Mach Schau!

 I’ve been looking for a drummer while starting a new band. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

Wrong.

I talked to a drummer friend of mine. He knows the music; knows we can rock the hell out of it — but he passed. His reason?

“Good-paying gigs are disappearing.”

I told him that’s because a lot of bands simply aren’t worth paying. That’s not an insult — it’s reality. I’m not talking about musical ability. Some musicians are better than others; that’s life. There’s always someone better.

What most musicians - and non-musicians - don’t understand is what actually makes a good gig.

Let’s be honest. I’ve been doing this since 1979. I’ve played over six thousand shows in multiple countries on three continents. I’m pretty well qualified to say this:

It’s not the songs.

It’s not virtuosity.

It’s the show.

Why do people go out to see a band, a comedian, a play, a movie?

To be entertained. That’s it.

If your band isn’t getting gigs, ask yourself a simple question:

Why should anyone pay to see you?

People can hear the same songs you’re playing anywhere. Spotify. YouTube. A thousand cover bands. What’s different about your version? Usually…nothing.

Take The Beatles. They broke up fifty-six years ago and people still talk about them. Before the hits, before “Yeah Yeah Yeah,” they were a bar band in Germany playing other people’s songs to drunk crowds. They learned "mach schau" — put on a show.

I’ve heard the recordings from that era. They were good. Not legendary.

So, what made the difference?

They learned what every successful performer learns sooner or later:

The show comes first.

Not the music. Not the ego. The show.

That’s why “the show must go on” still matters. A performer doesn’t draw crowds - a reputation for delivering a great show does. And that takes work. You have to learn what works and what doesn’t. Too many musicians let ego do the driving.

I had an old friend - great singer, great musician - who sabotaged himself for years. He could bring the house down…then insisted on an eight-minute slow R&B version of “Let It Be.” In his mind, it was his moment. In reality, it cleared the room every time. He never learned.

I see that constantly.

A few years back, I went to see friends play. Technically solid - but painful. Disconnected song choices. Too many slow numbers. An unplugged Beatles set that finally chased everyone out. Long pauses between songs. Little audience interaction. False starts. Just uncomfortable.

They could play.

They just weren’t putting on a show.

So yes - people say good-paying gigs are disappearing. That’s not new. Most gigs pay about what they did forty years ago. Back then, I paid rent with music. Day jobs were for health insurance. Music came first.

When I moved to Pittsburgh in 1990, I planned to quit music. That didn’t happen. I rebuilt. New instrument, new reputation. I lucked into working with a singer I had undeniable chemistry with. We worked constantly, made decent money - and eventually oversaturated the area. No matter how entertaining you are, too much is too much. You have to diversify. New rooms. New towns. New crowds who don’t know you.

Sometimes that means walking into hostile territory.

I remember a gig at a redneck bar in the late ’80s. We were sporting leather jackets, big quiffs, ready to play loud rockabilly - and were met with instant hostility. Booing. “Play some country!”

So, we did.

Charlie Daniels; Hank Sr.; Beatles ("Act Naturally" & "Don't Pass Me By"); “Ghost Riders in the Sky”; Jerry Lee; Eddie Cochran. We talked to the crowd. I did my upright bass antics - sitting on it, lifting it, laying on it. We made it a show.

They booked us again. The pay was decent. That’s how it works.

Big cities mean more competition and less money. The pandemic wrecked live music. Some venues never came back. Others stayed open and hired anyone cheap. Those bands proved one thing: how little they’d work for. By the time things reopened, the damage was done.

I’d been playing with Hawkins again by then. Same twenty-five songs he’s done for thirty-plus years. Same order. Same keys. Blues standards beaten to death.

And yet - we made it work.

We twisted arrangements. Changed feels. Played off each other. The onstage banter became part of the act. The crowd joined in. They knew the bits. That’s not accidental - that’s craft.

Rule #1: keep the audience engaged.

Make them part of the show.

If you throw a curveball - a long cover, a deep cut - it has to make sense. A friend of mine in Australia put it perfectly:

“If you’re not singing, you better be playing. If you’re not playing, you better be talking to the audience.”

She’s right.

I time bands between songs. Ten seconds feels long. Thirty seconds feels eternal. Two minutes feels like death. Bands talk to each other, tune endlessly, ignore the room - and the room leaves.

