Just Adjust the Mic

It’s open mic night and Al slips onto the small stage in the corner of the coffee shop, weaving through cables and guitar stands like he’s done it a hundred times before.

In one smooth move he settles onto the stool, plugs the cord into his acoustic, charmingly worn, like it’s lived a full life already, and brings the mic to exactly the right height. A quick nod to Sarah behind the soundboard. She switches it on.

I’m already in.

All I’m thinking is: what is he going to play? I have zero doubt it’s going to be good. Something that fits his voice, his range, his style. Something only he could play.

Then he opens his mouth.

Hey guys. Hope you’re having a good night. I’m Al. I’m going to play you a little something. I hope I can do a good job for you all.

Oh, Al.

Nobody here was wondering whether you’d do a good job. We were just excited to hear you.

The guitar erased it. First chord and the room shifted, conversations softened, cups paused halfway to mouths, something in the air changed. His voice carried the kind of ease that can’t really be taught. You could tell he belonged inside these songs.

But he never looked up.

Eyes down on the chord chart the whole set. Between songs, barely a word. At the end, a quiet follow me on social media if you want and a thanks that trailed off like he wasn’t sure he’d earned it.

The spell came back. But it never quite recovered.

After Al came a parade of completely different musicians.

The guy whose entire set felt like emotional shrapnel from a breakup. Loud, angry, not bad honestly, but by the end I felt like I needed a shower. Like I’d absorbed something I hadn’t signed up for.

Then the trio.

Her voice was gorgeous. The mic was too low. She reached up once, it didn’t budge, and glanced around almost hopefully, like maybe someone would come fix it. Nobody did.

So she left it. Three songs, folded over herself. The girl has real talent. She needs a mic adjuster on staff. She deserved to stand up straight.

I wanted to shout: just fix the mic. I almost did it myself. But by the time I worked up the courage she was already deep in the set, and honestly, my own anxiety had something to say about that too.

Then there was the last guy.

Energetic, original, clearly had musical ideas bouncing around in him that he couldn’t wait to get out. He came in hot, confident, and carried that energy straight through to the end. Was he off key? Frequently. Was it easy to listen to? Not exactly. But I was smiling the whole time.

Because he had already decided he belonged there. Fully. Without apology. And because of that, I didn’t walk away carrying any residue of his self-doubt. There wasn’t any. Whatever this room thought, you got the sense he was going home to write three more songs.

That’s the thing about confidence. It’s contagious in both directions.

These might come off as judgmental thoughts. But I want to be clear about where I’m starting from with every single person who walks up there: they’re probably really good. They are brave to be here. I hope their set goes well. I cannot wait to hear them.

And yet, one by one, each artist brought some small tell. A cue that pointed not to their talent but to how much of themselves they believed they were allowed to bring into the room.

It hurts to watch. Especially because I’m one of them.

I’ve said I hope I remember the lyrics this time before playing a single note. I’ve explained away songs before anyone had the chance to hear them. I’ve disqualified myself before anyone else could. I’ve let the mic sit awkwardly because adjusting it three times felt more embarrassing than just hunching over or stretching to reach it. I was wrong. Just adjust the mic.

I’ve broken down crying mid-set, overcome by anxiety and my own disappointment, and walked off stage because I couldn’t recover. I’ve felt the hot-faced embarrassment. I’ve started a song in the wrong key and carried it all the way through in the wrong key, which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely my fault, but the details get messy. I’ve used self-deprecating humor as a shield because I didn’t believe in myself enough to stand in my own strengths, my own style, my own skin. I’ve compared myself out loud to the person who went before me on stage. Out loud. Face palm.

I’ve done nearly all of it.

And I’ll probably do some of it again. But I’m also growing. Making fewer of the same old choices to make myself small.

Because I’m learning that these are the tiny ways we apologize for taking up space.

I’m not watching their performances. I’m watching their relationship with themselves. And mine. I’ve been on that stool. I’ve been under those lights. And I have royally abandoned myself up there.

My best moments are when I give myself permission to just be in it and do the thing I came to do. To connect. With the people who are right there in front of me. Whatever they came in carrying, tucked deep into their hearts or slipping out of their sleeve. Making eye contact (the horror!!), engaging, being present. When I don’t abandon myself up there, I can actually embody the moment and meet people in it. Otherwise I’m like a disembodied ghost, watching myself in agony, wondering why I even signed up for this.

Here’s what I think I’ve been noticing all along. Not who has the best voice. Not who plays the cleanest set. But who stops negotiating with themselves long enough to just... show up.

Even the shrapnel guy knew that. Ick. But hey.

And maybe that’s true everywhere.

Needless to say, I can only emotionally handle a few open mic nights a year.

As Mrs. Bennet would say: oh, my nerves. My poor nerves.