I don't live here, I'm from Fanville

It is an odd thing to suddenly find yrself on the performing side of the audience-musician divide when it is not yr native province. It's weird over there. There's too much empty space, and that mike stand in front of my nose just cries out to be jostled, and why are all of these people staring at me so terribly, terribly squarely? If their bangs weren't covering half their faces then maybe I could tell whether everyone was having an okay time or not, but as it is I am too mired in show-fright, so I keep my eyes on the ground and study shoes--boots and Converse, mostly, with rusty buckle and duct tape accents. High-Top Purple Cons seems to be enjoying herself, stomping a bit, but Knee-High Mukluks looks bored, and Ratty Sneakers clearly wishes he had stayed at home. After bumping the mike stand for the seventh time I hang my head and intensify an already strong-ass respect for the people who do this every night, who endure the sound checks and staring to make the art they believe in.