Thoughts From The Road - Part #5

It’s the day before a long trip and I just got a last minute request from this weekend’s client.

“Mark - you need a Covid test before Saturday’s show.”

A lot of times when I’m working it feels like people I work with seem to think they’re my only client. This show has been booked for two months and yet they’ve waited until today to ask for a negative test, which is a huge hassle on top of everything else I have to do.

I have the usual day-before-I-leave responsibilities: pick up the dry cleaning, pack my bags, dishes, laundry, reach out to all the clients for the next five days, double check my travel plans, etc. Now I have to add a Covid test to the mix, too.

I find a Walgreens with a free appointment. It’s 20 minutes away. I glance out the window. It’s mid-afternoon, early November, clear skies. “Hm, better plan on 40 minutes.”

I’m dead on with my ETA, a sort of spidey-sense for city traffic developed over years of gigs in the Chicago area.

The results are back within the hour and I forward them to the client. I don’t have Covid so I’m good to go. I don’t mention that I’ll be in three airports, two hotels, four cities, and a ton of restaurants before I get to their event and could easily get Covid in any of those places. They didn’t consider I might have other gigs to deal with so why bother correcting them?

---

I’m the first half of a double feature tonight, which means I’ll be sharing the stage with another performer. And also the dressing room.

Other performers only talk about themselves. I always forget how this goes. I’ll try to talk about art, new movies, writing, showmanship, creativity, theater, show ideas, or any of the dozens of things that fascinate me about this craft.

Most other performers don’t give a shit about that stuff. They only want to talk about themself. They love to posture and tell you all the hacks they’ve figured out about the business.

That’s what I’m dealing with now. I’m sitting in the dressing room and instead of talking about art or life or the new season of Succession, I’m having to listen to this guy tell me about how much money he saved on hotel rooms this trip.

“What do you use to research the best deal on flights?”

I explain that I don’t research flights. I tell him that I never wanted to be a businessman and that I prefer to spend my time writing, watching classic movies, and learning new things. He doesn’t get it.

“You need to be using such-and-such booking site…”

I’m so bored that I can’t even recall the site he mentioned to include it in this post. I’m not even listening, instead I scan the wall of posters of previous acts that have performed here. I try to envision Yo-Yo Ma or Jerry Seinfeld checking Hotwire or Travelocity for the best rates on their flights.

I glance back. Yep, he’s still talking. About himself.

Yawn.

“…and that’s how I saved over $50 on tonight’s hotel room. Where are you staying?”

I calmly explain that, just as with my flights, I prefer to stay with one brand, and I don’t mind the (potentially) more expensive prices because I prefer to accumulate points for end of year bonuses, rewards, etc. He looks at me, but he’s only thinking about the next thing he’s going to say. And, if I’m being honest, I’m only trying to play along because I’m trapped in this room for the next hour. But my heart isn’t in it. Nothing is less interesting to me than the mundane details of planning a trip.

The only way out of this is to take the stage and destroy this room. And I do. The audience goes crazy and I nail time - exactly 50 minutes - so I can take my props offstage and leave space for the next act.

Ordinarily I’d stay and chat a bit more after the show, but I’m done for tonight. Besides, he doesn’t want to talk to me, just anyone who will listen.

Oh well, back to my overpriced, super comfy, quiet hotel room.

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More shows in more cities, come and go like ripples in a pond. Georgia, Nebraska, Texas, South Dakota, Michigan, Illinois. Finally, I’m back in Chicago and have a little time off for Thanksgiving.

Time to take a deep breath before the brutal December schedule begins. It’s been a long, exhausting few months on tour so far this fall, but for just a few days it feels good to be home.

Thoughts From The Road - Part #4

Today I’m in the middle of Iowa for another college show. It’s in a tight coffeehouse setting, perfect for my style of show.

I love a venue like this - couches, tables, and chairs on three sides of the stage, with people as close as they can get. It thrusts people into the show and makes it more fun for everyone.