Shit happens onstage. Strings break. Gear fails. Own it. Make it part of the show. Let the audience in on the joke. Fear and ego will kill you faster than a bad note.

A big DON’T:

 Don’t get wasted.

 No, it doesn’t make you play better.

I used to drink during gigs. I don’t anymore. One or two beers, max. My playing is infinitely better sober. I’ve watched musicians destroy gigs drink by drink, hit by hit. It’s ugly.

So, no - I don’t believe the money is gone. The easy money is gone. There’s a difference.

Do the work. Entertain the crowd. Build a reputation. My offers still come - local, overseas, halfway around the world.

If I can get this new band off the ground, who knows.

I just need to find a drummer first.

Colin Hardy: We'll Meet Again

 2026 has been off to a rough start.

Not even a month in, and I’ve already lost a few friends. Now, before anyone reaches for the tiny violins and assumes I’m whinging - relax. I’m not. Yes, it always hurts to lose someone, but I’ve learned to use moments like these to lean into the good memories: the reasons we got along in the first place.

This morning, I found out my old buddy Colin Hardy passed away over the weekend.

Col hailed from Stoke-On-Trent (which I always jokingly called Stoke-On-Rye). He was a working-class bloke through and through, but we shared a deep love of music — especially the old-school rockin’ variety. We first crossed paths on a music-sharing site and immediately began raiding each other’s collections. This was back in the dial-up days, when downloading a single MP3 could take half an hour if the phone didn’t ring. Eventually, we started emailing instead.

Col sent me tracks by the likes of Crazy Cavan, Freddie Fingers Lee, and others. He was always hungry for my stuff too — especially recordings from U.S. bands that were lucky to make it onto cassette, let alone digital. One day, he asked if he could pass my email address along to a friend of his: Mickey Gee.

If you’re not familiar with the name, Mickey Gee was a brilliant Welsh guitarist. I first saw him on the old Cinemax special Blue Suede Shoes: A Rockabilly Session, back in the ’80s, playing alongside Carl Perkins, Dave Edmunds, George Harrison, and Eric Clapton. All of them were doing their thing — but for my money, Mickey was the best picker on that stage. He was knocking it clean out of the park.

So yes — of course I wanted to hear from Mickey Gee.

As it turned out, Col had already sent him some of my tracks. Mickey had already been listening to some of my music. He even mentioned enjoying my song “Continental Redneck Boogie” from our proudly lo-fi CD Live & Loud—Warts & All. I was completely gobsmacked.

Col and I also talked about food. A lot. Maybe that’s just me - I seem to discuss food with everyone. My ex-girlfriend in the UK used to say I was obsessed. I prefer to think I’m culturally attentive. (Fact: good pizza does not exist in the UK. Prove me wrong.)

Americans love sandwiches. This isn’t to say the rest of the world doesn’t — we just take things to unnecessary extremes. One day I mentioned meatball sandwiches. Col had never heard of such a thing, but he thought it sounded brilliant. And let’s be honest - it is. When Subway finally started popping up in the UK, Col practically broke land-speed records getting to the nearest one. He loved it. (Of course he did. He wasn’t a savage.)

But there was one thing Col constantly insisted I try.

GREEN GOO.

To this day, I have no idea what it actually is. Some kind of condiment, popular with folks from the West Indies. I asked if it was anything like liquor sauce — the parsley abomination common in pie, mash, and eel shops. No, he assured me. This stuff was spicy. Col adored it. He sang its praises endlessly. Honestly, it sounded awful - but who am I to judge?

At one point years ago, Col told me he was convinced he had stomach cancer. He was in pain, couldn’t keep food down, and figured the end was near. Turned out it was the green goo. He’d given himself an ulcer. Doctor told him to lay off it, he did, and the stomach problems vanished.

Note to self: avoid “goo” of any kind.

Col was also fiercely proud of his relative, the legendary British comedian Norman Wisdom. Honestly, I'd not heard of him on this side of the pond - but the internet soon solved that! A sense of humor and good comic timing clearly must be genetic. 

