If you want to get good at anything, repetition becomes part of your life. You practice until you’re satisfied. Musicians live this twice over — not just in rehearsing, but in where they perform.
When an artist plays a venue for the first time, the goal is always to be invited back — a repeat performance. From bar bands to The Rolling Stones, the same principle applies - go where you’re wanted. In show business, as in any business, that means one thing — money. From startup costs to operating costs to nightly take, it’s always about the bottom line.
A venue will rebook an act if that act helps keep the lights on (and hopefully generates a profit!). A packed room doesn’t guarantee profit — I’ve seen standing-room-only crowds drinking water or sneaking in their own booze. That kills both the venue and the act. Musicians often don’t understand why they’re not asked back after a packed night. Simple answer: they didn’t generate enough income.
A working musician’s survival depends on making venues money. Once they do, they’re welcomed back. That’s show biz. Over time, most build what’s called a circuit — a list of reliable venues that want them regularly. A good circuit can stretch across town or across the globe.
But circuits often shrink. Venues close, change hands, or shift formats — all, again, because of money.
Years ago, a young club owner of a new club asked me for a list of places I’d played. I gave it to him — with the caveat that most had since gone out of business. He tried to negotiate my rate down and argued his point. I told him politely that maybe he wasn’t ready to hire anyone yet. His club folded in four months. I never played there. Eventually, new owners took over, and I sat in with a friend’s band. The original guy? Gone without a trace.
This reminds me of an artist I’d worked with on and off for years — a nice guy, talented, and steady. He’d carved out a small but consistent circuit. Not the biggest rooms, but enough to keep him working. He knew his audience and kept his shows predictable but comfortable.
Over time, though, his venues started dropping off. From a dozen to half that, then down to two. Crowds thinned, fans aged out, and his predictability — once comforting — turned stale. Add in drinking and drugs, and his later sets became painful to watch. I voiced my concerns; he didn’t want to hear them.
The two remaining venues called less and less. The occasional private party would be booked. These are often uncomfortable situations for a working musician. The physical venue, whether it be a rented hall or someone's house, is rarely equipped for the physical necessities of a live performance. Too few electrical outlets, too little physical space, and no professional understanding of the requirements for a live performance. The partying continued, the performances suffered.
Eventually, he announced he was “leaving his own band.” I knew what that meant — a reset, swapping musicians instead of addressing deeper issues. He still plays, occasionally, at the same two venues, with whoever’s available. If that makes him happy, good. He’s a fine entertainer when he’s focused. But his circuit — once steady — has all but vanished.
It happens to every working musician eventually. Venues open and close. Crowds come and go. What matters is whether you keep your skills sharp and your show engaging. Audiences might not understand music deeply, but they know when they’ve been entertained — and so do the bartenders and bookers. That’s who decides if there’s a repeat performance.
