Ep 26: Beating the Funk

In this episode, John talks about beating the funk. Not the good kind with a killer bass line. The emotional kind. The kind that sneaks in after too many miles, too much noise, too much pressure, or just . . . too much life. 

Instead of offering shallow positivity or pretending everything is fine, this episode takes a different route. It’s about gratitude. Paying attention again. Taking stock of the small things that still carry beauty, meaning, and life. 

Transcript

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You are listening to the Gig to Live Podcast. Welcome everyone. I'm John Foles and I'm a full-time working musician. This podcast is about building a music life that holds up over time. It's practical, enjoyable, sometimes uncomfortable, but it's always about helping you stay in the game and actually enjoy the life that you're building. We'll meet some wonderful working musicians from time to time. So whether you're just getting started or you've been doing this for years, you're in the right spot. This podcast is for you. Hey everyone. Welcome to the podcast today. I have the day off, although not really. I mean, I have it off from playing gigs, but I'm staying plenty busy today. And uh I thought I'd take some time out and do a little podcasting with you. I just came off a long string of gigs. Um I played uh some retirement communities, I played some breweries, uh three of those to be exact. And then I did something so interesting. For the third year running now, I played music along the course for runners in the Amway Riverbank run. It's it's an amazing thing. Uh, it's fun to watch, it's fun to participate in. I mean, not as a runner, I don't run, I would die. Uh, but it's fun to play music as people are coming around. I think they had me at around mile 15, it's a 25k. Uh, and so I was near the end, uh, not near the beginning. And man, it is just a rare privilege to see people, you know, just struggling to get to the finish line sometimes, and to be able to play some tunes as they're running by and put a smile on their face and see them fist bump. And uh, you know, it's it's super encouraging. Uh, so that was that was a really good thing to be part of. But you know what? Um oh, I also had a private party uh just the other night. It was long too, but it was gorgeous. It was at a gorgeous home. I got to play music by the pool. They had the pool lit up. I got to stare at that all night. So pretty cool. But uh even after these super encouraging gigs that I just came off of, lately I have been in kind of a funk. I mean, I'm a little edgy. I just feel off. We're in the Midwest right now. We stay in the Midwest for six months each year, and I gig all up and down the Michigan coast in western Michigan, sometimes down into Indiana and over to Illinois, but mostly in Michigan. Sometimes I get uh over to my old neck of the woods in southern Michigan, and sometimes I get over to the eastern part of the state. Uh, you know, it's only I don't know how many hundreds of miles across the state of Michigan. Uh I'm going to guess right now and say it's about 300 miles from where I'm at to the farthest place in Michigan that I drive. I purposefully planned less gigs as soon as we got into town so I could ease into it after traveling across the country. I planned only six gigs in the first three weeks. So I had two a week. History tells me I will be exhausted for at least two weeks whenever I make the cross country transition. And one thing I know about myself is that while I love the change, I have a rough re-entry sometimes. I could give a long list of why I'm feeling out of sorts and a bit melancholy in this season, but this isn't a therapy session. What I'd like to share with you today are some things that make me grateful, energizing things, happy things, things that make me proud to be a musician. And honestly, maybe it is kind of a therapy session. The very act of sharing this list with you is part of a ritual for me. I have always fought depression, and I've always needed ways to remind myself of the things that matter, you know, to gain perspective. I used to have this habit where I posted on Facebook every single day ten things that made me happy today. I think I did it for about three years. It was super therapeutic. But after a couple of years, I noticed it just it wasn't working the same. And people expected it of me, so then it started to feel like a chore, and I gave up on it. People ask me about it all the time. But throughout the years, I have found that interrupting my patterns helped me in the funk. Doing things I don't normally do, writing songs I don't normally write, visiting places I don't normally go, reading books I don't normally read. It's not a surefire way to stop the melancholy, but man, I gotta tell you, it sure is a good place to start. Also, I have found that uh gratitude is an elixir for me. Talking about the things that make me happy and energize me, I especially love