more than one vehicle at a time.
I take a look across the room at Josh. He seems to be doing fine. I glance over to Paul, who’s got a couple customers. Still, he looks pissed.
With nothing to do for a few minutes, I head to the bar area where Rachel’s sitting at a table, sipping a cocktail. She’s come straight from work, her Starbucks’ apron wadded on the table in front of her.
I sit down and say, “The second band didn’t bring their shit in, so now we all have to wait.”
“Did you tell them to bring their shit in?”
I can’t remember. “I think so.”
“These are new bands, right? They don’t know how all this works.”
“Shouldn’t they know their gear needs to be in the club if they plan to play in here?”
“C’mon, this is your chance to be a mentor.”
“I’m not looking to be anybody’s mentor. I’m too busy for that.”
“Is it that you’re busy? Or is it that maybe you’ve become a miserable prick?” She smiles then takes a sip of her drink.
I chuckle, unsure how to take her words. “Thanks for that.”
“What can I say? I mean it, and it comes from the heart.” She’s still smiling at me.
“I’m not that bad, am I?”
She shrugs. “Let’s see: You live in a great city. You get paid to listen to live music every night, and let’s face it, the girl you’re fucking, she’s awesome as hell. Yet, you’re not happy. So yeah, that pretty much checks all the boxes for ‘miserable prick.’”
I can’t argue with her. “Okay, those are fair points.” It has been a while since I’ve been happy. Maybe I’ve never been happy. I look her in the eyes and say, “Sorry if I’ve been a drag lately.”
“You have been, but you’ve been that way since we met, so I must like that quality in you.” Reaching into her bag, she pulls out a folding mirror and begins inspecting her hair. “But hey, maybe you’ll be happier when you’re living in California.”
My stomach quivers. “Who said anything about living in California?”
She traces her lips with her pinky, cleaning up her lipstick. She stops, looks at me, and says, “Don’t be mad, but I stopped by your place to get my necklace.” Pinching the tree of life pendant hanging from the silver chain around her neck, she slides it back and forth. “I didn’t break in or anything. Adam let me in. Anyway, I, uh . . . I saw the acceptance letter on your nightstand.”
My face warms, both in anger for the violation of my privacy and for the embarrassment of being caught off guard. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Bullshit.” She tosses the mirror back in her bag. “You got into that music school. That’s fucking huge!”
“It doesn’t mean I’m going.”
“Of course you’re going. You’ll go, you’ll kick ass, and in a few years, I’ll be watching the credits of a blockbuster movie and see ‘Original Score by Eric Venteicher’ scroll by in block letters.”
“As cool as that would be, the school is tens of thousands of dollars. There’s no way I can afford that.”
“They got loans for shit like that, right? And once you write the score for that blockbuster movie, you can pay them off and still have enough left to buy me something pretty.”
I fake a laugh.
None of it is that simple. Paying for school. Getting to California. And there’s Rachel. We’re not staying together if I move to California. She knows it as much as I do.
I stand, kiss her on the forehead, and say, “We’ll see. Nothing has to be decided tonight, and I should get back to things anyway.”
She stands. Facing me, she wraps her arms around my neck. “All I’m saying is, I know how much this means to you, and I don’t want you to overthink it. It’s amazing that you got accepted, and I don’t think you should pass something like this up.”
“What about us?” I didn’t want to get into this now, but damn it, the words just fell from my mouth. “LA is two-thousand miles from here.”
“You saying I’m not allowed to come with you?”
“No, not at all. But your family, your friends—your whole life is here. You’re really going to leave all that?”
“They got planes for that. I can come back here for visits.”
The thud of the drummer’s kick drum reverberates through us. I look at him. His kit is set up and ready to go. I return my attention to Rachel and say, “I gotta go see what I’m working with here.”
She kisses me and says, “Okay. But seriously, don’t overthink this. You got into an amazing program, so go. Do it. Kick ass at it. We’ll figure the other stuff out later.”
***
The second band is from Elk Grove and not good at all. On top of that, the lead singer’s girlfriend seems convinced she knows how to mix sound better than I do.
She’s walking toward me again, for the third time since the set began. Flailing her arms to gain my attention, she shouts, “Turn his mic up more. I can’t hear him.”
I nod like I’m agreeing and place my hand on the fader. I rest my hand there, not moving it at all, then I shout, “How’s that?”
She gives the mix a listen, then nods in agreement and walks away.
All of this is annoying but not out of the norm. This is how it goes most nights at Muffy’s, no matter the talent level of the band on stage, and this has me thinking that getting out of this place would be the best thing for me. Five years from now—hell a year from now—do I really want to be standing here listening to shitty bands and pretending to increase the singer’s volume to appease some sixteen-year-old groupie girlfriend?
Glancing to my left, I see Rachel standing to the edge of the growing mosh pit, sipping another drink, dancing in place to the shitty sounds being produced by the shitty band.