As often happens in adult life, Col and I eventually lost touch - about ten years back. No one’s life is perfect, and his was no exception. We stayed loosely connected through social media, but he eventually disappeared from the digital world. I’d occasionally hear from his missus, their many, many, many kids, or mutual friends. No news, to me, has always felt like good news. I never pried. Sometimes I’d just ask the kids to pass along a “Howdy” to their old man.

Even now, I can’t hear Mickey Gee without thinking of Col. And I can’t see a West Indies recipe without thinking of him either.

Our friends fill many roles in our lives, just as we fill roles in theirs. Colin Hardy was one of those people I wish I’d had more time with. I suspect we’d have invented entirely new levels of trouble to get into. At the very least, we’d have continued bonding over rockin’ music and meatball sandwiches.

Rest in peace, old friend.

Tell Mickey Gee I said howdy.

And to those reading this: hold on to the good memories. We’re all heading the same way eventually - so try to leave behind something kind, something funny, and at least a few good stories.

Col would probably give me grief for writing all of this. Too bad! You always knew I was going to do whatever the hell I have a mind to. We'll meet again, old amigo!

BREAKFAST

The sun came up, just like it did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. I can’t remember the last time it rained. Or snowed. The sky doesn’t threaten anything anymore. It just shows up.

It’s quiet. Not peaceful - dead quiet. The sounds of life, liberty, and productivity are long gone. Even the birds have gone silent. Maybe they left. Maybe they died. Either way, they figured something out before we did.

If there’s an upside to being alone, it’s that the air finally smells clean. No exhaust. No burning plastic. No chemical tang in the back of the throat. Even the stench of the rotting corpses is gone now. I couldn’t bury them all. I tried, though.

For about a month, I buried five bodies a day. Dug the holes by hand. Shoveled dirt. Mumbled something respectful, or at least something that sounded like it. Covered them up and moved on to the next. It felt important at the time - like it was the last decent thing left to do. Eventually exhaustion cured me of that idea.

Madness wears a work ethic at first.

I haven’t smelled smoke in months. That’s when I started to think I might be the last one left. For what might have been a year - maybe more - I saw smoke in the distance. Other survivors. Fires meant cooking, warmth, company. At first.

Later, people burned other things. Furniture. Clothes. Photographs. The past. Books were some of the first to go. A book is only dangerous if someone reads it, and if I’m honest, I doubt anyone had read one voluntarily in decades. Still, they burned them like they were afraid the words might escape.

I still find books sometimes when I forage. I’m picky now. Old cookbooks are at the top of my list - real ones, from before recipes turned into brand endorsements. I need to know how to make flour. Real flour. Turns out that knowledge didn’t seem important to anyone until it vanished. The canned food is mostly bad now. Rusted. Swollen. Smells wrong when you crack it open.

I found a camping book once. Edible plants. Wild berries. Roots that won’t kill you. I’ve been studying the pictures more closely lately. Hunger sharpens the eyes.

Night is absolute darkness now. No glow on the horizon. No distant fires. Just me, my candle, and whatever’s watching from the dark. I snuff it out and crawl into bed, same as every night, and wait for sleep. I never get more than a few hours.

Something always wakes me.

Usually raccoons. Daring little bastards. My scent used to scare them off. Now it draws them in. They think I have food. Sometimes they’re right. I used to trap them. I stopped. There are more of them every week. I’m outnumbered now. I’m just a tourist in their world.

I always heard roaches would be the last things alive. I can’t remember the last time I saw one. Maybe the raccoons got them too.

I caught my reflection earlier. Not much left of the man I remember. Hair and beard long, dirty, patchy. My skin is a map of sores and scabs. They hurt, but pain has a way of blending into the background. There’s still water everywhere, but I don’t trust it. I stick to bottles when I can find them. Cleanliness is a memory now, like comfort or certainty.

I probably smell terrible. Hard to say. There’s no one left to complain.

The sun will be up soon. I’ll unlock the door - old habits die hard - and head out looking for something to eat. Something to drink. Something that lets me keep pretending tomorrow exists.

My grandmother always said breakfast was the most important meal of the day.

Most days, it’s the only one.

If I can find it.

