‘THE VERY FIRST ONE’ - Don Giovanni’s - White Oak, TX - February 14, 2010

As we set sail on this magical little series, there’s really only one place to start—the beginning. And I wouldn’t necessarily call this first one memorable in the “Wow, what a triumph!” kind of way… but hey, you’ve gotta start somewhere, right?

Back in December 2009, I released my first EP, Green and Envious, to the masses. And by “masses,” I mean MySpace, Facebook, and a stack of burned CDs handed out to close friends. It was a DIY operation in every sense—recorded in the closet of our duplex on Baxley Ln. in Pine Tree, with a rented laptop and gear that barely worked (or I barely knew how to work).

Recently, I found those old files buried in a forgotten email inbox, and—whew. I can’t cringe hard enough listening to them now.

To me? Awful.

To my friends? Not as bad as they expected.

So, by basic math, we’ll say it was… respectfully below average.

Still, I was proud of it. I wrote the songs, recorded them, and put myself out there. That counts for something.

One snowy night, my buddy Justin Nelson (incredible guitar player and equally incredible bullshitter) and I were tossing back beers when he said a friend of his needed someone to fill in for a Valentine’s Day gig at Don Giovanni’s Italian Restaurant in White Oak. He thought we should play it.

“A gig?” I said. “Like… a music-playing gig?”

“No, dipshit. We’re gonna make garlic knots,” he replied. “Yes! They want someone to come play love songs for a couple of hours. And they’re gonna pay us!”

Now, I’d done karaoke nights and a few jam sessions around Longview. I had even tried to start a band in 2009 with Justin and my buddy Bryan Risinger—we called it Rising Red. We got close… until life happened and Rising Red fell. So when he brought this up, my first instinct was to talk myself out of it.

“That’s like… three days away,” I said. “No way we’ll be ready.”

“Bro,” he said, laser-focused. “They. Are. Going. To. Pay. Us. You never shut up about how fun it is to play music in front of people. Here’s your chance. I’ll play guitar, you sing. We’ll pick songs we already know. Two hours, and we’re out.”

He had a point.

So, I said, “Screw it—let’s do it.”

We spent every spare second between then and the gig building a set list with printouts from Ultimate Guitar (this was before iPads made us all look slick). We picked out 20-ish songs, rehearsed them, picked what we were going to wear, and got hyped.

Fast forward to Valentine’s night—we hop in the van, head over to White Oak, running through songs and feeling solid. Everything’s aligning. Until…

“Wait—where’s the PA?” Justin asks.

“I thought you were getting the PA,” I said, panic setting in.

Now we’re both freaking out. How do you forget the freakin’ PA?!

After a few deep breaths and a silent what-is-our-life moment, we realize the place isn’t that big. Maybe—just maybe—we don’t need one.

We get there, ask the owner where to set up, and he points to a cozy little corner. We shrug, get situated, and start playing. Just us—raw, unplugged, and unfiltered.

We played some classic country—I Cross My Heart by George Strait—and during that one, a guy at the next table proposed to his girlfriend. Dead serious. We threw in fun stuff like Can You Feel the Love Tonight and the whole room lit up.

Then came my original, Enchanted. I was nervous to play it, but we went for it. And… people loved it. That moment—man, that was a rush.

As we wrapped up, the girls we were seeing at the time showed up, dressed to the nines. We finished the set, got paid, and joined them for candlelit dinners like we were the stars of a very low-budget rom-com.

And just as we were about to leave, the owner thanked us—not just for playing, but for not bringing a PA. He loved that we didn’t drown out the vibe, and told us all future performers would be unplugged from then on.

Through sheer negligence, we ended up being innovative. Who knew?