I have a good feeling about this one. Something tells me this is going to be a good show and I start to get amped, but then the client drops a bomb with five minutes until the show begins.

“People will probably come and go throughout the show. They’ll mostly be eating dinner or studying in the back,” they tell me.

My heart sinks. I never understand this sort of show, where the performance takes a backseat to everything else. If that’s your venue book a musician or play a movie silently on one of the screens. But when you force me to travel 12 hours to get somewhere and I’m just background noise? Well, that just pisses me off.

Even so, the room is packed and the show starts with a bang. I pick a good volunteer for my first piece and he freaks out accordingly.

A few people glance up from a table in the back. Others have their backs turned towards me while eating their dinner or making conversation with their friends.

Unbelievable.

I launch into my second piece and it goes about the same. Good volunteers but no reactions from anyone else in the room. Some polite applause when I ask for it but nothing else. No spontaneous laughter, no actual amazement. I’m treading water onstage and it’s a horrible feeling.

The show is designed with intention: The third piece in the show is where it starts to get crazy. I stop with the introductory bits and increase the level. It goes from “Wow, that’s pretty amazing!” to “HOLY SHIT THAT’S FREAKING CRAZY!” in two minutes time.

But this audience won’t go along for the ride. They barely acknowledge what I’m doing.

“What am I doing? Why am I even up here?” I think to myself.

I’ve had enough. I throw aside my props and climb atop a table in the front row.

I shout for everyone’s attention and wait until everyone stops talking. I stare around the room, making eye contact with all corners of the audience.

“I’m not on script any more,” I begin, as people start shifting uncomfortably.

“I came a long way to be here tonight and so far you aren’t giving me anything. And I get it, there’s a million Tik Toks to scroll through, you’re eating chicken wings, your friends are here. Fine. But let me tell you something…the past 3 or 4 years I’ve been having a bit of an existential crisis. I spent over two decades trying to build this career and now that I have I’m not sure this is what I want to be doing any more. So like many of you in this room, I also have no clue what I want to do with my life…”

Half the room breaks into applause. A few people shout out “Yes!”

Now we’re getting somewhere…

“But I’ll tell you this much…I refuse to phone this in. I’m here to show you something awesome. So if you’ll meet me in the middle I promise this will be worth it. I promise you we’ll have a great time. But you’re as much a part of this as me - okay?!”

Everyone applauds and I can feel a seismic shift in the room. I went to war with this group and I won. I pick up where I left off and the rest of the show is killer. The programming board even tells me it’s the best turnout and response to a show they’ve ever had.

For years I’ve been trying to find a way to be more relatable to college students. I’ve tried changing my wardrobe to something a little more hip, using current slang, keeping up with memes, using popular music, and more. None of it worked. It fits me like a loose glove and the students could tell.

But tonight I was honest. I was my true, authentic self. I confessed a big, personal fear in front of a room of strangers and they applauded in agreement. Turns out I didn’t need to change anything, I just needed to double down and be myself. That’s all it took but it’s the most relatable I’ve ever been.

Thoughts From The Road - Part #3

September is over. Go wake up Green Day.

Oh, and today is my birthday.

I’m booked tomorrow afternoon in Philadelphia, so I have to travel today. The flight is on time and my show bag is the first bag to slide down the ramp at baggage claim. I grab my suitcase and walk to the curb. It’s not until I’m on the shuttle that I realize I just lifted a bag with my right arm for the first time since surgery. I hadn’t even thought about it.

Progress.

I wait over an hour for a rental car, which is quickly becoming a theme of travel this fall. It's past midnight when my car is finally ready and I can drive to the hotel.

I have a headache, my feet hurt, and I’m tired. I guess this is what it feels like to be 35.

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On to Las Vegas for a corporate event. Today will be an easy gig - I’ve been hired to stroll around a corporate reception, dazzling people up close with some mysteries of the mind.

I spend the entire day at the Cosmopolitan, watching people come and go. A day in Vegas is a microcosm of the entire pandemic. People begin the morning with masks on, keeping their distance and following the rules. But by the time my gig is over people have moved on, reverting back to their pre-lockdown ways.