© 2026 Michael C. Metzger

I Saw the Light

 Every now and then I write something just because I feel like it. Tonight, I did just that. A little Black Hills twist. (for Jackson)

Driving west out of Rapid City at night feels like space travel must feel. The sky is blacker than anywhere I’ve ever been, but the stars burn brighter for it. The Milky Way hangs overhead, indifferent, reminding you how small and insignificant you really are.

By the time you hit the Badlands, it doesn’t feel like Earth anymore. In the moonlight the terrain looks lunar — bleached, jagged, wrong. Deeper into the Black Hills, on the back roads, the darkness turns absolute. No cars. No lights but your own. You drive careful out here. Too many critters, too many things that don’t move until it’s too late. I’ve seen what’s left behind on the road — shapes, stains. I tell myself they were animals. Most nights, that’s enough.

The Black Hills close in on you. Thick pine canopy, branches knitting together overhead until it feels like the sky is pressing down. First time I rode through here was thirty years ago. Me and a buddy, dumb kids from Ohio, riding to Sturgis, thinking we were hardcore highway tramps. What a joke. Just a couple of white-trash punks running from the only hell we knew.

Being "bikers" made us feel special — right up until we met the real ones. To them, it wasn’t freedom. It was business. A lone rider could lose his life and his scooter as fast as he could make a friend. Depends on luck. Depends on demand. Weekend warriors were almost worse — matching leathers, official gear, trying to “bro” you to death or pick a fight. Either way, things could go sideways fast.

Drugs were always part of it. Pot, meth, whatever paid. Guys like me always need money, so I moved things from one place to another. I’ve made this run plenty of times. But tonight feels different. The air feels...alert. Alive. That’s what’s got me uneasy.

Then I see the lights.

At first, it’s just a glow behind the treetops, like stadium lights ten miles off — except there ain’t a stadium anywhere near here. Sometimes they flare bright, then vanish, swallowed by the night. Then there are smaller ones. Sharp. Fast. Zipping across the sky before snapping out of existence. One, then two, then three. I’ve done my share of bad drugs, but I’ve never seen lights move like that.

The road snakes tighter through the hills. I keep my eyes forward, but I’m watching the sky from the corners of my vision. I feel watched. Cops? Feds? Some new kind of surveillance? I’ve always traveled at night, always careful. Plenty of time built in. If I get busted, I’m dead either way — prison, or bikers looking for what I lost. So, I stay focused. Hands steady. Eyes on the road.

---

No lights for half an hour. I tell myself I imagined it. Just nerves. But the silence feels wrong. Too still. Too clean. Even for the Black Hills.

I’m thinking about space again — what it must feel like drifting through nothing — then the engine sputters. I ease toward what I hope is the shoulder. Roads aren’t well marked out here.

Before I can step off the bike, I hear it.

A hum.

Not from any one direction — but every direction. The air vibrates, like it’s been tuned too tight. Then the lights come on.

Not headlights. Not floodlights.

Everything lights up all at once. White. Blinding. As if the night itself has been peeled away.

And then I see it.

It’s enormous.

© 2026 Michael C. Metzger

Evan Johns

 I’m at the age where I have too many dead friends. Luckily, most of them left a lot behind.

I’ve been listening to my old buddy Evan Johns all day. Evan would tell you - confidently - that he was “the next big thing for years". I’m not sure I’d go that far, but for some of us, he was always a big thing.

I’ve got more Evan stories than I should—and it’s a miracle I remember as many as I do. If you knew Evan and his devotion to adult libations, that’ll make sense.

I first heard about him when he was playing with the LeRoi Brothers. He added some much-needed oomph (in my opinion). A few years later I found Trash, Twang & Thunder by 4 Big Guitars From Texas - Grammy-nominated, no less - in a cut-out bin for $1.99. Then came Evan Johns & the H-Bombs, ordered mail-order from Jungle Records back when that still felt like magic. This was the rock and roll I wanted to hear: rockabilly, R&R, punk, surf, blues, country—all mashed together the way I’d been hearing it in my head for years.

At Checkered Records in Canton, Ohio, I was telling George - the proprietor and a walking music encyclopedia - about this Evan Johns cat. He handed me Rolling Through the Night and casually mentioned that Jello Biafra loved Evan so much he put out a record by him. To this day, it’s probably the best thing Evan ever recorded.

Evan was prolific. Through the ’90s and 2000s he recorded constantly. When his health started failing, he was burning CDs at home and selling them on eBay—usually for twenty bucks a pop.