talking about those things out loud. That's why I'm doing this today. Hearing myself say things is a good way to remind myself of the things I love and the reasons I do what I do. So today's list is a personal list. It's a top 10, but it's the top 10 that just came to my mind in this season. It may be a different top 10 if you ask me six months from now. Shoot, six days from now. I don't know. I'm hoping that this top ten will give you an idea of the kind of lists that you can make and celebrate to hopefully help you when the funk hops inside your vehicle as an uninvited passenger. So drum roll, please. The top ten little things that bring me joy as a musician number ten. Plain small rooms. The big stage is fun, it has energy. I mean, if you get a chance to to play for hundreds or thousands of people, it's um it's something else. But there is a magic of another kind in a small room. Being able to see people's faces, having people talk back to you and converse with you while they're sitting in their seat. I feel way more in tune with myself and the music in a small room. Uh you notice things like the anniversary, the first date, the lady singing every word, it's easier to command the space. And the sound is usually better in a small room. When there are fifty people or less and your volume sits in that sweet spot, it's like when your car is cruising down the highway and your engine isn't screaming, you know, it settles in, the window's down, cigarette hanging out the window if that's your vibe. For me, a small room is the difference between an intimate birthday celebration with your friends at a winery and a surprise party at a rented space at the community center. It's it's that kind of a a difference in the feeling. Performance takes a back seat to connection when you're in a small room. So yeah, small rooms that makes me happy. Number nine. New experiences and venues. I have some favorite venues for sure, but in most cases, my favorite venue is the one I haven't played yet. Bringing your music to a new space tends to, uh, I don't know, it wakes you up. If you've ever had a residency somewhere, you know how easy it is to settle into patterns. And, you know, that's its own thing. I'm I'm not knocking that. I I actually have a couple of residencies and I I love that. But a new venue keeps you on your toes. You notice everything for the first time, like the staff, the rhythms of the place, the smells, the colors. You get to ask, what songs belong here in this space? Is this the place that I try out that new song? I think spaces are living things. They're a part of the performance. Their personality flavors your set, and I love communing and communicating with a new space. New venues usually mean new crowds as well. So people who aren't used to you, people who don't know exactly what to expect of you, uh, people who haven't labeled you. People are experiencing what you offer for the first time, and they love it. Their new fresh energy becomes your new energy because they're experiencing something new. But you know what? You are also experiencing something new. You're experiencing it together. And then, you know, of course, there's new possibilities, relationships, return gigs. I love it. Give me a new experience. Number eight relationships with venue owners. I love becoming friends with venue owners. I love it when they post something on their social media uh about the upcoming gig and they say something personal uh about me. Uh they say something personal, uh personal about my plane. Uh and it's more than just the normal hype for a show. When they use my nickname in a post, I love it. Uh I love hearing stories about their businesses when I talk to them. I love feeling like we're in it together for the night. I love watching them grow their businesses when they're struggling. I like feeling like I'm helping in some way. I love it when the venue starts to feel like a home away from home. And when I travel, not only do I miss the spaces and the fans that I leave behind, I miss venue owners. When I'm away, I wonder what they're doing. I've noticed myself sometimes referring to a venue owner rather than the name of the place when my wife asks, Where are you playing again tonight? Um, I'll say Lisa's place, or I'm playing at Eric's, or I'm playing up at Ken's. Relationships with venue owners uh can be a real anchor. Especially for traveling musicians. Crowds change, uh staff changes sometimes, but a relationship with a venue owner can help you feel connected to a community and not like you're just passing through. Number seven. Road rituals. I'd love to know what yours are. Mine are simple, but I love them. I sometimes like playing a game with Siri as I drive down the road where I tell her to play a song when it comes to mine, and sometimes just one after another. Play this song, Siri, play this song, Siri, play this song. And then when a song hits home, I will sometimes let the algorithm take over and see what kind of songs it picks next. It's