A simple blog

Dear Performers

I post a lot from the perspective of a performer, but I’d like to take a moment to post as an audience member.

This is an open letter to producers and performers (especially comedians):



Dear person,

Please consider me, your audience, when you are putting on your show. Like most audience members, I come to your show and show you respect. I listen to your jokes, I applaud, I cheer. I am a good audience member.

What you seem to forget is that when I come to see you perform I am not only giving you money, I’m also giving you some of my time. And my time is valuable to me. In fact, my hourly rate is worth more than the $10 – $20 I paid to see your show. With that in mind, please don’t disrespect my time. An hour and a half is a long enough show. If you reach two hours, it better be a damn good show. Any longer and you are making me miss other parts of my life, that have more value to me then your self-indulgent jokes (that in many cases just insult and abuse the audience).

Your show isn’t just about you, in fact, it should be about me since I’m the one paying for it. If your show is you tooting your own horn for three hours, at about the hour and half mark I’ll be wishing I could go home. That means that the last half of your show is me not wanting to be there. That’s what I’ll leave your show thinking. In fact, I am usually willing to pay you more money for less of a show. That’s a truth.

There’s an old saying, “A good time doesn’t mean a long time” and it still holds water in today’s world. You may think I would want nothing more then to watch you perform all night long, but the truth is, that’s what you and your ego want, not me your audience. Take a look around at the people you are performing for and ask yourself, what’s the best thing for them, and how can I bring that about. Otherwise you’re not really a performer, you’re just an attention-seeker who has no respect for other people’s time.

Sincerely,

Dave Morris, Audience Member

November 3, 2011 · Improv, Poetry · Tags: , ,

One Man Shop

The last five days I have been ill. And I mean ill. Not sick or under the weather, but ill. As in suffering from an illness. Dizziness, nausea, headaches, stomach aches, aching joints, aching back, aching everything, not to mention a few other symptoms that would be a little less then tasteful to describe here. The doctor told me I had picked up a “germ” and would have to let it run it’s course. Well, it’s still running said course, maybe a little slower, but it definitely hasn’t stopped. Let’s say I’m feeling almost better.

While spending the better part of a week in bed I did the following: watched movies, played video games, watched more movies, played more video games, and of course got some work done. That’s right, I had some work to do. Even though I couldn’t leave my house and had trouble standing, I worked. I prepared for my level 1 class that’s starting this weekend, ran a rehearsal (in my living room), and finished a few other shop keeping type stuff. I know, lame. But what can I do? And this brings me to the purpose of this post: when you’re a one-man (or woman) operation, you don’t get sick days, and if you can’t make it to work, no one can cover for you. So what do you do?

I think this is an issue amongst artists more then other types of professionals (I’m sure other one-person operations have to deal with this too, but hear me out). Artists sell themselves, or their art. Not just any product or service, but a very intimate product or service. If the artist can’t be there for their show, well then, it’s not their show anymore is it. And it’s not easy to cancel an event, because people have bought tickets, flyers have been made, sets have been built, and of course the chorus of cliches chanting “The show must go on!”

Does this mean we can’t get sick? Does this mean all performers should take daily doses of echinacea and Emergen-C? It wouldn’t hurt, but it wouldn’t necessarily help. People get sick. Sicknesses get people. Prevention only takes you so far, however, I think preparation can take you the rest of the way.

I don’t have employees, I don’t want employees. Too much work. And I don’t have any partners, they’re too hard to find. So I can’t just prepare my co-workers to cover for me. So, what do I have? Colleagues. People within my profession (be it improv, or poetry) who I am on good terms with. We’ve worked together. We’ve worked with each other (not for each other) often enough that if one of us got sick, the other could (and would) step in and fill their need. It’s not that they would do my show, but they’d do at least a similar show, or workshop, or talk, or whatever that would meet the need of my audience.

It’s in these moments of sickness, or tragedy, that a community can really come together and cover for each other. Maybe my simple flu wasn’t one of those occasions, but it does make you think. What if it was worse and I couldn’t make my class on Sunday? What if I had to miss a show? Do I have someone to cover for me? Of course I do. Because I’m part of a community.

Building a community, and forming relationships with your colleagues and others in your field of expertise is the only solution I see to this problem. I’m not going to cancel a gig because of the flu or some stupid cold. This sickness might have beaten me, but I’m part of a community of artists, part of something larger, and together we’re immune to any illness.

May 10, 2011 · Improv, Poetry · Tags: , ,

Those things we do.

Why do you do what you do?

That’s an important question I don’t ask myself enough. Sometimes I find myself so wrapped up in doing what I’m doing, that I forget to stop and ask myself, what do I want to do?

This kind of drive-without-looking-where-I’m-heading is what, for example, lands me on poetry slam teams. Not that I don’t like performing poetry, or being on teams (for the record I enjoy both of those things immensely) it’s that slamming poetry and competing in it, isn’t what I like about it at all.

I like having an audience look at me (like most performers who aren’t lying to themselves), and I like the intimate connection you get from reading your own words and spilling your heart out to an audience. I like knowing my spoken poem really spoke to someone else. None of these reasons have anything to do with slamming.

I slam because I started doing it, and just never stopped.

Everyone does something without thinking about why. On the small scale, it could be things like having a beard or watching a bad TV show, or maybe collecting something small, like Starbucks Cards, or mint tins. But on the large (and therefore grander) scale it could extend to include things like your career or time-consuming hobby or, worst of all, your relationships.

The former smaller things we do, aren’t so problematic, but the latter larger issues are. Because eventually you are going to start hating that “thing-you-do” and have to come to terms with how much of your life you wasted on it. Not to mention the fact that your heart probably isn’t in it, and so you either aren’t doing it well, or just taking up space and stealing that opportunity away from someone else who actually wants to do it, and commit their life to it.

Just to be clear, I’m not saying everything you do needs to have some deep meaning. What I’m saying, is that you should always know why you are doing what you are doing, just in case you don’t want to do it anymore. It’s easy to get trapped in a routine but as I’ve learnt from improvising, some routines need to be broken. So stop what you’re doing and ask yourself, why am I doing this? The answer might surprise you, or maybe reassure you, but asking yourself why, will never be a waste of your time.

April 25, 2011 · Improv, Poetry · Tags: ,