The dream: moody lighting, a roaring crowd, everything in tune.

The reality? A dying laptop, phantom MIDI notes, and me audibly whispering “what the f*** is happening” into a live mic.

Let’s rewind.

I booked my first gig like any other overly ambitious bedroom producer — with confidence completely unearned by experience. Some friends were throwing an underground show. I had Ableton, a launchpad, a hoodie that made me look like I “knew things,” and two finished tracks. That, apparently, was enough.

They put me third on the lineup. Prime slot. Right before the DJ who actually knew how to read a room.

Load-in: Anxiety in a Backpack

I showed up with way too much gear. Two MIDI controllers, an interface I hadn’t tested since the last update, cables in a tangled knot that might’ve contained a small animal, and a backup USB stick I didn’t know how to use.

I also brought my laptop. The same one that, earlier that week, had crashed while opening Google Chrome.

"You're gonna be great," a friend said. She meant it. I think. I wanted to believe her. But my palms were already sweaty, and my inner monologue had switched to full-time screaming.

Soundcheck, a.k.a. The First Public Humiliation

I plug in. Hit play. Nothing happens.

Cool. No audio. Classic.

I unplug. Replug. Panic. I eventually realize Ableton’s audio output is set to my computer speakers instead of the interface. Nice. Fix it. Try again. BOOM — the first kick drum plays at full blast through the sub. The sound guy flinches. The room flinches. My ancestors flinch.

“Can you bring that down?” he says, in the tone of someone who’s said this 400 times tonight.

I nod. I pretend I understand gain staging. I definitely do not.

The Set: A Slow-Motion Meltdown

Ten minutes in, things are... fine? People are nodding. I launch a clip. It works. I twist a knob. Something changes. I look confident, maybe. Then, MIDI hell.

Suddenly, one synth won’t stop playing. A stuck note. A ghost in the machine.

I try muting the track. Nope. Changing the patch? Nope. It keeps going, like some sort of vengeful MIDI banshee. I panic and stop the clip. Silence. No sound. The room turns toward me — not all at once, but like a slow wave of suspicion.

I mumble into the mic: “Uh, little tech issue. One sec.”

Bad idea. Now everyone knows something’s wrong. I reload the set. It crashes. I reboot. It hangs. I drink half a warm beer and try to look like I’m “just adjusting levels.”

The Aftermath: Me, a Bathroom, and the Death of Ego

I finished the set. Sort of. Played one last track from Spotify just to fill time and said “thank you” in a voice two octaves above normal.

Then I went to the bathroom, locked the stall, and had a full existential crisis next to a graffiti-covered soap dispenser.

The Wild Part? I Came Back.

Not that night. That night I went home, unplugged everything, and considered selling all my gear to fund a peaceful life as a librarian.

But a week later, I tried again — smaller room, simpler setup, fewer expectations. No laptop this time. Just a groovebox and a loop pedal. And it worked. Not flawlessly — but enough.

Because here’s the deal: your first gig is supposed to suck. It’s supposed to humble you, wreck your ego, and show you every hole in your setup. It’s like creative hazing. If you survive, you're allowed in the club.

Moral of the Story? Test Your Gear. And Your Nerve.

Also: bring headphones. Keep it simple. Assume failure. And know that everyone who looked cool on stage once had a night exactly like this. Probably worse.

I almost never played again.
And I’m so glad I did.