also fun for me to guess the connections that the algorithm makes. Sometimes I go, oh, I get that. It's picking songs based on guitar texture. That's why it went from the birds to REM. Or maybe it's picking up on tempo. I always love hearing how artists get lumped together and trying to figure it out. It also gives me good ideas for my next covers. And then on stressful late nights, you might you you may find this strange, but I love listening to varieties of metal, industrial rock, punk on the way home. I I I listen to it loud and it calms me. Maybe it just matches my emotion at the time and it makes me go, yeah, this feels right. And it has a calming effect. It's weird. It doesn't happen all the time. I can't roll out of bed and listen to metal. It would do the exact opposite to me. But it's often the perfect cheer for the ride home. Siri, listen to Iron Maiden. Now playing this as Iron Maiden on Spotify. No, not right now. Another ritual for me is Taco Bell. It's my go-to late snack. I know the jokes, uh, but my stomach does just fine there. I can get out of Taco Bell for under five bucks, and it makes me very happy. It's a routine, it's a ritual. Sometimes uh talking to my friends on a long ride is perfect. If I know that I have an hour with me in the road, then I will often reach out, touch base with a friend, and listen to them tell me what's going on in their lives. I love that. All of my road rituals are things I don't normally do when my wife is with me. So the truck becomes my space. And I like riding with her. Don't get me wrong. I I love our road trips, but I also like my space, and the truck is like my man cave or my clubhouse, and it becomes that to and from the gig. Number six, retirement communities. There is something so special to me about playing a retirement community or a memory care facility. Not all of them are created the same. You know, some retirement communities I play are for very active retired people who love when I play, you know, because I'm going to play all their favorites and they can't wait to dance. But most of the communities I play are a much different scene. People are struggling sometimes. Some feel abandoned, confused, sad, lonely, and for one hour I get to bring hope, nostalgia, joy, memories, kindness, celebration over the tiniest moments in time, and laughter, and that's a beautiful thing. People who don't normally interact begin to move, to sing, to talk, my dumb little jokes, keep them in stitches, it's hilarious. And then there's the great conversations that make me smile, like the guy who approached me when Ozzie Osborne died, and he told me how sad it was. He wanted to find some common ground. I told him I was sad too. And then he mentioned Ozzy's long tongue, and I realized that he thought Gene Simmons was Ozzie. I didn't correct him. Then there's the women who come to tell me stories about their children and their grandchildren and great-grandchildren who play guitar. And there's the folks who share stories with me about the time they saw Neil Diamond in concert or they met Elvis as a teenager. There are the people who request the same exact song every time and sometimes twice in one day. And, you know, sometimes it can be sad, but most of the time it's really endearing. And of course, sometimes I return to a community and realize someone isn't there anymore. And sometimes I ask about it, and sometimes I just know and I let it be. But it's a rare privilege to be a troubadour for those who no longer get out and about, for those who need to feel like they have dignity left. I love it. Number five, local fans man. When I travel around, it is so fun to get texts and messages from people who know that I'm rolling into town. And when they tell me they're excited that I'm coming, it's it's very special to me. When they when they tell me what venues they're going to be at, I look forward to seeing them. When I see people at venues, I love it. A hug, a high five, I play their favorite songs. We may never hang out together outside of the venues I play, but we have that together. We have a shared experience. And I love it when fans turn into friends. You get to know people's names. Sometimes they invite you to play private parties, their kids' weddings, retirement parties, graduations, birthday parties, house concerts, baby showers, Christmas gigs, and they invite you not just because they like your style. They invite you because they like you. And I love it when someone refers to me as their musician. It's special. I miss my fans when I'm away from them. I just saw a fan the other day in California online who was celebrating something big, and I reached out to her and I said I wished I could be there to help her celebrate, and she responded me to Local Fans are the best. Number four. The Sacred Gigs, weddings, retirement parties, baptism celebrations, a holiday tradition for a family, a ninety-five year old birthday party. They all have sacred elements. They're emotionally weighty and