My band plays at clubs and bars all over Texas and beyond. We've been through Oklahoma, Louisiana, California, and gig up to four nights a week. We see a lot of people. Interesting people. Happy people. Angry people. Drunk people. More drunk people.

We play three to four hour sets, which usually start around 9:30 pm and last until 1:30 am. In those few hours, I often have the chance to witness a lot of different types of human behavior.

In the alcohol-fueled Petri dish that is the modern bar, there's this underlying sense of desperation; people are wanting to escape. Get away from their everyday fears. Get out of their shell. Make an attempt to take somebody home.

"What I've got, you've gotta get it, put it in you."

-"Give It Away," Red Hot Chili Peppers

I love what I do. But one aspect does wear on me quite a bit; this persistent, almost parasitic sense that some (not all, but many) people are there to look good and be noticed; not to actually just let go and connect with people, on a real, symbiotic level, if even for just a short while. To pull in the energy, fun, and community that's going on in that moment, and give it back to everyone else around you.

At the beginning of the night, the dance floor is usually empty. It's the first set when most people are only halfway through their first drink. And we hear all kinds of reasons why this is.

Common excuses range include:

"Well, I don't want to be the only one. When other people dance, I'll go out there."

"I need a few more drinks."

"I don't want to look like an fool."

And there it is; we're all afraid of looking like fool, right?

But every now and then, we get somebody on the floor by themselves. They venture out onto that vast expanse in front of the stage, and just release. My favorite ones are those who look like they have no place up there. They aren't dressed to impress; they're just, well…there to be there.

Case in point: we're on a three-day run up in Dallas/Fort Worth. On Thursday, we played our first night at Sherlock's in Addison -- an average pub in a fairly well-to-do burb. The night started out per usual; the show started and we're hitting it with all we have. We plow through the first four of five songs with only a few nods of approval, but most people are staring at us or each other or their phones or the soiled carpet.

The dance floor was conspicuously empty up until about the fifth song, when out walks a man who looked like he could have been the crazy maître d’ at the French restaurant next door who got fired for having way too much fun. He's an tall, older gentleman, likely in his 50s, dressed in a striped white button-down collared shirt and to stare him straight in the face, you see some wonderful glint of madness coming from his eyes. He starts twirling around like a ballerina, stopping to make odd up-and-down waving gestures with his hands. He immediately commands all the attention in the room, but when the young Latina girl saddles up to his side, he immediately welcomes her and they dance together.

I loved it. These two were out there going ape crazy. From where I was sitting, they didn't look like they were doing it to be watched or admired. They were there to have a good time; to let loose, be in their bodies, and not give a crap who was watching. It inspired me to play harder and louder, to smile for a long time, and just be there with them, letting go and enjoying the moment.

"But maybe I'm crazy

Maybe you're crazy

Maybe we're crazy

Probably"

-"Crazy," Gnarls Barkley