I think the first time I used the phrase “I’m with the band” — apart from in junior high when I played flute in an actual band — was in high school when I somehow became attached to a band called Flight. In case you can’t tell from the photo below, it was the 1980s. They had come in after a gig to the restaurant where I worked. A couple of my friends ended up dating the lead singer and the keyboardist. We would all hang out at their Scooby clubhouse in the the drummer’s mother’s garage. We could get into their shows at over 21 venues because we were with the band. We felt so cool.

I haven’t had occasion to use the phrase again since, although in the reboot of my life, I have friends who have — shout out to the Mean Lady and her erstwhile almost all female Aerosmith tribute band Dream On and to the current preoccupation of the Nerd, the almost all ukulele band The Castaways. For the Nerd in particular, I know that saying “I’m with the band” causes intemperate glee. A gobsmacked look of unbelievable good fortune will cross her face when she mentions that she plays music. For money. And I’m pretty sure that the “for money” part is incidental to the “for an audience” and “with real musicians” part.

Tonight, I went to see Glen Hansard at the Moore Theater. A mile down the road, Madonna was playing a gig at the Key Arena. I’m pretty sure that Hansard could have filled the Key. But from his apparent joy being in a fairly intimate venue and his continuous interaction with the audience, I realized that big arenas must not be something that every musician dreams of playing. What may be obvious to many was surprising to me: I don’t know an author who would turn down the chance to sell as many books as 50 Shades of Grey author EL James. We want the world to read our words. But I bet there are a ton of musicians who don’t aim to play Wembly or Croke Park.

One of the only perks of being disabled — aside from my handi-placard that lets me park just about anywhere for free — is getting special seating at events. You never know what that means: a seat behind a pole or directly in front of the stage, tucked somewhere unobtrusive or put wherever suits your particular brand of disability best (close if you have vision problems, not upstairs if you don’t walk well). In the case of the Moore, it’s right next to the sound guy — the best seat in the house sound wise. And the sound engineer? He’ll chat with you after the show. He doesn’t have minions to keep the riff raff like me away, poor guy.

I have long had questions about Glen Hansard’s guitar that keep me up nights. The guitar in question has it’s own Twitter feed (although it doesn’t seem to be about the guitar at all or by anyone associated with it). There’s a picture of it, though. Go look.

The sound guy said the guitar has been with him since 1989, when Hansard was just a busker on Grafton Street. I probably passed him on my way to or from work. Maybe I even tossed him some money. He never busked on Henry Street on the north side of the Liffey because apparently his mother knew all the fruit and veggie hawkers and would have alerted her to the fact that young Glen wasn’t in school but was trying his hand at music. He told me the guitar is prone to losing pieces during concerts. One went flying off most recently when Hansard opened for Bob Dylan.

That poor instrument has more holes than VooDoo “The Magic is the Hole” Doughnuts at this point, and I itch with wonder about whether it is a prop, a security blanket, or if there is something about the sound it creates that makes it important to the music. So I scribbled (in the dark) a couple questions on a business card and begged the sound guy to give it to Hansard. I wonder if eventually, it will fall into too many pieces to be playable. I wonder if there is another guitar at home that the musician furiously strums — or pays someone to play for him — so that eventually, it will have the same wear pattern and thus a similar if not identical sound.

Our conversation didn’t end with the guitar (which I know is shocking to those of you who know me). We talked about how the sound guy had an aneurysm a few years ago and spent months in the hospital in a coma, about how he was brain dead according to the doctors, but his kids didn’t believe it. He kept patting his left breast, which the physicians said was nothing more than “a brain fart”, but his kids said was him patting his pocket looking for his smokes (he has since quit smoking and drinking). He explained why I couldn’t ever get a pint of Guinness in Glendalough that was as good as the one that Ariel Slattery would pour me at Slattery’s pub in Rathmines. He spoke of loving every second of life being with the band. He spoke with disdain about politicians and politics and how the only way to do things right would be to have a benevolent dictator, preferably him. He happily took a card with the name of a great Jewish deli in Portland (Kenny and Zukes) because he talked of the blessing of a great Reuben sandwich and real chicken soup and blintzes. I hope he goes.

It’s never been my fantasy to be “with the band”. I love to sing, but I meet my audience adulation quota when I chant Torah or Haftorah at my synagogue a couple times a year. And if I did have some third life as a singer or someone in a band, I think I’d like the smaller venues like the Moore where you have a better sense of the journey you take the audience on during a show. But as a writer, I’ll take the Wembly equivalent thank you.