Since performer is what I am, great performances turn me on. I love discovering them, sharing them and discussing them. (And emulating them.)

What makes a great performance great? What can we learn from the masters?

This is the first of a series where I seek answers to those questions. On deck: Big Mama Thornton performing Lieber and Stohler’s “Hound Dog.”

First, that voice. It’s huge. Thick, smooth, ballsy, effortless. Whether she’s riffing in the wings before the groove begins, setting up the story with “I just wanna let everybody know all about it” or wailing “I ain’t gonna feed you no more,” Big Mama’s voice opens up and let’s go. It never strains, never shrinks. That voice tells us how it is with authority. The voice proclaims; we hear and believe.

Second, her attitude. Notice how relaxed she is. She saunters in already a’singin’, all gussied up in skirt, pumps and matching plaid shirt and hat, gently placing her carpet bag on a crate in mid-phrase before squaring her shoulders in front of the mic, sucking in an enormous breath and bellowing the opening scold, “You ain’t nuthin’ but a hound dog …”

This is not a woman who stressed over the gig in the green room.

She’s so relaxed she does a little personal hygiene on camera. Check her out at around 50 seconds. During the second “You told me you were high class” phrase, she lifts a hand to her left eye and wipes something away. Without missing a beat or a phrase. Amazing.

Third, the groove. The band plays a very nasty blues rhumba, characterized by the frequent double-hit 2 & on the snare or ride tom. These cats slide all greasy (pronounced with a “z”) through the tune, in no hurry for it to end, which it does with no fanfare — just a simple hit on the 1, in time and key. Song over. Next.

Ironically, Big Mama’s studio recording of “Hound Dog” is a blues shuffle, not a rhumba. Here it is on YouTube. I like both versions, but I prefer the rhumba. The groove and her phrasing were the inspiration for “Ring Around Your Finger,” a song on my latest album. Listen for free via the Broadjam player.

What’s the takeaway? Big Mama’s a great singer, and she’s playing with a great band. But perhaps the most striking element of this great performance is the level of relax. Big Mama’s vocal approach and physical movements tell us clearly that she’s in control, she’s in command, and she ain’t worried about it one bit. Likewise the players and their slithery groove.

Next time I stand in front of an audience and feel tight, I’m going to wipe something from my eye when I’m singing. Maybe that’ll help me chill and take command.

How come? My age wasn’t the problem; this year’s Grammys featured no shortage of greats from the past. Nor was the issue my musical taste, which has seasoned and broadened with time. No, my Grammy terror stemmed from something more complicated: my history and its meaning to me.

I had a taste of the success fully digested by Dave Grohl and Bruce Springsteen and recently savored by Adele and Bon Iver. But I blew it. I got screwed out of the money I should have made from selling about half-a-million albums with ’80s pop band The Producers. And I quit. Too early.

So watching the Grammys is, for me, an exercise in self-loathing. Whether well- or poorly performed, every note sung by every artist doing well enough to warrant a Grammy appearance beams from my television directly to my brain and screams “LOSERRRRRR!” My heart pounds, my throat tightens, my mouth droops, my eyes glaze. My command of English fails utterly, replaced by grunts, groans and whimpers.

Now, by most reasonable measures, I’m not a loser. I’m a senior editor at UW-Madison. I have an advanced degree in my discipline. I’m good at what I do, and I enjoy it. I just recorded an independent album of 12 original songs, and I’m singing better than ever. I’m not wealthy, but I do OK, which is more than many can say in these troubled times.

But my experience with the Grammys isn’t rooted in reasonable measures. It’s the cry of an artist’s heart who knows it’s over and I’ll never matter and I sing better than any of these clowns and no matter what I do nobody cares and it isn’t fair and what happened and how did I let it happen and why did God let it happen and why am I cursed and what did I do to deserve this and it’s my own goddamn fault and I blew it and yes I am a fucking loser …

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long to return to earth and get over it. I share the emotionality not to earn your pity but to borrow your ear. I’m a cautionary tale for aspiring artists and future celebrities. So let me focus your mind on three lessons you can learn from my experience.

1. If you’re not great, dial down the dreams and enjoy the experience.

I realize that the meaning of great is person-relative. But assess with rigorous, punishing realism whether you have something unique and uniquely entertaining as a performer, player, songwriter, storyteller.

If the answer is no, do your very best to turn down your dream dial – the one regulating your expectations and hopes. Continue to write, to book gigs, to record, to enjoy. But do your best to focus on the experiences and enjoy them.

2. Learn enough about the business that you’re able to smell bullshit.

Bullshit abounds in every business, but the music business seems especially well fertilized. Your only defense is knowledge.

Had I known 30 years ago a simple distinction between mechanical and publishing royalties – the former are recoupable; the latter are paid immediately – I would have pocketed around $250,000 that I neither received nor knew enough to demand.

Gird up your loins with knowledge of the details, or prepare to be reamed.

3. If you’ve got it, stick with it.

If you’re convinced that the answer to #1 is yes, and if you’re making progress, stick with the plan. Steady as she goes. Groove. Cruise. Don’t quit. Don’t make big, unnecessary, impulsive changes.

If you’re in a band that’s receiving and exploiting opportunities and you decide that your killer drummer’s hygiene habits annoy you, spray some air freshener in the room and keep going. If you’re an Americana solo artist and getting some attention, don’t switch to electronica because you feel bored and heard a song you really liked. Keep at what’s working.

Trying to make it in the biz? You must be great, and you’re going to need a lot of luck. Luck is out of your control; she must discover you. But educating yourself and remaining steadfast will help you recognize and embrace her when she enters the room.