Konstantin Moyseyev: The 100-Hour Rule, Two Venue Categories, and Going Full-Time

Listen up, kids. I know it's hard, I know you're busy. But if you're enjoying this podcast — if this is the second or third or fourth, God forbid, fifth episode you're listening to and you're getting something out of it — can I ask you to support the show? In the description you'll find a link that says something like Support the MoneyGigs Podcast. One-time donation, monthly subscription. Also go to trifloral.com/themoneygigs and get 10% off any of their fine beverage offerings. I have one before every gig and things are just so smooth. So lots of ways to support. I appreciate it. Okay, let's go.

You're listening to the MoneyGigs Podcast, real conversations with working musicians about the business of playing music. I'm your host, Cliff Adams. My guest today is Konstantin Moyseyev, a full-time drummer based in San Diego County, originally from Ukraine — where rock and roll simply didn't exist when his family immigrated to the United States. He describes it like a gauntlet being dropped. Everything he'd been kept from — funk, blues, rock — hit him all at once. And he's been chasing that feeling ever since. Konstantin plays with Crescent Blue, a San Diego original music project with a slow-burn approach — recording and releasing singles one at a time. And he's the kind of musician who kept a spreadsheet tracking every gig, every hour, every dollar, until the network he built made the spreadsheet unnecessary. We talk about how he decides whether to take a gig, his two-category system for evaluating venues before he even walks in, why opportunity almost always beats pay, and the moment a corporate layoff became the best thing that ever happened to him. Let's get into it.

Hi. It'll never cease to amaze me, all the jungle you have to get through to get these things started.

Yeah, it's weird. There was an invitation on my calendar and they had a link, so I was there. No worries.

Really interesting. Yeah, I'm still figuring it out myself. This is my 16th episode. I just had one released today — Mackenzie Price from Portland and her band New Year. I'm so excited to talk to you. I think we found each other on a Facebook group, a Los Angeles musicians group. Is that correct?

Yes. Yes.

I'm always nervous to do that because when you come into something and you're not really a member and you promote anything, you run the risk of getting banned immediately or at least shouted down. So I'm really taken aback that didn't happen. And it has resulted in at least two episodes. So let me get your name right. Is it Konstantin or Constantin?

Yeah, Konstantin. Usually in the US they spell it with a C, and then mine has a K and no E, so it's really confusing.

So — baseball card. Who are you? What's your instrument? I know you're a drummer. How long have you been playing and what's your role in Crescent Blue?

I've been playing for a total of probably over 30 years. It's a little bit of a rocky trip because there was a period when I didn't play — I mean, I've always been a drummer, but sometimes if you don't play behind the kit, you're still a drummer. I came from a musical family and it was always in my blood. I'd follow both my dad and my older brother like a little puppy dog when it came to music and try to absorb as much as I could. And then the drums found me. I didn't find the drums. It really resonated. You know, when you learn a language you don't always understand how you actually understand the language. It was the same thing for me. Every instrument is a language — this one I speak fluently and it spoke to me.

As far as my role in Crescent Blue — I've been the drummer from the beginning. It was a project that started out as, hey, let's see what we can do. We have a bunch of songs and we'd like to record them. We had three scratch recordings just to say, let's give it a try. Can you come up with drum parts for these songs? I said sure. I actually thought the songs were pretty good. And then the four of us came together and it was just magic — from the first note it seemed like we'd played together for 20 years. They've only released two songs, but they've got about 12 in the hopper. They'll be coming out one by one, all singles, and they're all really good. It's a slow burn. They're playing venues here and there but it's really about recording and releasing music.

As far as who I am — I was originally from Ukraine. I was born there, came to the United States with my family when I was about nine years old, and just entered the world of music. Because in the former Soviet Union, we didn't have rock and roll. We didn't have access to funk and blues. It was just folk music and whatever they forced on us on the radio. But as soon as we came to the United States, the gauntlet was just on for me — every genre, every kind of sound and tone. I was mesmerized. I didn't realize this existed. To this day I still am that kid. When I hear great music, it doesn't matter if it's someone at a local coffee shop or someone on Spotify. I still feel the same way. Good music is just good music. And I'm still on that search for that perfect sound, that perfect tone, that groove.

There are three different types of musicians. The musician who plays for one consistent band. The session musician who gets hired on a circulatory basis by a certain artist or band. And then the third — you're basically free for all. Hey, I'm available, I can play your gig, send me the charts. I've done all three and I continue to do all three. I've learned a lot and I've probably grown because of it.

I want to loop back on some of the things you said. Grew up in a musical home. Was it dad only or was mom also musical?

