I’ve been thinking a lot lately about whether the day is coming when I stop performing music. The novelty of the experience is what gets a lot of people started, but the hassles of gigging out — and a general lack of talent — flush most players off the stage within a few months. Others will stick it out for a few years, often until they get married or other interests consume too much time. I’m a rare person: I’ve managed to keep it going for more than 20 years, with a few small breaks here and there. But there are times…

Take last night. The drummer had 40 bucks lifted out of a wallet he had left in a shoulder bag. The audience in the tiny bar contained perhaps a half-dozen hard-core alcoholics who literally were stumbling around the place. I got home at 1:30 a.m., reeking of cigarettes and sweat. The pick-up band of which I was a part played fairly sloppily; in the first set, it was all I could do to stay focused and not get angry. I was mildly hoarse this morning; I had the two-pack-a-day voice that I sometimes get after a gig. And, to quote Neil Young, I’m getting old; there’s less appeal in the concept of having my 46-year-old person in a bar at 1 a.m. on a workday than there was 20 years ago.

But a few good moments overcome a pile of bad ones. Non-drunk people were very complimentary last night; the staff seemed to like us; there were moments when we played quite well as a band. That’s what keeps me going. It’s just hard at times.