I’ve never liked Las Vegas. I treat it the way I handle a visit with certain family members, with a self-imposed 48 hour rule. Get in and get out before it drives me too crazy.

But somehow tonight feels different. I stand on my balcony, feeling like Danny Ocean as I watch the Bellagio Fountain reach for the sky twenty floors beneath me. I’ll be here less than twenty-four hours but for a brief moment I’m not thinking about what comes next; I’m just enjoying the view.

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Your phone is ruining my life.

Everywhere I go, every line I stand in, every sidewalk, every store, every show I perform — there’s always a phone messing it up.

You have to understand: I could be doing a show for a hundred people and there might be 99 people leaning forward, smiling and enjoying the show. But all I can see is the one lone person checking their texts in the third row.

The phone shines on your face like a lighthouse beckoning a ship to shore. It’s distracting and annoying and easily the worst part about performing live shows in 2021.

One time another performer gave me some unsolicited advice: “It’s your job to keep them off their phones.”

I couldn’t disagree more. Phones are perhaps the first piece of tech in history that actively controls the user. They’re designed to keep us addicted, coming back again and again for another micro-dose of likes and shares. It shouldn’t be my job to de-program Silicon Valley’s grasp on your psyche in the short hour I spend onstage. I’m not going to fight the algorithm.

It’s not just my show either. A few years back I took my wife to see Hamilton downtown. We waited years for the show to arrive in Chicago and looked forward to it with eager anticipation. The show was great but the experience was soured by a person in front of us, using their phone throughout the show.

Who would pay over $500 for a ticket just to spend the show on their phone? I’ll never understand.

It’s the same at concerts and movies and plays. From Broadway to Hollywood, phones are ruining everything.

That’s not to say that experiences are anything special these days either. Most things I go to are very forgettable. Movies, restaurants, live shows, museums, and more. None of these establishments seem to care about my experience. They herd me through like cattle, only stopping to collect my data or encourage me to promote their venue online.

I feel that a lot of performers think the experience starts when the curtain goes up, but that’s not true. The audience’s experience starts when they buy the ticket or the babysitter knocks on the door. They think about the show all day, get dressed up, and go out to dinner. If anything goes wrong along the way, those small disasters can start to compound until the entire night becomes a disappointment. So, the show itself can’t just be pretty good. It needs to be absolutely jaw-dropping. It needs to be out-of-this-world, take my breath away, crazy good. The performer has to strive to give us the best experience we’ve ever had, so they can overcome anything negative that might have happened to us leading up to the show itself.

For my birthday I bought tickets to see comedian Hasan Minhaj in Milwaukee. I’ve been wanting to see him live for a long time, having been a big fan of his first comedy special and his Netflix show. We drive north and I’m cautiously excited, fully prepared to be let down.

I park five blocks away and have to walk to will-call to get our parking pass and back to the car to place it in the windshield.

Strike one.

We have to line up around the building to show our vaccination cards and get a wristband for proof of entry. It’s raining and the line moves slowly. The show is going to start late.

Strike two.

But wait, what do we have here? They’re locking up our phones. We slip them into pouches and the pouch is sealed with some kind of magic I’m not familiar with. I’ll still have my phone with me all night but I won’t be able to look at it unless I make my way out to the lobby.

Suddenly I’m thrust into a room of 1500 phone-less people, all of whom are excitedly buzzing about the show. The lights dim and Hasan Minhaj is here.

The show is phenomenal. Not just because of his writing and performance, but because no one is distracted by a phone or smartwatch. They have no choice but to become fully invested in the show. We forget about the rain and our masks and the parking lot and the delays. For the first time in a decade I get so lost in something that I never want it to end. It’s the best show I’ve seen in quite some time.

As we leave the theater an usher removes my phone from the pouch and hands it back to me. I feel a small pang of disappointment. I wish it could stay locked up forever.