It was about 1989, and at the time I *was* a professional bassist. I was earning a living, barely, with bar gigs and the occasional wedding gig.
It was a combination of factors.
First, I noticed that I wasn't working on my reading skills at all - and that's what I really needed to improve if I wanted a chance at better work. The fact that I wasn't working on them, despite knowing that I needed to, told me that I really didn't want it bad enough.
Second, I was playing in a band with keyboardist Smitty Smith (RIP, Smitty) - a brilliant cat who had played with everyone from Dylan and Jackson Brown on down, written songs for Maurice White, just a CAT. He had diabetes and couldn't go on the road anymore, and our reggae band was good and gigged regularly, so he played with us.
In a just society, a man with Smitty's talent and accomplishments would live in a big house on the hill and drive a Cadillac. In our society, Smitty was struggling to pay rent on a funky house in the San Fernando valley and driving an old clunker. That showed me, far more than hearing it, that the music will chew you up and spit you out in pieces unless you are very lucky, and that talent isn't part of the equation.
So I decided to get out, earn a better living a different way, and play music that I enjoy rather than depend on bar owners, drunks, and luck to pay my bills. It was a good choice for me.
What's your favorite feature of your favorite place? Describe it.