The music world is smaller than people think. In 1991, I was summoned to a gig by Dom from The Decade. Laurence Beall & the Sultans were in town, and Dom thought I should be there. Laurence asked me to sit in on a song; I ended up playing the rest of the night. During the usual band-swap Q&A, I mentioned that my band covered Evan’s “Rolling Through the Night.” Turns out Laurence knew Evan well—they’d even written together—so we played one of their songs on the spot. Laurence and I have been friends for nearly 35 years now, thanks entirely to Evan.

A few months later, I met Evan himself—also at The Decade. He was an hour late for his own gig, having passed out in his van. All night long he apologized in that ragged Virginia drawl: “Ya gotta excuse me… I’m just sooooo tired.” Then he proceeded to tear the roof off the place. We had a few beers after the show. I’d brought my old Telecaster, Agatha, with me. Evan pulled out a penknife and carved his “autograph” into her. He’s the only person I ever would’ve allowed to do that—because he was clearly out of his mind.

After that came the occasional drunken phone calls. I’m not convinced he ever knew who he was calling. When I heard he was having health problems from drinking, I wasn’t surprised. I’d seen this movie before.

In 1995, a bunch of us went to Indiana for a rockabilly festival—Ronnie Dawson, Tim Polecat, the Frantic Flattops, nonstop music and nonstop partying. I wandered into an early evening set by my friends The Belmont Playboys and discovered they were backing Evan Johns. Not only was he gigging - he was on fire. Afterward, he pulled me aside. He was planning a 10–15 city tour and wanted my band as his backing group.

We met in the hotel lounge to talk details. Evan bought the first round. I asked how his health was—I wasn’t eager to tour with a ticking time bomb. He assured me he was fine. When the bass player went to order another round, Evan waved him off and said the line that doomed the whole thing:

“Put your money away. You’re drinking with Evan Johns now.”

And drink we did. I don’t think the bass player or I sobered up for two days. I can’t say Evan ever did. Soon the phone calls started - promoters asking, “How’s Evan? Is he drinking?” One by one, the dates fell apart. The tour never happened.

Later on, I became friends with Billy Poore while he was working on Rockabilly: A 40-Year Journey. Turns out Billy and Evan were old friends too. According to Billy, they once had a nearly twelve-hour phone call. Billy was maybe the only human I ever met who could out-talk Evan. I used to leave Billy voicemails doing a dead-on Evan impression. He’d call back furious. Good times.

Evan married again, moved to Canada, drank himself into a coma, got sober, got divorced, came back to the States, and started the cycle all over again. He burned plenty of bridges, but those of us who understood him stuck around. He eventually landed in Austin again. This time, the magic wasn’t there. His drinking had caught up to his health—and his playing.

We lost touch for a few years until he ended up at Skyline Terrace, a supportive housing program in Austin. When we reconnected, he sounded better than he had in years. He was still recording at home, still selling CDs online. His liver was gone, though. He believed he’d get a transplant. The truth was, that was never going to happen.

We lost Evan in 2017.

I still miss that crazy old sumbitch. I’m grateful I still have his music—and his name carved into one of my guitars. Those of us who knew him still trade stories. Across Europe, Teddy Boys and Rockers listen to his songs, often without knowing it. I spent time in Wales years ago and heard Crazy Cavan covering Evan’s material—songs that became part of that scene’s canon. Just this morning I heard two different versions of “Taking Care of My Home.”

Long live the memory of Evan Johns—the H-Bomb his own bad self!

Christmastime

 

Christmastime.

I think about the words we repeat so easily.

Peace on earth. Goodwill to all.

They sound right in candlelight.

They belong to the season.

Still, I wonder what they demand

once the music fades.

We gather.

We tell the old stories.

We laugh at remembered moments.

There is holiness here —

love shared across a table,

warmth passed hand to hand.

And still,

someone is missing.

Each year, more chairs sit empty.

Some belong to the dead.

Others to the living —

the sick, the tired, the forgotten.

Those who move more slowly now.

Those whose phones no longer ring.

Those for whom the season brings

only silence.

I think of them when I hear the carols.

How joy can wound when you’re alone.