symbolic. They're not always religious, that's not what I mean by sacred. They're they're just special and out of the ordinary, and they happen one time. One time. It's not a recurring gig. It's a moment in time that is deeply human. But for me, there is no sacred moment that is quite like the funeral, the celebration of someone's life. Emotions are at a peak, the stories are rich. It's a it's a road marker. Creating a memory full of honor and beauty. It's a vulnerable time. And not only are you honoring the person who passed, you're reminded of your own mortality, and you feel like you're participating in eternity in those moments. These moments are some of the most beautiful privileges in our lives. We have an opportunity to be a beacon of hope, to set the scene, to help recall memories. There is nothing quite like it. It does not get any more real. Number three, kids dancing. Kids don't care. They are out there on the dance floor with the most odd. Awkward moves ever. Worse than a bright white guy at a Dave Matthews concert. Everyone has their cameras out, it's cute, it's celebratory, and it's uninhibited. They aren't trying to manage their cool factor, and they sometimes don't even match what they're wearing. I love watching them. I was that little kid. My dad used to say he's got the boogie in him and it's got to get out. Recently, a little girl brought her bubble gun to my outdoor show and danced as bubbles floated all around me. It was amazing. It was like I was a rock and roll Lawrence Swelk. In the words of David Bowie, let the children use it, let the children lose it, let all the children boogey. Number two, random conversations. This is a big category because it's full of diverse topics. You know, sometimes we're greeted by fans after a show or on break, or they sent us a message through Facebook, and the message grabs us because we had no idea what was happening behind the scenes as we were playing music. Maybe we were doing a cover, maybe it was an original song, and the conversation opens with a zinger. Something like that was my mom's favorite song. She used to sing it to me. I cried through the whole thing tonight. Or that was my dad's song. We just had it played at his funeral today, and then you did it tonight. It was like he was here. Or I thought about taking my life, and that song saved me once upon a time. Thank you for playing it. Every time I hear it, I'm reminded. Or that was our wedding song, and I just lost my wife to cancer. Or could I hire you to come play for my daughter at home? She's in a wheelchair and she doesn't like to get out. Or if I give you my information, would you promise that you will come sing at my funeral? Or thanks for this tonight. I wasn't going to come. My fiance is dying, and I needed to get my mind off of things. Yeah, those are all real conversations that I've had. Music creates space for people to be nostalgic, to be vulnerable, softened up, and feel like they've been seen even if you didn't aim the song at them. And all of a sudden you're like a bartender or a priest or a therapist or best friend. The musician is catapulted into a world of trust where people feel free to share their burdens. And not many people get to experience this, you know? A total stranger confiding in them in the way that musicians do. It's not that we're special, it's that our platform is unique and what we offer is a key. Art gives access to the human heart in a unique way. What an honor and a privilege it is to hear someone out. Number one, watching people fall in love with songs again. She's sitting at the bar and she stops talking for a minute, she closes her eyes, puts her head back, she takes it in, she starts to cry and smile. And then she tells you later that the song you played is one that she forgot all about, and it brought her back to her teenage years riding in the car with her grandpa. Or he's with his wife at a table and they both stop and they point at each other. Is this I I think it is. Oh it is and they both cuddle a bit because it's the song that he proposed to her with so many years ago. Or two people get up and dance because you're playing their wedding song. They haven't really listened to it in thirty years. Musicians get a front row seat to some real human moments as people connect with songs. They aren't just songs, right? They're markers, they're memories. They are vessels of encouragement. They are living stories, living and breathing entities that act like a person in their story. You know, I think part of longevity is not pretending that the funk doesn't exist, not stuffing it down, trying to mask it with whatever we mask it with. We need to call out the funk by name and not let it have the last word or the you know the final say. If we let it take over completely, we stop noticing the little things. And I think we need the little things. Sometimes they are all we need to get us through. I'll talk to you soon. Until we meet again, stay creative, stay after it, stay hired.