Playing My First Private Party Near Florence, South Carolina

January in South Carolina still doesn’t quite feel real to me…

Background

I played my first solo gig in the Myrtle Beach area on a warm, windy January afternoon near Florence, South Carolina, just a short drive from the North Carolina border. The temperature hit seventy-eight degrees. In January. Coming from years of Northeast winters, that detail alone still feels like a small miracle.

The gig came through one of the online booking platforms — the kind of booking that doesn’t arrive with much ceremony or context. You say yes, you adjust your schedule, you show up prepared, and you let the day reveal itself. I had to move a few Guitar Lessons Myrtle Beach classes around to make it work, but nothing dramatic: teaching at 8:30 in the morning, then again at 3:30 and 4:30 in the afternoon. A normal working-musician day, just compressed.

I was actually a bit tired before the gig. The night before, I’d sat in with jazz musicians at Coastal Carolina University on a gig they were playing in Pawleys Island. It was a great night — generous musicians, good energy — but it meant a later evening and an early start the next day. I wondered briefly how that would feel by the time I started playing.

As it turns out, it didn’t matter.

Logistics

The first thing I noticed when I arrived was the wind. Not a gentle breeze — real, sustained gusts. The kind that immediately makes you think about physics, gravity, and bad past decisions. Years ago, at the National Buffalo Wing Festival, I’d had a speaker mounted on a pole get blown over completely, bending the pole and costing me a hundred dollars to replace. That memory crossed my mind more than once as I set up.

Fortunately, nothing catastrophic happened this time. The speaker stayed upright. The mic stand held. Even my phone, which I had balanced on a small stand to try to grab a quick selfie video, tipped over at one point — but instead of smashing on the ground, it gently leaned against the side of a table, stand still attached, unharmed. A small mercy, but I’ll take it.

I was playing outdoors, surrounded by clothing vendors, artists, and local sellers. The setup immediately told me what kind of role the music needed to play. This wasn’t a concert. It wasn’t background noise either. It was something in between: music as atmosphere, as invitation, as connective tissue between people moving through the space.

I played acoustic guitar and sang — my first time using my PA and acoustic setup live in the Myrtle Beach area. The wind made things noisier than usual, but I use a windscreen on the microphone, and that made a big difference. It’s one of those unglamorous details that never shows up in photos but matters tremendously in real life.

Once I started playing, the tiredness vanished.

That’s one of the strange, consistent truths of this work. You can arrive a little worn down, a little uncertain, but once the music begins — once your attention shifts outward — energy appears. Not adrenaline exactly. Something steadier. Something more sustainable.

People listened casually, but attentively. No one demanded attention, and no one ignored the music either. There was a sense of ease. People lingered. People smiled. People said thank you as they passed.

Generosity

At one point, someone asked me if I had a tip jar. I didn’t. I hadn’t planned on it. Without another word, that person went inside the store, came back with a jar, put a twenty-dollar bill in it, and set it down in front of me. That single gesture set the tone for the rest of thex afternoon. Others followed. Not because they were asked to — but because someone had modeled appreciation.

That moment meant more to me than the amount of money involved. It was a signal: you’re welcome here.

At the end of the set, the woman who ran the event came up, gave me a hug, and said she enjoyed it. Simple words. Genuine. Enough.

What stayed with me afterward wasn’t any single musical moment. It was the feeling of orientation — of beginning to understand the contours of this new place I now call home. So far, my map of the region includes Pawleys Island, where my repair guy lives, out in the country; Coastal Carolina; and now Dillon, right near the North Carolina border. Each place has its own rhythm, its own scale, its own way of gathering people.

Conclusion