Another week of travel has arrived, with shows in Maryland, Kansas, and Minnesota. Each one has their own set of rules.
Masks On (for everyone).
Masks Off (for everyone).
Masks On (unless I’m onstage alone).
I spent a few hours this week adding more music to the show. It’s a laborious process.
I search Spotify for music I like, then branch off to similar artists until I find something that sounds mysterious and unfamiliar. I don’t want people singing along, rather I want it to be an intriguing soundtrack to the show itself.
There’s no real information out there on how to find music or how to use it effectively. It’s all trial and error. And the music you use depends on the moment.
Walking onstage? I need something upbeat to set the mood.
Bringing a volunteer up? I want something exciting to fill that dead time.
Reading someone’s mind? No music, because I don’t want it to feel canned. The show has to have aura of spontaneity. If a track plays the instant I reveal something I’m subconsciously telling the audience: “This is how it happens every night.”
So I use a brilliant suggestion my wife came up with: Reveals happen without any music. Let the person react and let the moment sink in. Only then do I thank the person and send them back with some music. It’s subtle but effective.
I control the music myself, with a remote in my pocket, but I’m hoping you’ve never noticed. Hopefully it’s invisible. I once saw a show where a guy held the remote out in front of his body, visibly changing the playlist from track to track. How am I supposed to get lost in the show when you make me aware of what’s going on behind the scenes?
It takes a few shows but the music is coming together. I know it’s a good mix when someone from the backstage crew comes up afterward and says they loved the playlist so much that they had to Shazam it. Now we’re getting somewhere.
Back home I’ve been doing a gig at a restaurant once a week. I work the tables, reading minds between appetizers and the main course. The groups I encounter are always different.
One week it’ll be nothing but tables of well-dressed, intelligent adults eager to be amazed. They love it. They ask for business cards and tip well. Nights like that can be fun.
Tonight, on the other hand, is nothing but tables of families. For two hours I’m nothing but a glorified babysitter. I do my best, but mind reading isn’t for children.
I used to do kids shows at libraries and schools and even Disney World, but that was a different time and a different show. I already paid those dues.
The drive home is long. I’m tired and dejected. Wrangling kids is not how I thought this career would go. My wife is too tired to listen and we end up fighting. I just want to vent for a minute but she thinks I’m mad at her.
After a gig - good or bad - there’s always an adrenaline rush that lasts for a few hours. It keeps me up for a while as I come down off the natural high of being onstage or the depressing lows of pondering what went wrong and how to fix it.
Tonight I stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I hate fighting with Stephanie, especially over something so dumb. My alarm goes off. It’s 3:45 am.
Back to the airport.
Missouri. Just east of where I grew up in southeast Kansas.
I have time to workout before the show but the elliptical and treadmill are both broken at the hotel. I run outside - a single mile, for time. The run takes me through three parking lots and along the shoulder of a road. It’s less than ideal, but I make it happen. I wish I could run more but I don’t have enough time. I can’t be late for tonight’s show.
It’s a women’s college and they’re fantastic. I meet many of them beforehand, during my preshow teaser.
A teaser - much like the restaurant gig - is where I work small groups before a show to try and build buzz for that night’s event. I’ve done teasers in cafeterias, student unions, dorms, plazas, outdoor spaces, rooftops - you name it.
Tonight it’s at the dining hall. So I walk around introducing myself and reading minds. My close—up act has gotten better, thanks to the extra reps at the restaurant. (If only they could see my children’s material…)
I think back to my childhood, growing up an hour away from here. Sitting cross-legged on my bed with a book and a deck of cards, working on sleight-of-hand for hours on end. I remember my first show and how I pictured one day performing in large venues, with my name in lights.
But tonight is not that night. Tables tents are on every table in the room promoting tonight’s show and my name is spelled wrong. There’s an extra “L” in my last name, a surprisingly common mistake.
They apologize and I assure them it’s no big deal. And it really isn’t. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again.
“Oh and by the way,” they say, “We also spelled it wrong on the shirts.”
I look at the front table and see a hundred shirts with a name I don’t recognize. I take one for myself so I can always remember this. So much for my name in lights.
Off to the Big Apple for a show on Long Island. I booked this flight last minute and got a great deal on a discount site. Today I’ll fly first class for the first time.
It’s great to have the extra leg room but if I’m being honest it’s not all that exciting. Air travel is horrible these days and first class is underwhelming. Like many things in life, it sounds exciting at first but ends up not being all that special once you get to experience it.
New York just issued their vaccine card mandate. Proof of vaccination is required to enter any restaurant and many other places of business. I swore to myself I wouldn’t show my card because I’m not a fan of the mandate.
That’s right, I’m double-vaxxed but I also don’t like the mandate. It seems like an overreach and might even be discriminatory. Unfortunately when you hold a nuanced view these days you’re considered a whack-o conspiracy theorist so I don’t voice my opinion. “But,” I tell myself, “I won’t be showing my vaccine card to anyone while I’m in NYC.”
I’m a man of my word…until I get hungry. Then all of my principles and hot takes go out the window. I begrudgingly get in line to show my card to enter a restaurant in Brooklyn. The hostess is a 16 year old high school student who doesn’t even bother to look up from her phone. She waves me in without even checking my card.
Turns out whether you’re a fan of the mandate or completely against it - it doesn’t matter. It’s just theater; an illusion of comfort to those of us willing to comply. But it’s not actually doing anything and the people in charge aren’t either.
I head out to Long Island and a traffic accident adds two hours to the drive. I call the client and tell them it’s going to be close.
It’s pedal-to-the-medal the whole way but I can’t seem to subtract any minutes from my ETA. I pull up to the venue with ten minutes to spare until showtime. Just enough time to set-up, sound check, and catch my breath. They hold the audience outside until I’m ready. The students have no idea that I almost didn’t make it. As far as they’re concerned, everything is going to plan.
Even with all of the delays and my rushed arrival, we only need to start five minutes late. These things happen. I don’t even have time to think about the show, I just launch in and give it my all for an hour. And it’s goes great. Sometimes you wait around and have too much time to think. Other times you just have to dive in and trust yourself.
I wonder about shows I’ve seen and whether those performers were rushing in the stage door while I was patiently waiting for the curtain to rise. You never get to see the other 23 hours of a performer’s day. Only the single hour when they’re onstage sharing the carefully rehearsed, perfectly polished representation of themself.
Onstage tonight I’m in control, fluctuating between mystery and mischief. It’s part psychological skullduggery and part improvised audience interaction. I have better posture onstage and my words are carefully chosen. Music plays at my command and people rise to their feet when I leave the stage.
Offstage I drag my suitcases across a dark parking lot and load them into the car. I’m mentally and physically exhausted. It’s been such a long day that the thoughts aren’t forming clearly like they were onstage just moments ago. Nothing decent is open, so I eat fast food in a parking lot then drive back to the city, barely able to keep myself awake.