I’m taking a marketing course. It was recommended by the owner of a club I’ve played twice over the past year. I like her a great deal and, more importantly, I trust her judgment. If she thinks learning a bit about marketing might help make our future shows, then I’m game to become a student again.

The course spends a great deal of time discussing Meta ads and the “pixel,” which, despite sounding like a tiny square on a television screen, appears to possess mystical powers. My manager speaks about pixels with the hushed reverence reserved for Lennie Breau or sourdough starters. They are apparently the secret ingredient separating those who sell out theatres from those who perform to three cousins and a bartender.

At the moment, it feels like Kafka has been hired by Meta. Still, I press on. My own expertise consists of writing songs, showing up on time, playing the piano reasonably well, and hoping somehow news of the concert drifts through the atmosphere. It has served me adequately, but “adequately” is rarely the final chapter in a story worth telling.