Rachel has a superpower. She’s able to find joy in whatever she’s doing. I know she doesn’t like this band, and I know she doesn’t want to be here right now, but she’s here for me, making the best of it. I don’t have that ability. My superpower is the opposite: Plop me down in the middle of the best place in the best part of the world, and I’ll find something to complain about. Give me the chance to make something of myself, and I’ll find a way to get out of it.
There was a point, about a year ago, where I was standing on the precipice of success. Problem is, I couldn’t see that at the time.
The band I was playing in was approached by a guy who wanted to take us under his wing. He said we had lots of potential, and he felt that, with good management, we’d become very popular.
I was the only one in the band who was against taking him on as a manager. From the start, I thought he just wanted a cut of our profits, and when he started talking about changing the way we looked and started suggesting we abandon our sound and chase “industry trends,” I wanted no part of him.
My bandmates accused me of being afraid of success. I assured them that wasn’t the case; I told them they were just blinded by this guy’s flattery. In the end, it was decided the band would carry on without me.
I was pissed, of course, but I convinced myself I was in the right and that it was good to take a stand. The band went on to do a huge east coast tour and open for some big-name acts, and I got the gig here at Muffy’s. A few months in, I met Rachel. So, in a way, things worked out, except that now, the band just signed a record deal, and I’m still at Muffy’s trying to set mixes to appease the very high standards of random teenage girls.
***
The final band of the night is named Porcine Temple, and they show promise, despite the goofy name. They’re from the nearby West Loop and have drawn a good crowd. Frankly, I’ve never seen Muffy’s this busy on a Wednesday night.
Apparently, they’ve been trying to get on stage here for months, and they’ve plastered the town with flyers that scream PORCINE TEMPLE—LIVE! WEDNESDAY NIGHT AT MUFFY’S! in bold letters above a photo of the band.
Soundcheck is promising, too. Everyone in the band has good gear and amps that are suited to the space. And from what I heard so far, they’ve actually got some talent.
I find Rachel in the bar area again. She’s drinking a Diet Coke now, signaling she’s winding down and would like to go home soon.
I sit down beside her and say, “You don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to. I can swing by your place when I’m done here.”
“You’re pretty confident. How do you know I’m not planning to go home with one of these high school guys?”
“Is that what’s going to happen when I’m in California? You’re going to leave me for some brooding teenager with acne?”
“I just don’t want you thinking I’m a sure thing. This girl’s got options, you know?” She smiles, then says, “Does this mean you’ve decided to stop being stupid and take the amazing opportunity that’s staring you in the face?”
“Assuming I can find a way to pay for it, yes.”
Leaning over, she kisses me, then wraps her arms around me. “That’s amazing! You’re gonna rock it. I know you will.”
“Are you serious about coming to see me?”
“For sure. As often as I can.”
“I’ll have breaks and stuff. I can come back here and see you, too.”
“You’d fucking better.”
The crowd in front of the stage is getting impatient, so I stand and say, “This can work, right? Me out there. You here.”
“We’ll make it work.”
I kiss Rachel one more time, then head to the mixer. As the band walks onto the stage, the crowd erupts in cheers.
For months, these guys only dreamed of playing Muffy’s. Tonight, they’re doing it in front of one of the biggest crowds I’ve seen in this place.
The singer looks terrified. He’s probably never stood before this many people in his short career. His bandmates look tense, too.
The lead guitarist kicks things off with a riff he’s probably played a thousand times, but it’s choppy. By the time the rest of the band comes in, the guitarist is rushing the riff. His bandmates are choppy, too. It sounds horrible.
As the singer comes in, he’s off-key. By the second verse, he seems to be forgetting lyrics, and the guitarist isn’t helping matters by rushing the tempo.
It’s hard to watch. I feel bad for them. They’ve dreamed of this night, maybe for most of their lives, and now they’re blowing it.
They move straight into the second song, and things seem just as off. The drummer’s doing a good job of keeping the pace, but both the bassist and lead guitarist aren’t following his lead.
But then, just a few more measures in, things improve. The bassist and the drummer are together now, providing a good rhythm, and the lead guitarist seems to have calmed his nerves. He’s following the drummer now, keeping on tempo. The singer is on key, and the lyrics flow without a problem. He’s playing off the crowd in front of the stage, too. With one leg propped up on a stage monitor, he’s leaning in, singing to the audience, loving the attention from the girls up front.
By the third song, everything is syncing, and everyone’s into it and comfortable. They’re having fun now, enjoying the moment, enjoying the thing they’ve dreamed about for so long. They’re probably already thinking about an encore or about booking their next show at Muffy’s. The dream has lived up to their expectations, and now they want more.
That’s the thing about dreams. When you convince yourself they’re out of reach, all you want is to reach them. When you do finally manage to grab hold of one, it’s the scariest thing you’ll ever experience. It’s all too easy to let go, to stay where you’re at and stick with what you know. But the only way to ever move forward is to take a chance, hold on tight, and see where the ride takes you.