Madison is one big stage — bands playing in basements, on front porches, in backyards, at the Terrace, Union South, the Journey, the Kohl Center. People set up mics along Breese before football games. Somebody anchors amps on Mifflin for the block party. Someone sits on the steps of the Capitol with his steel guitar during the Farmers' Market. Open spaces are no more than small venues waiting for their headliners to arrive, standing invitations for impromptu dance parties. Madison is one big-ass stage.

Though the cool winter weather puts some restrictions on the monstrosity of potential concert sites offered by every patch of concrete and each grassy knoll, fear not. This city boasts of an equally ridiculous amount of established venues. There are plenty of live-music-loving spaces with sealed walls, relatively stable floors and intact roofs to keep warm patrons and artists alike. In fact, it is far more difficult to wander around the Capitol Square and NOT find an open club — Café Montmartre, the King Club, the Slipper Club, the Majestic. On a slippery winter's evening, you could practically fall right into the Corral Room.

Tucked away below the Tornado Club on Hamilton, the Corral Room is one of those obscure venues you enter thinking someone is pulling your leg. You walk in, see the pool table, the bartender in the concession-stand-like bar, the barrel chairs and plastic couches — not merely reminiscent of the 1970s, not nouveau-retro chic, but décor stolen straight out of grandma's basement. What you will not see is any semblance of a stage, no extensive sound system, no one looking more ready than you to do anything remotely musically pleasing.

Yet a leg-pull it is not. Wait for the musicians to set up the microphones, the soundman to do some minimal checks. Before long, you realize whomever you are hearing at the Corral Room is putting on the best house party show you've been to in years. It is loud and sweaty and you are probably closer to unfamiliar people than is really preferable. But after a few tunes, they are your new best friends. After a few tunes, you find yourself appreciative of a comfort like your own basement, the quality time with your comrades. After a few tunes, you embrace the volume, knowing there are no worries about getting busted for noise violations; embrace the messiness, knowing there are no worries about cleaning up tomorrow morning or returning kegs tomorrow afternoon.

So, after I fell in love with the quirkiness of the Corral Room, I realized how extreme my club prejudice had recently become. I had not been to a new venue in months. I always ended up at the Annex because I am lazy and it is close to home, or found myself at the High Noon Saloon because I could run upstairs when I wanted to sit or slide down to the main floor when I got the compulsion to start dancing. Where I spent my Friday or Saturday nights became less about whom the bookers scheduled and more about where I felt comfortable.

Truth be known, I'm awkward as hell. I have terrible self-censorship, I do not do small-talk well, I constantly fidget. Class introductions at the beginning of each semester leave me inevitably mentioning the least interesting things. "Hi, I'm Christine. I grew up in Oconomowoc, Wis. I knit and quilt. I'm like 80." Why anyone voluntarily interacts with me more than once is beyond me.

Unfortunately, this awkwardness transfers to any new situation — including the first time in a club. Regardless of how bad my withdrawal from Awesome Car Funmaker had become for a time, I simply could not overcome a fear of the Cardinal Bar. And I can always justify the avoidance of new clubs by thinking Cats Not Dogs will play somewhere I've been sooner or later. Right?

Not so. That 'sooner or later' is not inevitable. When Jimmy's Comet takes the stage for its final show — dubbed a Victory show due to the love the band mates still have for each other even after nine years of gigging — I have one of two choices. Either I face my anxious awkwardness, shaking my fist in silent protest as I hand the King Club bouncer my ID, or never again see the band as the original five boys from Eau Claire. They may intend to continue rocking the clubs as a quartet, but Jan. 21 marks the transition.

I have no rational excuse for the exclusion of the King Club, and the quintet has not previously failed me. Over the summer, Jimmy's Comet offered one of the most bizarrely fantastic shows on the steps of the Capitol. A group of children insistently ran back and forth in front of the band, dancing like maniacs. I became completely convinced it was planned. They were so well choreographed. The guys' playing maintained such impeccable composure. At some point, I turned to my sister to ask if she thought they were doing some kind of video. Perhaps the children were part of a great idea gone completely wrong. It was all too surreal for chance.

Upon inquiry, Comet's Brad Kolberg described, "That was really fun, partially because it's such a weird setting. It's August and it's noon and it's a Tuesday, a bunch of suits are eating lunch and a daycare class is bouncing around all over each other."

And this is somehow not the oddest show coming to Brad's mind. "Another awkward situation was opening for Clem Snide at the Miramar in Milwaukee. The Miramar has a theatre-in-the-round set up with a stage over in the corner. The crowd was behaving like we were an orchestra, listening in silence and clapping politely when we finished, and they were all sitting in the seats and they were a mile away from us. Playing with Clem Snide was fantastic, so that's one of our favorite shows despite — or maybe because of — the awkward set-up and the nerves it gave us."

Playing so many venues during the lifetime of a band, musicians become witnesses to the amazing influence something as seemingly unimportant as the setting has on an audience. We suddenly become a little too awkward, a little too social, completely forget our rhythm or cannot help busting a move. Now I find myself curious as to what the King Club will do to me. I might sing along to "Third Fence Post," tap my toes to "Afraid of Plenty." I might just stand in calm appreciation.