I’ve been in a “band” before.

Not a band, a “band.”

We’d meet when we could, sketch rough frameworks of songs, write two or three easily-repeatable, non-sequitur phrases for lyrics, and practice for 45 minutes. After the hour mark, it would almost inevitably regress into pseudo-jams made all the more abstract with each PBR consumed.

There’s nothing wrong with playing this way; these casual, unstructured jam sessions are how I learned to play music with others and how I’ve made music for most of my life. It might even be the “purer” way to approach music: with an open mind, low expectations, and a willingness to go where the music takes you.

The closest I’ve come to true spiritual moments in my life, glimpses of something beyond our individual, conscious reality and into a deeper shared humanity (aura, energy, insert-new-age-qualifier-of-choice), has been during these more spontaneous sessions.

It is not, as it turns out, the most efficient way to go about the somewhat-serious process of songwriting and building an original catalog, however. This is a much more intentional project that takes commitment and buy-in from each individual involved in the project; belief in the music, belief in each other, and belief that practice works (spoiler: it does).

It starts as most half-baked proposals of this nature often do:

“We should meet more often, I think we have something here.” Everyone agrees.

Details are discussed near-hypothetically, as follow-through on commitments like this are typically rare.

Tuesdays and Thursdays it is, and maybe a day on the weekend if we can manage.

Great. Good. We have a band now.

Except we don’t. We have an idea and a tentative schedule, not a band.

We have a 45 second chorus that we played a couple times, and our drunk friend that was half-watching said that it kind of sounded like The Ramones. Still not a band.

Tuesday rolls around and everyone shows. Same on Thursday, and we even get a brief practice in on the following Saturday. We’re writing music now, complete songs, and we even record a couple of them.

A month of consistent practice later, and we have a three-song EP. We post it on SoundCloud, and everyone is excited.

This is a stage I am familiar with, and one I’ve experienced with many friends and bands since my very first project, nearly 10 years ago (a high-school bluegrass band: Jameson Boontangler and the Traveling Minstrels, another story for another time).

It’s the first wall. That first feeling of accomplishment, especially in collaborative, creative projects like this, can sometimes feel like enough.

In my experience, getting to this point is the easy part. After all it’s only been a month of meeting regularly. Less than twelve meetings under our belt, with very few curveballs being thrown our way.

The difficulty, at least the difficulty that my band and I began to face, was in maintaining consistent practice and staying motivated and unified when circumstances of life threaten to derail what you’re building.

The difficulty comes in understanding that there will be off-days. There will be entire weeks when it just doesn’t sound right. It will feel like the music has lost its freshness, and that may be accurate.

There will be frustration. When you’re meeting on a consistent biweekly basis for well over a year, unless you’re band is comprised entirely of practicing Buddhist monks, there will be arguments.

There are moments when life takes priority. Changes in work schedule means changes in practice schedule. A particularly draining day at the office might mean a shorter rehearsal. A family emergency will, of course, mean weeks off.

The point is, these are realities that are ultimately inevitable. The nature of life is unpredictable, consistency is a choice in how one deals with these challenges.

The rewards for maintaining this commitment to each other, ourselves, and the art that we create have changed the way I perceive the value of discipline in achieving what we want in life.

My bandmates might as well be my brothers (well, one of them is). We know each other as musicians, and we know each other on a much deeper human level. We now have a catalog of well over twenty original songs that we all know and play by heart, and the process of writing new songs is smoother and more natural than it has been in any other project I’ve ever been a part of.

While our band started as a project that was entirely focused on the music we wanted to create (and getting together for a few beers), the lessons I’ve taken from our regular meetings have transcended drumming or singing or playing the keys.

There is a direct correlation between how much time and effort you spend in creating or practicing something and the quality of the output. It’s a simple principle, but one that I had never experienced with something as personal and important to my identity as music.

We still have those boozy, disjointed jams that sparked the idea for “Cave Cats” in the first place. We switch instruments, freestyle rap (badly), and make parody songs. Our “serious” practice hasn’t stolen from the experiences that helped us fall in love with music.

The only difference is we don’t text reminders for practice anymore.

If it’s Tuesday or Thursday, you know where everyone else is.