We had been looking for a small live music venue in our neighborhood. Google searches only brought up tourist spots downtown or concerts in the giant stadiums. Not really what we were looking for.
Then one day, over the summer, I heard someone talking about a great local spot where they had just heard an awesome band playing. They gave me the name of the spot and I immediately looked up the location, it was walking distance from our place: perfect!! Live music 4 nights a week and never a cover charge: even better!! As I scrolled through their previous month’s acts my toes were already beginning to tap and my ears were excitingly anticipating a sweet musical treat. Then I came across a little note at the top of the page I had overlooked in my eager haste: they were taking the month of August off, and it was July 30th. Damn.
We had waited this long for a local spot to call home; we’d survive another month.
That month flew by, just like time has a habit of doing, and there we were into September. We made plans to check out the line up one Friday night. My brother was in town, so we made a couple stops before walking down the quiet neighborhood street into the almost hidden, dark bar. We pulled the door open, expecting loud music to come flowing out, but the lack thereof slammed into us just as the smoke filled air hit us. There was a DJ playing, we were too late and had missed the live music. Damn.
A few weeks later I felt like we were overdue for a night out, just the two of us. I thought I would be a fun girlfriend and invite my man out for a “surprise date,” which is just another way of saying, “Let’s go do what I want to do tonight, but I am not going to tell you, so you can’t protest.” I put on something other than the pink fuzzy robe that I practically live in at home, did my hair and even wore a little lipstick. This was the special night we had been waiting for, we were finally going to enjoy this bar’s elusive live music. We sat down, ordered a drink and asked the waitress what time the live music would start. “Oh, there’s actually just a DJ tonight.” Damn.
Fast forward another couple weeks, the weather had turned grey, wet and cold, the hibernation desire was strong. It was a Saturday night and I decided that we needed to get out of the house, or we might actually use up all of the oxygen in our tiny apartment, die, and I would be found in my pink fuzzy robe laying in front of the computer, with Netflix’s auto play continuing through every season of The Office. I suggested we try the live music spot again. The website said there was in fact someone playing that night, 7pm. Not wanting to miss any of the action, like our first attempt, we forewent dinner and arrived fashionably late (which in German standards is about 3 minutes late). We found a table, which was not hard, since we were the first customers in the bar. The singer was busy with sound check, things were looking promising, even if the place was still 99% empty. After sound check we waited, and waited, and our stomachs grumbled. We inquired and the waitress told us the music wouldn’t start until 9pm. So we decided to run home, cook dinner, and come back.
As we walked into the bar, for the second time that night, the exquisite, delightful, sound of live music hit our eardrums. Finally. We took our jackets off and sat down just as the singer finished the song and said, “Thank you so much for coming out! Have a great night.” And walked off the stage. Goddammit.