The merch table is the raise you give yourself.

The fifteen minutes that pay for the van

Most merch sells in the fifteen minutes after your set. That window closes fast, and it closes for good once the next act starts. Somebody has to be standing at the table when it opens, and it cannot be the drummer tearing down.

Assign it before the show. A friend, a partner, whoever is reliable and can count change. If the whole band is on stage for the last song, say from the mic where the table is and that you'll be standing at it in five minutes. Then be there.

Set the table like you mean it

A dark folding table with a pile of shirts reads as an afterthought and earns afterthought money.

• Line of sight from the stage, or failing that, on the path to the door
• A lamp. Bars are dark and dark tables don't sell
• Prices on a sign, big, so nobody has to ask
• Card reader plus a payment QR taped flat to the table
• A fan-list QR right next to it, and a pen-and-paper backup

Price a ladder, not a list

You want something at every yes. A five dollar sticker is a yes from someone who'd never buy a shirt, and it puts your name on a laptop for two years. A shirt at 25 or 30 is the core of the night. A bundle knocks a few dollars off and moves two items in one decision.

Round numbers. Nobody wants coins in a bar. And announce the table twice: once mid-set like a human, once in the last song.

Count in, count out

Inventory takes four minutes and turns your table from a vibe into a business. Count what you brought, count what's left, write the number in the same notebook as the night's pay. After ten shows you'll know which room buys hoodies and which room only buys stickers, and you'll pack the van accordingly.