How peace can sound like a promise

never meant for you.

The Christmas story is not one of ease.

It begins in need.

A child born into uncertainty.

Doors closed.

Light arriving anyway —

first to those keeping watch in the dark.

If peace on earth means anything,

it lives there.

In the hard places.

In the quiet rooms.

In the choice to sit,

to listen,

to stay.

Goodwill is not a feeling.

It is a practice.

Often imperfect.

Often unseen.

So, this season, remember:

the light was never meant to be kept.

It was meant to be carried —

into hospital rooms,

into lonely apartments,

into conversations without answers.

Christmastime does not ask us to fix the world.

Only to see it.

To love where love is thin.

To bring warmth

where the night is long.

That is how peace and goodwill begin. 

Some days I miss it...

 Some days I really miss being in a band.

There's nothing like making music with a group of people, all on the same page, bringing their own uniqueness to the mix. But here's the problem.

No one seems to want to put in the effort these days. The last two times I tried starting a new band, I provided the other musicians with a set list - you know, to get the ball rolling. The songs weren't difficult in any way. All I asked was that they learn the songs. I gave them the keys the songs are in and all but taught them the arrangement. Rehearsal time came...and not a one of them learned the songs. They just figured they'd learn it at rehearsal. That is not what rehearsal is. According to the Oxford dictionary, the definition of rehearsal is "a practice or trial performance of a play or other work for later public performance." This indicates knowing what you're expected to do prior to rehearsal. An actor, in preparation for a production of Hamlet or Death of a Salesman isn't going to just 'wing it'. They'll be sent packing and will probably have a difficult time finding work in the future. 

Even when I'm asked to sit in with a band/artist, I try to learn the material. I can often dive in cold, but I'd rather not. It's unfair to everyone involved, including and especially the audience. In the past, there have been times I've had to learn over 100 songs in less than a week. This really isn't a special skill. Most types of music follow certain patterns. Know and understand these, and the rest is a breeze. Recently, I had to learn 2 hours' worth of material for a last-minute fill-in gig. I had just enough time to go over the list, pack up my gear, and drive 2 hours to the show. I listened en route, making mental notes. I got there and did the show. We had the crowd dancing. Job well done. I've done this hundreds of times. 

So, why is it so difficult for musicians to do this?

I could guess and say that laziness and arrogance are the answers. If you don't have the time to learn the material, you don't have time to be in a band. It's just that simple. Expecting to go play the same material everyone else is playing will lead to dull and limited performances. As for arrogance, trust me - none of us is THAT good. The late Sam Philips was known to say, "if you're not doing something different, you're not doing anything!"  

I recently spoke with a drummer and a bassist about a project. Neither are particularly inundated with gigs. They have them, but not the frequency I prefer. They were both interested - but then came the excuses. Credit where due, these were potential excuses. "I might have to ______" and "sometimes I have to ________." I get it. What this means is your interest is not at my required level. So, I let it go. No need to follow through on 'maybes'. 

I don't need the most talented musicians. If they can play in key and in time, we're good. We'll work out the rough parts AT REHEARSAL - which is what it's for. I don't like to rehearse a lot. If the musicians have learned the material, a week or two of rehearsals should be enough to get us up and running. You can rehearse once or a hundred times. Chances are, you're going to make the same mistakes. What makes a band tight is the frequency of performing together. There's an artform to learning to communicate on-stage; learning the quirks of how a particular group of musicians perform together. Personally, I like to improvise. This keeps the music fresh, and if a performance needs to go longer, this is an easy way to achieve that. If the audience is really enjoying a particular tune, I say give them more of it! 

If you're wondering why I'm not still out there making noise - this is essentially why. If I had the budget available, I'd just go into the studio and record. I can, and have, gone in with just a drummer and recorded singles and even a full album. Once I have the drums tracked, I can do everything else if need be. I already know the songs and the arrangements. It's usually quicker this way. But it's not the same as working with a band. It's a different energy.

And some days I really miss it. 

Who knows, maybe one of these days it'll happen again. Until then, I'm always playing, writing, and arranging. I've released a lot of music. I still have all sorts of recordings and video in the vault. Even if I never gig again, I've been blessed with having made a lot of music. 6,000+ shows to date. I probably shouldn't be so greedy.