My dad was a pretty well-known musician back in our former homeland. He wrote a couple of songs that I think maybe even today are still being played — folk songs. His name is Yefim Moyseyev. Same last name. He was definitely well known back there. And then when we came to the United States, the people who'd immigrated from that area to Los Angeles knew who he was. He basically immigrated to a homegrown audience. My older brother followed in the footsteps — played saxophone and did a little singing. So I had it right in front of me.

You said something that really hit for me. The energy in the studio — when you're practicing in a basement with your band and when you're performing live, those things are uniquely different. But when you get in the studio, what happens to people?

For sure. Because it never sounds like it does in your head. It just never does. And this is a huge problem regardless of professional level. You're only as good as the sum of your parts. When someone writes a song and the lead can't sound like they do in their head, they clam up. And it's just weird. However, it depends on the environment that's set and the expectations set beforehand. Some of the best results come from no pressure — we'll see what happens, let's just lay it down. Not being egotistical enough to say I think we can do something different. That's what happened with the Crescent Blue guys. We were able to equally critique certain parts — especially our own — and come back and go, okay, I think we can do better here. But that's a rarity, because most people who've been playing 20 or 30 years think they know exactly how they sound. And then they put it behind a mic in the studio for the first time and go, that doesn't sound like me.

When a new gig offer comes in — what's the first thing that makes you say, I need more info?

My number one focus, my number one rule, is the venue. The biggest challenge is sound overall. I need to know what kind of sound system they have, is there going to be a sound guy, what inputs are there, how are they typically miking people. I always want to go online, I want to see pictures. Does the venue have wood? This is going to sound weird, but wood absorbs sound and makes it much more sound-friendly. A cement floor — sound is going to bounce off. And if you're a perfectionist like me, how you sound is more important than what you're playing. I've learned that lesson the hard way.

My rule is I separate venues into two categories. The first — a lot of listeners will understand — it's a bar or lounge that has live music. The second is a musical venue that has a bar. If it's category one, you better find out what the stage looks like, whether there's carpet or wood, whether there's a sound guy. If it's category two, you're probably going to be okay — you're going to get a proper sound check done, you're going to show up before doors open, and it's going to be done right.

Interestingly, you're doing something there. The objective of a bar restaurant gig — you said it pays, but it's also a chance to take the dog for a walk, get that product out there. And you're also trying to leverage that to get to category two, right?

Yeah. And I think if you're a musician who typically gets hired by other artists, it's super important to interview them as much as they interview you. Ask those questions. A bass player comes in, they've got their amp, every kind of input imaginable — but they can't use it. They walk in and they go, this is where you plug in. And they can't hear themselves. They can't hear the vocals. It ruins the entire experience. And it might even ruin your relationship with that particular artist or band. It's the biggest challenge. And I feel like it's never discussed. It's always, what's the set list? How long are we playing? Where do I park? Do we get food?

Category one gives you so many things you need as a musician. It gives you stage hours. It lets you work on your stage muscles. It lets you walk the dog, maybe test out a couple of originals, see how it flies. You can work on anything you want. But you can also ruin the entire experience easily within the first two songs if you don't sound right. So it's worth showing up a little early. It's worth doing the homework. As a drummer, it's crucial because you're driving the song.

Have you read How Music Works by David Byrne? There's a whole chapter about sound and the different places he played and how the acoustics caused modifications to how he set up. Do you think your upbringing contributes to the razor-sharp attention you have on sound?

First of all, thank you for the book recommendation — I'm already excited to read it, I love David Byrne. To answer your original question — upbringing has a lot to do with the respect for music in general. Music is very personal to me. If it's not right, then I'm not doing it justice. Because when I came here, I still to this day treat it the same way. I saw how hard my dad had to work just to earn a living. I started playing music as a teenager in the 80s and it was a grind. If you're in category one playing a three-hour set on a Saturday, I respect you. I don't care how good you are — just getting up on stage and doing your thing. I respect you. If you respect music, you will do well. If you don't, you're just not going to last, because it's a grind.

I think that's a question of scarcity too. Like you said, you didn't have access. Given where you were — in the United States it's everywhere. And maybe we take that for granted. But you mentioned something interesting — opportunity can outweigh pay for a single gig. Talk about a time where a low-pay, high-opportunity gig actually paid off.

I stand by this truly, and I talk to a lot of people in music about this. The debate doesn't really exist at higher levels. Our industry is about networking — that hasn't changed, that probably won't change, and that's a good thing. I want it that way. When you look the part and play the part and eventually sound the part, people will notice you. And the right people will come out and go, I want that drummer. It has happened to me already at least three or four times. I looked at the venue, the day of the week, the likelihood that people in the music industry would be there. And I thought: can I afford to take lower pay? Most of the time we all probably could — because hey, we can always use two or three hours on stage. It's like a good rehearsal.

