San Diego Union-Tribune (Sunday)
LOOKING BACK AT A LOST YEAR
As the first anniversary of the COVID-19 pandemic shutdown arrives, nine San Diego musicians take stock of a year everyone would like to forget.
What happens when the unthinkable becomes reality? What do musicians do when the music abruptly stops and their livelihoods vanish, literally overnight, for longer than anyone imagined possible?
A year ago this week, the COVID-19 pandemic brought performers and performances around the globe to a standstill, shuttering venues of all sizes indefinitely. The impact has silenced countless musicians, actors, dancers and artists of all types, along with myriad workers — from stage crew members and lighting operators to security guards and concessionaires — who make live cultural events possible.
In December, we wrote about seven men and women who make the stages come alive — the actors, the dancers, the players who made abrupt exits in mid-march when the coronavirus pandemic shut down theaters across the nation, from Broadway to Balboa Park. In November, we profiled seven San Diego musicians as they grappled with the realities of life during the shutdown and a world turned inside out. In September, we profiled the pandemic stories of 10 stagehands whose now stilled behind-the-scenes work was every bit as vital as that of the struggling performers whose stories we have been telling for the past year.
Today, nine San Diego musicians reflect on the last gigs they played in 2020 before the shutdown. They share the challenges they have faced over the past year, what was lost and — in some cases — what was unexpectedly gained. Here, in their own words, are the stories behind their last gigs.
It was March 10, 2020, when Young Guns and I played at the grand opening of the Ahern Hotel & Convention Center in Las Vegas. The gig felt like any other — masks weren’t a thing yet, and there were no hand sanitizers or plexiglass shields to be found.
We were all excited to be there and put our best foot forward to entertain and carry the night. Unfortunately, the crowd wasn’t as large as expected, but that just meant more room on the dance floor. My bandmate, Melody Ebner, and I led line dances from the stage and from the dance floor, using wireless microphones. We had several outfit changes throughout the night, but that’s Vegas, baby!
After the hectic craziness of the night was over, we were able to just hang as a band and socialize. Because of COVID, the hotel never got the chance to open and still hasn’t.
The next day, all flights back to San Diego, mysteriously, had been canceled, so we were forced to rent a van and drive home. I volunteered to drive the band, as I had made several trips to Vegas earlier that year by myself and felt comfortable with the drive and even enjoyed it. It made me realize how far I had come in my industry as a professional musician — to be able to say I play regularly, not just in San Diego, but Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Nashville and beyond. I wasn’t just a “local musician” anymore, and I had the miles to prove it.
I didn’t know that more than 11 months would go by before I stepped foot on another stage. Pre-pandemic, I had performed almost every other other day, sometimes twice in one day. I had more gigs than there were days in a year.
Just four months before the first lockdown, I left my office job to do music full time, traveling all over the country playing solo and with different artists and bands, doing what I love. Even my tax lady was impressed at my financial leaps of success with music, making 2019 the best year of my career — and 2020 was set to surpass that.
To be honest, the first lockdown felt like my first retirement. Finally, I had a few weeks without heels, sequins or makeup. Then the weeks rolled into months and my rest grew into restlessness. Being a creative artist is more than just what we do; it’s who we are, and my colleagues and I began to lose sight of that.
Like most people in the world, the pandemic proved devastating to not only my career and industry, but also to my mental and emotional health. I had spent over 20 years and invested hundreds of thousands of dollars into a career that basically became outlawed.
When things change, you can either adapt or fight it. Since fighting an invisible enemy wasn’t an option, I decided to adapt and make the best of an unfortunate situation. My best friend, Cleo, and I came up with the idea to do “violin telegrams,” and we called it “Viogram.” She would drive her car and park in culde-sacs, out in front of private residences or businesses, and I would play violin through an amplifier on top of her car for birthdays and other special occasions.
I also was able to ramp up my home studio and record tracks remotely as a source of residual income. In addition, the pandemic has stimulated my (online) songwriting collaborations with artists across the country.
Although I still mourn the loss of my career and lifestyle before COVID, I can confidently say I celebrate the opportunity to reinvent myself, adapt and find my new purpose in this ever-changing world. I find comfort with my colleagues that I am not alone in this journey and that every day is a choice to either struggle in despair or go forward and be joyful in faith.
“Being a creative artist is more than just what we do; it’s who we are, and my colleagues and I began to lose sight of that.”