I did something the other night that I haven’t done in many years. I went to a nightclub specifically to see a band.

My son, Harrison, came down to visit me. While here, he wanted to see a New York band called Laura Stevenson and the Cans, who were playing at a club in St. Louis, about two hours from Columbia. I figured I’d go with him – it would’ve been a drag for him to sit in the place alone, although it probably wouldn’t have bothered him – and the tickets were reasonable, so I tagged along.

The band was very good (my son has excellent taste in music; the kid listens to Sam Cook). I’m used to going to concerts as a reviewer, so it was kind of fun to be able to just sit back and enjoy myself. The music was quite melodic, sort of reminiscent of Ron Sexsmith, if you’ve ever heard of him.

And it’s always fun to see a talented act early in its career, before the marketers and the slick producers and the hangers-on get a hold of them. It isn’t a question of being hip; it’s just nice to see artists when they’re more concerned with art than career progress. There’s a purity to the work that all too often gets ground out in the rush to make a living off it.

It was one of two bands we saw that night (there were four, but with a two-hour drive home we left after the act we’d come to see). The opening act was a band called Men Working in Trees, a St. Louis quartet. Their music was sort of punkish, but they were fairly talented. Not necessarily my cup of melody, but something I didn’t mind listening to.

They reminded me of a garage band, which is not to denigrate their talent. I could just imagine them getting together at somebody’s parents’ house and working out, eventually deciding to take a shot at making a living. I don’t know if they’ll make it – that’s not rhetorical, I just can’t judge that genre of music – but good luck to them.

I have a soft spot for garage bands. My brother was a musician and I grew up listening to them.

My brother, who was entirely self-taught, was very talented. He was a good guitarist and as good a drummer as you’ll see anywhere, and I mean anywhere. The only thing that kept him from making the big time was lack of a big break.

He had bands all through high school. The one I remember was The Orphans, who had a picture of Linus from “Peanuts” on the front of my brother’s bass drum. They were literally a garage band; they’d practice in our garage.

In fact, one of those practices became a part of Pantera family lore. It was a sunny summer day and they were practicing. They were loud, of course, and drew kids from all over the neighborhood to watch. My uncle and his family were visiting from Michigan on this day and Uncle Vic was filming the band with his home movie camera. A good time was being had by all.

Suddenly, from about a half a block away, the neighborhood crazy lady stalked up, obviously frothingly angry. She began reading the band the riot act about all the noise it was making, how it was disturbing the neighborhood, that kind of thing. And then, at the crescendo of her considerable dudgeon, she turned to my uncle.

“And what kind of father are you,” she spat accusingly, “that you’d let your son do this?”

I don’t remember what Uncle Vic said – probably some variation of an old Sicilian riposte – but the story was told with chuckles for years.

As talented as he was, my brother never made the big time. He’s estranged from the family now for a lot of reasons, but part of it was that he looked for people to blame for his lack of success and that somehow landed on my Dad.

I don’t think there’s anything to that, but I know that unrewarded talent is a kind of tragedy. The fact is, much of where everybody ends up in life hinges on luck. An overheard conversation, a chance meeting, these are things that send us off on paths for which we cannot plan. But for such moments, you would be living in alternate universe in which your children never existed, you never met your spouse, you never heard about the opening that turned into the best or worst job you ever had. But it must be a special kind of torture to know – really know – that you have a talent few others do and for whatever reason, you never got to show it off. I’ve seen plenty of famous drummers that couldn’t tie my brother’s shoes, but they got the limousines and he got the career as a prison guard.

So when I see people like the guys in Men Working in Trees, I really do wish them luck, with all sincerity. They odds are vastly stacked against them; there are plenty of people who want to be rock stars and some of them are better and some are worse. But the sad fact is, talent matters much less than luck in this world. About all you can do is be ready to grab the brass ring when it gets close enough.

And hope is a cruel thing, but fortunately most of those who seek the big time are too young to not be hopeful. There are worse ways to grab for that brass ring.