Show day, the day after, and the routine that keeps it going

The bands that play a lot aren't always the best ones. They're the ones Dave, Tobias and Fred want to see again, and to recommend to the people they know. It comes down to details: thirty-five minutes that last thirty-five minutes, a dressing room left tidy, an email the next day with two photos. And it lasts thanks to something that has nothing to do with music: two hours a week, the same two, and four numbers a month. Last chapter, the quickest to read, the longest to practise.

You arrive at the time in the recap, all of you, and you go and introduce yourself to whoever's in charge before you unload. You ask where to unload rather than blocking the entrance. At soundcheck, the engineer is your best ally of the evening: you listen, you're ready, you don't rehearse on stage.

Then the stage time and the set length, to the minute. The encore is when you're asked for one, and it's the venue that asks, not the crowd. From the stage, you name the venue, you thank the staff, you say where to find you afterwards.

Afterwards, the merch table, and you stay at it. That's where the crowd that comes back gets made, and often the next date: there is nearly always someone in the room who puts on something somewhere else, rarely at the front, usually near the table. Before you leave, you ask the promoter for two venues nearby where they'd send a band like you, and whether you can say they sent you.

The dressing room left as you found it, the money sorted calmly with the paperwork ready. None of this takes talent. That's why it gets noticed.

Nottingham, 11.10pm. Priya behind the merch table with three T-shirts and twelve tapes. A man in his fifties: "Are you the one who does the booking? We put on four gigs a year in Doncaster, in an old Co-op building. We're after bands from round here for October."

Priya doesn't pitch. She asks the name of the collective, types it into her phone, and says: "I'll email you Monday, do you prefer email or a call?" "Email, but put Co-op in the subject, we get loads."

Monday, the email goes, "Co-op" in the subject and three lines about the Nottingham night. The October date is confirmed on the Thursday. She didn't ask about money or a tech spec that night: she asked how to write to him. The rest is a six-line email to someone who already wants to.

The next day or the one after, a short email to the person who booked you. Priya's to Jess, sent on the Sunday:

Subject: Thanks for Thursday (and two photos)
Hi Jess,
Thanks for Thursday, we had a great time and so did your lot by the look of it (64 through the door, you said, for the record). Two photos from the night attached, yours to post, credit "photo: Amara Osei".
Two questions. Shall we do it again in the autumn, on a bill with a band you want to break? And would you put a word in with the Doncaster Co-op lot, we're writing to them Monday?
Have a good week,
Priya

Jess, on the Monday: "Autumn, definitely, look at October. And Doncaster's done, I sent them your video last night." A word from one promoter to another opens more doors than this whole guide. You still had to ask: most of the time, nobody thinks of it on their own.

The same day, the tracker: what got paid, what worked, what changes, the names picked up. A post with the photos, the venue tagged. And the EPK updated within 48 hours: the room photo, the date moved to the played list, the attendance figure, and Jess's line if she's happy to be quoted.

Two one-hour slots, the same days every week, for as long as your goal runs. The first, a Tuesday or Wednesday morning, for prospecting: five to ten new venues qualified in the tracker, as many emails written one at a time. The second, on Thursday, for follow-up: the chasers due, the replies to deal with, the twenty-second phone calls, the tracker brought up to date.

It's not much. That's exactly why it lasts three months, then a year. A campaign run in bursts gives results in bursts, and it's the silences between two bursts that wear you down. Two hours, in the diary, in the same place as rehearsal.

Once a month, ten minutes: first emails sent, replies received of any kind, dates confirmed, and the "not right now"s with a date to come back. Four boxes, no graph.

You read them together. Lots of emails and few replies: the targeting or the email. Replies but no dates: the offer or the price. Dates, but all in your own city: time to open circle 2. The dated "not right now"s are half-dates, and their reminder lands in the Thursday slot.

Kaltfront, the Leipzig band Wet Pavement swapped dates with, finished their campaign on 41 emails, 14 replies, 6 dates, 5 not right now. Lea, who keeps their books, read it out: "Six dates, the goal exactly. Three are under forty minutes away. Next campaign, we double circle 2." A review doesn't need to be spectacular. It needs to say where to look next month.

Enter your four numbers for the month, or made-up ones if you haven't sent anything yet. The page works out the two ratios and tells you where to look. Then you confirm your two slots and the date of your first review: it's the last piece of the plan.

A booking agent turns up at the end of stage 3: twenty to fifty dates you've booked yourself, a release to push, promoters who book you again. Before that, no serious agent signs you; the one who does will cost you.

What they do and cost, roughly: in the UK, an agent takes 10 to 15 per cent and works with promoters city by city; in Germany, the Booking-Agentur prospects for a Provision of 10 to 15 per cent; in France, the tourneur employs the musicians and sells the show on, 10 to 20 per cent.

What they need is a story: a dated release, streams going up, a manager or a label, rooms you fill in three cities. You get there through a promoter who's had you, never through a cold email, tracker and routing in hand.

Warning signs: a sign-up fee, a long exclusivity with no target, no band at your level on their roster. The classic reply: "Come back when you've got a story to tell." Your answer:

Understood. What would make you say yes in a year: a number of dates, a room size in three cities, a release with a PR? Give me the number, I'll come back with it.

The day you have one, keep your routine: agents prefer bands who keep hold of their local prospecting. This guide spares you the first two years of avoidable mistakes. It doesn't replace the third, the one where you know what works for you.

You've got a stage, a goal, a kit, forty venues, first names, an email, two chasers, a number, a recap, a country next door and a routine. Wet Pavement don't exist, but your tracker does. Two slots a week. The rest is music.