I had a notebook in my guitar case for years. Small, spiral-bound, filled with my handwriting. Keys, capo positions, setlists — all of it. Before every gig I'd flip to the last page and write a new one.
It was perfect. Until it wasn't.
The notebook years
That notebook was my safety blanket. I knew exactly where everything was because I'd written it myself. The muscle memory of flipping to the right page mid-set became second nature. Between songs I'd glance down, see my scribbled "Capo III — Am" in the corner, and just play.
There's something satisfying about handwriting your setlist. It forces you to think through the flow. You're not dragging and dropping — you're committing ink to paper. Every crossed-out song is a decision. Every arrow is a last-minute change of heart.
I still print my setlists for every gig, by the way. Paper on the music stand is non-negotiable. Old habits die hard.
When the notebook broke down
Two things happened.
First, my library got too big. I had pages and pages of setlists but no easy way to find what I'd played where. New songs kept piling up faster than I could fit them in. I'd flip through the notebook looking for a chord progression I'd written down months ago and find three different versions — each in a slightly different key. Usually none of them were right.
Second, I started playing as a duo with Ruud. You can't share a notebook.
We both play half step down — me on nylon, Ruud on his Taylor — but we needed different capo positions, different chord voicings, and notes about who takes the lead on what. Two players, one song, two completely different pages. Sharing a single handwritten page wasn't going to work.
The WordPress era
So I built something. In WordPress, because that's what I knew from my day job. Nothing fancy — just songs with chords, capo settings, who plays what, and setlists we could both pull up on our phones.
We used it at every gig for four years. It worked.
Fun fact: Ruud always drew a little illustration on the printed setlist. A sketch of the venue, the crowd, sometimes just a doodle of whatever he was feeling that night. Those printouts became little artifacts of every show we played. I still have them all in a box somewhere.
But the WordPress tool was held together with duct tape. It was slow, clunky on mobile, and every time WordPress updated something, I'd hold my breath. It was built for two people and it showed.
What I lost going digital
I'll be honest — there are things I miss about the notebook.
The ritual. Sitting down with a pen and writing out the setlist was a kind of pre-gig meditation. It forced me to slow down and think about what I was about to play.
The permanence. A notebook is an archive. Every page is a snapshot of a gig. Digital setlists get edited, duplicated, overwritten. The history blurs.
The simplicity. A notebook never needs WiFi. It never crashes. It never runs out of battery. It never asks you to update.
These are real trade-offs and I won't pretend otherwise.
What I gained
Search. I can find any song in seconds. No more flipping through pages trying to remember if I wrote "Hallelujah" under H or under L (for Leonard).
Transposition. I play half step down. Every chord chart I ever found online was in standard tuning. I used to transpose in my head, scribble corrections on paper, lose the paper, find an older version in a completely different key, and wonder which one was right. Now I tap a button and every chord updates.
Sharing. Ruud and I could finally see the same setlist with our own capo positions and notes. When someone asks me for a song, I send a link instead of photographing a page.
One source of truth. No more three versions of the same song in different keys scattered across different pages. One song, one place, always current.
Stage confidence. This was the unexpected one. I built a full-screen mode specifically for performing — big chords, auto-scroll, screen stays on. The first time I used it at a gig, I realized I wasn't squinting at my handwriting anymore. I was just playing.
The real reason I switched
Here's the thing nobody talks about: switching from paper to digital isn't really about features. It's about what happens when your system fails.
With the notebook, failure meant showing up to a gig and realizing you left it at home. (Happened twice.) Or not being able to read your own handwriting under stage lights. (Happened constantly.) Or spilling a beer on the setlist. (No comment.)
With digital, failure means your phone dies. That's a real risk — which is why offline mode was the first serious feature I built. Your songs are on your device now. No WiFi needed. No spinning wheel while the crowd waits.
I didn't switch because digital is better than paper. I switched because my music outgrew what paper could hold.
For the skeptics
If your notebook works, keep using it. Seriously. A system that works is worth more than a system that's theoretically better.
But if you're starting to feel the friction — the growing library, the bandmate who needs the same setlist, the key changes you keep getting wrong — maybe it's time. The jump is smaller than you think.
I built Fretlist for musicians exactly like me — the ones whose notebook served them well until it didn't. It's free to try, and your first song takes about 30 seconds to add.
The notebook got me through hundreds of gigs. I'm grateful for it. But my guitar case is lighter now, and I don't miss the frantic page-flipping between songs.
Well, maybe a little.