Performance Anxiety
Still Will / Just say Yes
This one's going to be a bit of a rush job, as I have a few big projects on my plate right now. For one thing, getting The Size of the World back into print for its 30th anniversary edition has been moderately consuming. For another, about six months ago I was invited to perform my solo show, 108 Beloved Objects (loosely based on the book of the same name) in San Leandro on May 31st and June 1st. I couldn’t say no. That’s now a week away. And although I always get anxious before my performances, this one is in a class by itself.
The last time I did this show, three years ago, I had only recently been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. Though my mobility was somewhat compromised, I was still able to prance around on stage a little bit. What's going to happen next Saturday and Sunday is anybody's guess. I've been obsessing on all the things that can go right, and the many ways it can go wrong.
What can go right? Well for one thing, I love these stories, and they’re mine to tell. I've narrated all of them many times before, but always tell them a bit differently, so they never really get old for me. Years ago — when he was performing at the Berkeley Rep and I was down the street at the Marsh Berkeley — I asked my friend Mike Daisey, a brilliant and indomitable solo performer, how he kept his material fresh when he was riffing off the same basic storylines night after night. He looked at me uncomprehendingly and said simply, “I go deeper.”
Let that be my goal for next weekend. Even if I can't be as physically spry as I was when I launched my first show (Strange Travel Suggestions) in 2003 (and my God was I spry), I can use my challenges with kinetic activity as an opportunity to dive a little more deeply into what each story means to me.
On that note: A couple of weekends ago, my friend Dave took me to see Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson as part of the hyper-commercialized Outlaw Festival in Wheatland, an hour north of Sacramento. The big revelation for me was Sierra Hull, a terrific young “Newgrass” virtuoso from Tennessee who knocked my socks off. The two headliners are of course living legends, if somewhat mummified. I'd never seen the incomparable Willie Nelson — who is now 92 — and was very moved by one of his few songs I had not yet heard: Still is Still Moving to Me. It's a cryptic song, but anybody who has been slowed down through accident, disease or the pitiless passing of years will get it. Simple and profound. And not a bad fortune cookie for my upcoming performances.
The two things I'm concerned with will be obvious to anyone who is dealing with Parkinson’s, or knows someone who has: voice projection and mobility.
The projection was mine to screw up. I was provided with a link to a series of PD-specific vocal exercises that I was supposed to do each day, twice a day, for the past four months. And guess how often I did them? Well, I still have a week to go, so let's see if I can whip my vocal cords into shape by then.
As for mobility, my strategy will be to use a scattering of chairs and stools, and shelter in place rather than use the whole stage (the way I've been stumbling around lately, I might literally break down that fourth wall). Will people know why? Doubtful, since I don't make a practice of announcing my condition from the stage. I'll stick to that policy, unless I find myself doing the Parkinson's shuffle.
But I'll try to time my meds perfectly, allowing me to strut and fret through my allotted hour: from 2 o'clock till 3 or so. Because one problem I sometimes have (when the meds are wearing off) is standing up from a chair, and taking my first few steps right after.
Case in point: On Friday night I was in the audience at a fabulous new one-woman show by my friend Susie Davis, a gifted musician with whom I've written a number of very bizarre songs (including my one country western “hit,” Second Favorite Man). At one point Susie, after performing a few of our collaborations, acknowledged me to the audience. I intended to stand up, and tip my hat to her. The problem was, I couldn’t. Stand up, I mean. I tried a couple of times, then sort of gave up. (I did finally manage to get to my feet, but the moment had passed and I looked a bit foolish.)
So I hope that if some of you are going to be in San Leandro next Saturday or Sunday, you'll be generous enough applaud my efforts, whatever they amount to.
Here, then, is what you’re in for. I've looked at the stories from both Strange Travel Suggestions and 108 Beloved Objects, and winnowed them down to a posse of twenty that I’ll draw from. (You've seen some of the potential objects/stories salted through this post.) I'll spend this week reviewing how they go; most importantly how to begin each tale (the middle and end take care of themselves). All are stories I love to tell, and tell often, so forgive me if you heard one or two of them before.
A final note: the lengths of the performances in this year’s Best of Solo SF series are a bit shorter than they were in years past. Previously, I was able to tell the stories in a leisurely (i.e., long-winded) manner and veer off in myriad directions. It's not going to be that way this time. I’ll need to figure out how to spin my yarns with a little more economy, but without being rushed. Wish me luck!
To remind y'all: Tix will be $40 at the door. I'm being paid a flat fee for the shows, so ticket sales cover the production costs. I hope you'll be there to share the experience with me. Because if I can do it this year, maybe I can do it again next year. For the moment I'm not taking anything for granted... but I'm not saying no to anything, either.
I'm thinking of Michael J Fox who is returning to tv. He is showing the world what Parkinson's looks like and has taken us on his journey for decades now. You have the mic and if you can't stand up on your first or second or even third attempt, you could smile, chuckle, and say, "This is what Parkinson's looks like." And if your voice becomes gravelly, you could say in the mic, "This is what Parkinson's sounds like, especially when one doesn't do their voice exercises". Although it is no light thing, you could make it light rather than become embarrassed by it. Your chance to educate your audience, that you have it but you are not going to let it get you down or make you reclusive. Did you ever meet Ted, the Nepali/Tibetan scholar who developed Parkinson's? He was quite open about it, as are you. As a side note, when he sat down to play the piano, classical pieces, all tremors stopped as his hand glided across the keys. You will do fine, you will be in your element. And if you stumble, share with your audience the reason for your stumbles. I, too, wish I could be there.
I will be in Seattle! Best wishes my friend. Im sure it will be great!!