A couple of opportunities I picked up by simply playing a gig that wasn't high paying. I met people who were already in a recording studio, already set to go, and all they were missing was a solid drummer. There are solid drummers everywhere, but it's the way someone presents an energy behind the kit. I'm just sitting down — everyone else gets to stand and jump — but you have to present an energy and a confidence. And they were just looking for someone basically like me. For any musician: take the gig, even if it pays a little less, and let it be known that your interest is also getting further into the network space. Ask to be introduced. People love talking about themselves and their projects — if you come off that way, people will always help you out.

With so many bands competing for the same handful of decent rooms — and you even said there are lots of drummers available — how has that squeezed or changed what you're willing to accept compared to a few years ago?

A few years ago I said yes to everything because I wanted to get back on that saddle so bad. I wanted to get those muscles back. It led me to some pretty bad venues, bad experiences, some people who weren't great to work with. But now I look at it differently. You've got to factor scarcity into your business plan as a musician. The more you play and network and see who's who — then you can get picky. Now I'm saying no more than yes, because I understand there are projects that are startups, bands that aren't serious. But at first, say yes to everything. Play everywhere with everyone. You're always going to learn something about yourself. You're going to meet someone — a venue manager, a booking agent, a bartender who knows someone looking for a drummer.

For me personally — this is going to sound quirky — I gave myself 100 hours. I had a spreadsheet. Every gig I listed: the venue, how many hours, what the pay was. It's not an app, it's not a tool, it's not a product I'd recommend to anybody because it's very time-consuming. I'd rather work on your app. But it led me to realize how many gigs it took me to get to 100 hours. A friend in the music industry told me: get 100 hours. Maybe it's 80, maybe it's a thousand — I don't know. But that's what I used to gauge myself. My 100 hours ended at the close of 2024. And I thought, okay, what do I do for 2025? I didn't have to think — because everything was already done for me. So many connections, so many people reaching out asking, are you available on this date? This date? It kind of handles itself.

What makes a venue bad? Aside from sound, because we know about that.

The stage setup. Not every venue has a stage — some have a floor corner if you're lucky. Some hire a rock band and tell them you have to keep it under a certain number of decibels. Don't tell a drummer to play quiet. That doesn't make any sense. Drums are loud. What makes a venue bad would also be the pay. An owner or booking agent saying, I can only pay the entire band $150 for three hours. And that's bad. Because there are a lot of venues across the country that pay well because they want good acts that draw people. You're losing money by offering no money. You're making money by offering more money. It's a formula that always works. But I've seen people think the opposite, many times.

You said connecting with high-standard musicians is your number one challenge. Has that ever made you turn down steady money to protect the quality of who you're playing with?

Now? Yes, for sure. There could be situations where you have somebody who has money, is a hobbyist, and just wants to play at a bar in front of their buddies. They'll say, I'll pay you $500. But it's terrible — the music is not good, they don't rehearse. At this point in my career, I don't want to do that. I want to protect the reputation I have. The hobbyist mentality is a dangerous one.

I had about 140 gigs in 2015, maybe 130 in 2016. I put them all on a spreadsheet tracking pay divided by stage time. But what I wasn't doing was tracking setup, rehearsal, all the different things that go into it. When I started adding that, it was like a light bulb came on — one gig that seemed to pay the same as another was actually paying less than $5 an hour. So — if you tracked every gig's actual take-home, after gas, gear wear, and time, do you think your best gigs by pay would still be your best gigs overall?

No. Because if you're a musician tracking every dollar, then you start chasing gigs and you're forced to take some ridiculously terrible empty-opportunity types of gigs. I also factor miles. I also factor setup time — as a drummer I've got to get there before everybody else. And rehearsals — I feel like rehearsal time is something people believe is an absolute necessity. They say, we're playing a gig in a month, let's get together four times. If you're a decent musician, you don't need to rehearse a single minute with anyone. You can listen to the songs — even originals, they can send you recordings — and you can figure out the notes, the breaks, the structure in probably two minutes.

Rehearsals are dangerous because people get lost in the nuance. They start critiquing little things — no, let's make this change, let's end it this way. If you don't have a band leader or musical director, you're going to be lost. Those rehearsals become an effort and a frustration — wasting time and money. I'd rather drive an hour and a half to a great gig than go to a rehearsal five minutes from me that has no focus. If I'm going to go to a rehearsal, I want it to be based on the actual performance. After the second song, here's how we start. Here's how we enter. Here's what I'm going to say. It's choreographed. It's a performance. And the people who actually rehearse the performance — not just the songs — are the ones who show up and deliver.

