I’m writing this edition while sitting at Chicago O’Hare, having arrived from Hartford CT an hour late, causing me to miss my connecting flight to Missoula, MT, from where I’ll drive 90 minutes tomorrow to play a solo piano concert of ragtime, early jazz and the blues. None of this is noteworthy, as I’m fortunate enough to say I do this kind of thing all the time, and often without incident. What makes this interesting is that I’ve learned performing artists aren’t the only people who appear not to exist unless they’re working.
Allow me to backup to explain. Among musicians, especially those who toil under—how shall we say—the half-lidded eye of obscurity (i.e., anybody but the people you see celebrated annually at the Grammys, or daily in the endless gossip feeds), there is an almost universal sense that most audience members forget, or have never even considered, that we have lives off the stage. This feeling is shared by dancers, thespians, stand-up comedians: anyone who performs live shows. Again, you have to have attained a certain level of inconspicuousness to experience this, so Shakira, Kendrick, Taylor, and/or Wynton, if you’re reading this, skip to the next article.
This notion that audiences assume you materialize as the lights come up and disapparate after your final notes have faded is well illustrated by an incident that occurred to my friend in the UK, the renowned clarinetist/saxophonist John Hallam. At the Keswick Festival in the Lake District of England, John and his wife Barbara were staying at an AirBnB and it was trash day, so he emerged from his flat in his dressing gown hoicking the rubbish bin to the curb. A fan was strolling by and exclaimed in astonishment, “John, you’re taking out the rubbish!!” He retorted, “Madam, it won’t take itself out,” and dashed back inside.
Why is it surprising that performers engage in every day activities? We cook, we clean, we do laundry, we drive, we get the oil changed, we pay bills. [Note: the previous list applies to a certain level of artist: those listed by first name two paragraphs ago—as well as many others enjoying their level of recognition and success—most likely have staff to do these activities. The next list is universal.] Moreover, we eat, we sleep, we burp, we “break wind,” we do things too intimate to list here: we’re basically (somewhat) normal people who happen to do our jobs in front of other people rather than at a desk—although, there’s much more to a performing career than what reaches the stage, but that’s fodder for a future column.
After a concert, people often approach my wife Anne and ask, “Is he always like that?” She smiles wanly and mumbles some noncommittal affirmative so they won’t be disappointed. Part of them wants to believe I AM always as I appear to them onstage. And I guess at the end of the day, they’ve paid to see us, whether the fee be food and drink in a casual club or a purchased ticket to a formal show, so they really don’t need to know anything except that we are there to play for them. How we got there or where we’re going afterwards is truly none of their concern. In fact, audience members contemplating the mundane might find the sheen of their favorite performing artist dimming.
So to the audience, I’m always a bubbly, over-the-top (some might say obnoxious) entertainer with an irreverent sense of humor and a forceful musical delivery. It’s my job to never let on if I’m having a bad day, or my foot hurts, or I’m exhausted, or just had a spat with someone before coming onstage. And it’s a cardinal sin to allow that I wasn’t happy with my performance. I learned this from my friend, clarinetist Bob Draga.
I can’t remember if I’ve recounted this story in these pages (or on your screen) so I’ll be brief, but it’s worth telling again anyhow. Early in his festival career, Bob had just finished a set and a lady came up and said how thrilled she was with his playing. “Really?” he asked. “I don’t feel like I played well at all, in fact I think I sucked.” He didn’t say this rudely to her (he was actually apologetic) but she left with a dejected expression on her face. Ace banjoist Doug Maddox overheard this exchange, and approached Bob. “Bob,” he gently admonished, “Don’t ever say things like that to an appreciative audience member. By letting them know you were struggling or not happy with how you played, you’re negating their enjoyment and, perhaps worse, their taste. To them, you’re a hero. Act like one and smile and tell them you’re sincerely glad they enjoyed your music. THAT’S your job!” Bob finished by telling me, “Once Doug laid it out like that, I never again told a member of the audience that they were wrong.”
You can forgive a listener for harboring the illusion that you vanish into another dimension or are placed on a shelf until the next show. Less forgivable is when a concert series or festival promoter/organizer insists you fly across 2-3 time zones out of an airport two hours from your home with one or more connections on the same day they want you to play three sets, the final one ending at midnight their time (so 2-3 am in the time zone from where you’re traveling). These kind of people also want you to play until 4 or 5 pm on the final day of the event, drive back to the airport—sometimes 1-3 hours away—and fly home on the last evening flight, thereby landing at 1 am in your time zone and arriving at your home around 3 am—OR worse, take a red-eye back home.
I understand they’re trying to save some money, and one or two fewer nights of housing per musician or band adds up. However the best directors or organizers take into consideration where performers are coming from. Yes, it’s possible for a musician or band based an hour’s drive—or perhaps even a direct flight of 1-2 hours—away from an event to arrive a couple of hours before they play their inaugural set on the first day, leave right after their final set on the last day, and still feel rested enough to do a good job. Not so if the travel day combines with the performance to add up to being awake 24-27 hours before finally getting to rest.
Really, it’s not that they’re being rude or uncaring. It’s simply (and I use this word with no judgment) that they are ignorant of their performers’ situations prior to their arrival and after their departure. They are rightly so consumed with making everything at their event the best it can be that they sometimes forget their talent is human. There’s a lot to think about when you’re a festival director or concert promoter. And after all, all you musicians (dancers, actors, etc.) do this for FUN, don’t you?
Happily, few festivals or concerts have remained dogged about having you around for as short a time as possible while expecting you to perform in peak condition. There are many festivals that are very generous with the number of nights they’ll put a band or soloist up during their festival. One example is the festival I’m honored to consult for, along with my good friend the immensely talented pianist Brian Holland: Monterey Jazz Bash by the Bay. This event offers up to four nights housing to every musician playing the entire weekend who’s not within comfortable (that is within an hour) driving distance. As a result, the performers can be rested enough to be on their A-game and get a chance when not playing to enjoy one of the most beautiful places on earth.
Getting back to my premise that other professions besides those in the performing arts endure anonymity when not performing their duties, while I was standing by for one of the two flights I didn’t make on my way to Missoula I chatted with a couple of flight attendants. We were discussing this topic and they allowed they were often not seen as human either. One divulged she had arrived at the airport a few years ago and, twenty minutes before she and the rest of the crew were to board to ready the flight for passengers, received news that a family member had suddenly died. Of course, she collapsed in misery and tears. She was whisked away into the holding tank where TSA conducts their experiments…er, investigations…on miscreant (or more often inexperienced) travelers. After about ten minutes, though still visibly shaken and weeping, she’d calmed down sufficiently to declare herself strong enough to go to work when a supervisor advised that she put on a coat to disguise her uniform as it “wouldn’t do for passengers to see an employee so upset before they board their flight.” To this mid-level manager, she was merely a cog in the corporate wheel: she was not human.
Now that I’m reaching the conclusion of this offering, I realize that you don’t have to have spent 10,000 hours honing your art to abide disregard when not performing; people working in large factories and corporations are often dehumanized while they’re at work. For a pointed and often hilarious take on this notion, one need only view Charlie Chaplin’s 1936 masterpiece, Modern Times. Sometimes these columns are cathartic for me. By journeying through this entry, I realize my lot isn’t so bad. Paradoxically, anonymity loves company.
Jeff Barnhart is an internationally renowned pianist, vocalist, arranger, bandleader, recording artist, ASCAP composer, educator and entertainer. Visit him online atwww.jeffbarnhart.com. Email: Mysticrag@aol.com
