By Kat Gang
Most people think being a musician means standing under a spotlight for a couple of hours each night, singing songs, and soaking up rapturous applause. Musicians know better.
We know it's the 6:00am emails to venues we hope will book us, or the Hail Mary festival application we get in at the last second (just in case). It's thousands of hours of unseen, unanswered, often unrewarded work that go into trying to make it, make it happen, make something stick.
I am a singer for a living. Here's what all of that usually looks like for me on a daily basis.
It Starts Early (With Loads of Caffeine)
6am. The kids are awake, and so am I. I guzzle my first round of coffee before wrangling the kids and their lunches (including carrots today, let's see if they eat them!) before they're out the door at 8:00am and mama has a second to breathe before getting into emails at 9:00am.
I like to check my Spotify stats and post on the socials, letting the world know lovely jazz is happening tonight. I make my setlists, print extra charts if needed, update our band Google Drive with new arrangements or solo lines.
By 1:00pm, I'm packing. Microphone, cables, sheet music, backup shoes, makeup, emergency sewing kit.
Pro-tip: Always bring safety pins in case of a wardrobe malfunction!
After twenty years, I've learned that if something can break, stain, tear, or disappear, eventually it will. One time at The Plaza Hotel I forgot my dress and had to borrow one of the waitstaff's black uniforms.
Pro-tip: Keep extra emergency earrings and lipstick in the car.
"It is a feeling of connection. The first few moments of a performance feel like stepping through a doorway. One second I am a person putting socks on a five year old, and the next, I’m doing the thing that has called to me my whole life."
Don't Forget to Check the Traffic…
Then it's time to head into New York City. I'm in Westchester, so it usually takes me about 1 hour, but even the friends that commute from Brooklyn can spend upwards of 2 hours on travel alone. The grind is brutal, especially when you're sitting in bumper to bumper traffic in 90 degree weather and a busted AC or waiting for ignorant bridge and tunnel folks to realize they are in the exit only lane.
But we put on some Mingus and we make the best of it. I practice lyrics in the car and do my vocal warmups. I make ridiculous sounds like a gargling monkey and laugh when people in other cars stare. Gig days aren't for the faint of heart, but they are always worth it.
The glamour starts to fade somewhere around the Lincoln Tunnel. Why is commuting such a soul-sucking experience? I feel that this extends to every profession!
If you are lucky, you find street parking. I used to keep an old orange parking ticket in my glove compartment just in case I might need to strategically place it on the dashboard to park illegally for a minute to load in. Worst case scenario, you have to use a costly parking lot. I do not generally mind a little walking through the city — it takes my mind off the drive and allows me some people-watching, but vocalists have it easy.
+Read more: "How to Nail Your Next Supporting Act Set"
Drummers and upright bass players have to navigate the sidewalks with so many instruments and gear! I’m glad I’m a singer.
When I arrive, the waitstaff are usually setting tables. Servers are folding napkins. Bartenders are slicing fruit. It is rare that I have a dedicated dressing room on a gig, especially if it is at a restaurant or hotel.
I change in handicapped bathrooms, storage closets, or whatever corner management can spare. I've zipped myself into evening gowns in bathrooms with sticky floors while balancing a makeup bag on a paper towel dispenser. I once walked in on Olivia Palermo making out with some dude in the liquor closet of The Rose Club in The Plaza while attempting to grab my PA.
"The truth is that working musicians are small business owners, performers, event professionals, and hospitality workers all at once."
It’s Showtime
Well, almost.
The guests are beginning to arrive as the band warms up the crowd with one instrumental tune. I’m adjusting my dress and making sure that I don't have lipstick on my front teeth. Then I’m walking through the crowd to the stage while my pianist plays some impromptu entrance music (he likes to surprise me and make it different every night — sometimes it’s a showtune, sometimes it’s Beethoven, sometimes Jay-Z).
The moment I start singing, everything falls into place. The stresses of my day and the journey that brought me here all fade away. It sounds cliche but it’s true. What always surprises me is that it isn’t a feeling of power. It is a feeling of connection. The first few moments of a performance feel like stepping through a doorway. One second I am a person putting socks on a five year old, and the next, I’m doing the thing that has called to me my whole life.
When it comes to the audience, some of them are listening closely. Some are on first dates. Some are celebrating anniversaries. Some barely notice there's live music at all. One table applauds. Another requests “Girl from Ipanema.” Why is there always a table that asks for “Girl From Ipanema”?
No matter. We know it, and we play it. I like that one too. And yet, those aren't the moments I remember most. It's...
...The Quiet Moments
When all is said and done, what I remember most are the quiet moments.
By 10:00pm the audience is heading home, but we still have at least an hour’s worth of work to do. The band still has to pack up. Instruments go back into cases. Cables get coiled. Checks get settled. Everyone says goodnight and good luck with the traffic.
On the commute home, I’m not thinking about the traffic to get there or the chaos of the morning. Instead, I’m thinking about what a beautiful night it was. And when I go back and think on the night, what stays with me are the quieter moments.
The couple holding hands during a ballad. The little girl dancing by herself in front of the bandstand. The regular who requests the same song (“Here's That Rainy Day”) every Tuesday and smiles when we play it.
The room falling completely silent for three minutes because everyone is listening. Though this is rare, it always nourishes me. I tell myself that "someone is always listening" because I know that it is true.
Those moments are why musicians keep doing this work.
By the time I finally get home, it’s usually after midnight. And the best/worst part is I can never go straight to sleep because I’m too wound up. So I get to feel the adrenaline pulsing through my body for a while longer, and linger in the sweet exhausted joy of how it feels to be a performer after a show.
Most people only saw the two hours on stage, but the job was the entire day: the preparation, the travel, the problem-solving, the performance, and the thousands of tiny moments that happen behind the scenes. The truth is that working musicians are small business owners, performers, event professionals, and hospitality workers all at once.
It's not glamorous. But after twenty years, I still can't imagine doing anything else.
+Read more: "How to Perform Outdoors Without Sacrificing Your Sound"
Educated at Berklee and Tisch School of the Arts at NYU, Kat Gang has performed globally, touring in the UK, Italy, Israel, and Russia, and held residencies at The Plaza Hotel and Birdland Jazz Club in New York. She has performed twice at the GRAMMY Awards played Blue Note Jazz Festival, and currently holds a residency at The Nines with her quintet.