You set up the problem at the start when you said four rehearsals of two hours each. There's an arbitrary number picked by someone who says, if we put four rehearsals together, surely we'll come out with something presentable. But it becomes an obligation even though the number was arbitrary. What you're really doing is overcoming someone else's anxiety about the gig. I've been a lead singer — a 17-piece salsa band — and I can empathize with that. But what I loved about what you said is focusing on the actual performance, choreographed. Clear objectives going in: what are we trying to leave with? Just much more effective.

Talking about that evolution — from childhood to adulthood — what you wanted to be versus what you actually do for money. When you started into music and where you are now, what does that bring up for you?

I started playing with my dad at weddings when I was about 12 years old. He hired me because he wanted to teach me the value of money and how hard music is. I think he almost intended it as a deterrent. But I was on stage visualizing playing for Deep Purple, not playing folk songs at a wedding at 4 in the morning. I've always wanted to just do this full time. Money never came into my mind. But once I started realizing how big the industry is — being a musician is being free. And being free is living a life where you don't have to apologize for not making $100,000 a year. It's okay if you're passionate about your songs and you connect with other musicians. As I get older, I'm doubling down on that even more. What you do as a musician is a direct result of who you are.

Money is a means to a goal. So — are you a full-time musician or do you do something else?

I am a full-time musician. It took a while to build a network, build an understanding of my value, get to a point where you have rates — but those rates aren't always going to be steadfast. Sometimes you have to take something that could be an opportunity.

What did you do before? What's that moment where you went full-time?

I worked primarily in two industries — healthcare, contracting and sales and medical device, and then construction. Working in corporate America actually helped me be a better musician. It made me speak better, listen better, appreciate music even more. Because what you have to do in corporate America is you have to pretend — you have to play games, you have to put on a smile. When you do that enough, you realize you don't want to do this anymore. But it disciplined me in a lot of ways. Musicians are known for being flaky. You can't be flaky when you have a full-time job. I take that same corporate mindset into being a musician.

Do you remember the year, the month, where you said, I don't have to do the corporate thing anymore?

It was not that long ago — about a year and a half ago. I had a job I hated with a passion. Paid really well. But it took away my mental space because I was also trying to focus on music, going to rehearsals in the evenings, doing gigs. They ended up letting me go — it was a contract position — and I never felt so much relief. I've never in my entire career been let go from a job. And the moment it hit, I realized: I don't think I have to do this anymore. I could focus all my efforts on music. And life's short. If you have a passion about something, you don't have to wait until you're good at it to do it. You have to do it and then be good at it. You can't be good at it and then do it. It doesn't work that way. We've been taught wrong.

I could get to do music on my terms now, and that's powerful. But I needed to go through that experience — very frustrating. I'm sure a lot of people can relate to having a job they just did not like.

What do you have coming up in the next couple of weeks in terms of performances?

Everything right now is with Crescent Blue. This coming Saturday we're playing the Viper Room on Sunset Boulevard, which is kind of cool. The week after, we play at the San Diego Fair at the Del Mar Fairgrounds — they've got a big main stage, we play there. And then late July, back in LA with Crescent Blue. That band is so good live. The recordings are good, but they're even better live. So that's a compliment. Other than that, I work at my craft every day. I walk to a studio and work for a couple of hours and just beat myself up. I'm open to things coming up — but surely calculated.

I want to say thank you so much for joining me today. I hope you found this fun. And I'm definitely going to talk to you again. Thank you so much, Konstantin. Enjoy your gigs this upcoming week.

Thank you, Cliff. Thanks for having me. I had a lot of fun.

And that's Konstantin Moyseyev. I came in expecting to talk drumming and Crescent Blue and stage hours. And we did. But what stayed with me was simpler than any of that. This is a guy who grew up in a place where rock and roll was illegal — who got here and let everything hit him all at once — and who has been treating music like something precious ever since. The two-venue framework. The 100-hour spreadsheet. Saying yes to everything until the network takes over, then saying no to protect what you've built. That's just the job, described by somebody who's actually doing it. If any of that moved you, go find Crescent Blue. And if you're a gigging musician trying to make the math work — track your gigs, your pay, your actual take-home per hour — that's exactly what MoneyGigs is for. There's a code in the show notes to get you in. Thanks for listening. I'm Cliff. Go play for somebody.