I'd been booked to do a short spot as
part of a new night. Bit of a low ceiling, and not the biggest of
stages, I'd been told, so it was in my interest to get there early to
scope the place out. I had not been misinformed.
I had about a foot and a half above my
head to play with, which I actually kinda like. It looks like more of
a problem than it is, and, as someone well-versed in theatrical
cliché once said – a problem, to a clown, is a gift. About half of
the basement palaces of fun that I regularly work have similar height
issues, and I always figure it benefits me. I stride on stage,
announce that I'm a juggler, look disdainfully upwards, and there's
my first laugh. The audience realise that I could be in trouble, and
whatever happens, they'll enjoy it, and we're away.
But there were added problems tonight.
The stage was indeed tiny, and was entirely taken up with a full
band. There was literally about a foot and a half square of space for
the singer to stand in, and nothing else. So, I'd be performing on
the floor in front of the stage. Not ideal, but needs must.
As the place started filling up, my
stomach started to knot. If the venue was shaped like a bent arm,
then the stage was located at the elbow. Two thirds of the room in
front, but about a third, including the bar, behind and to one side.
I sat in the corner and watched how the room was working, the same
way I used to watch how people would pass by a busking pitch. Find
the flow. Find the pockets where people lose interest. Find the
problem areas.
This place was all problem area. It's
bad enough trying to do comedy when there's a working bar in the
room, but having one close by, and behind me meant that the people
there wouldn't feel part of the show, and therefore wouldn't mind
making a little noise. And as for the audience that stretched out in
front of me, well, the back half were tucked behind the sound booth,
and that combined with me working on the floor meant that they
wouldn't be able to see me, so they'd lose interest and start talking
too. Ok, I thought, so I'm working to the small bunch of tables right
in front of me. Not ideal, but still totally doable.
The material I had brought with me was
the kind of stuff I often do in small clubs and comedy venues –
basically a combination of stand-up and tricks. Tried and tested. But
slowly it dawned on me as I saw the other acts, that every one else
on the bill was a singer. I was the only non-musical act. Might have
been smarter to have bought my more circusy stuff, that gets
performed to music. Oh wait, not enough ceiling height for that.
Stuck with this. Hm.
But it's ok. I get to open with one of
my favourite gags. It never fails, and always gets the audience on
side right away. It's fine, as long as I've got the tables right in
front of me onside, then we'll have fun.
I'm waiting by the bar now, and the
show has started. The first music act is done, and the second is
halfway through. People are talking through the songs a little.
There's a particularly oafish fat drunk in a cheap grey suit at the
bar, and he's got no problem shouting at the performer who dares to
keep singing over his criticisms of her waistline. My heart sinks
further and my eyes roll harder. I'm up next. Focus on the audience
closest. Make them your friends by showing them your problems, then
make 'em laugh by overcoming them. Textbook. Done it a million times
in situations way worse than this. Here we go. I look behind me and
see that the fat loud guy has vanished from the bar. Ok. Good.
There's my intro, here I come.
Something's different. The lights have changed from the rehearsal.
All I can see is one white, dazzling, spotlight, rather than the warm
wash we had planned. No problem. Let's hit that opening gag. My
microphone is cutting out, and when it does work, it's too loud. I
sell my opening gag like a pro. Small laugh. People are talking.
I get stuck into the act, trying to
give it some pace and energy, but every other gag I throw misses, and
so do a couple of the tricks. There's a loud laugh from the front
table – clearly at me, rather than with me. I squint through the
spotlight to see that the fat guy from the bar has now taken his
seat. Front row centre, trashed and with his sights set on me.
The familiar cold, heavy feeling in my
gut. Knowing how the next 10 minutes of my life are going to pan out.
Most of the tables are enjoying it, but the ingredients have already
formed the perfect storm. Less than half the venue can see me.
Waitresses are pushing past me delivering drinks. My microphone is
still cutting out, and those gaps in the audio are replaced by the
fat guy laughing the word “Twat” at me as loudly as he can. And I
think that the punchyness I'm trying to give to the act is coming
across as desperation. I feel the sweat run down my neck. Let's just
make it to the end and not let it get any worse, I think to myself.
And I do. Sprint to the finish. Hit the final couple of tricks and
they get decent responses. By that time, I think, people had started
to realise that the fat guy was an asshole, and that his douchbaggery
was far greater than my failure to set the room alight. But still.
I get off and slope backstage like
Charlie Brown on a bad day. The other acts tell me how great it was,
but they do it with that wide-eyed “please take what I'm saying at
face value, it's fine, everything is fine” expression that we both
know what's going on. The compère of the show – someone I
completely adore, am a fan of, and therefore, of course, want to
impress, gives me my pay in an envelope with one hand and squeezes my
shoulder with the other, and I leave the scene of the crime.
And it's fine.
I had a bunch of gigs this month, and
every single one of the others were great. Some were stormers. For
every single minute of stage time I had last month, I felt about as
relaxed and happy as I ever feel. Cliche (and disfunctional) though
it is, I rarely feel as in the moment and blissful anywhere else as I
do when I'm on stage. So, then, I think it's good to be reminded of
how valuable and special that is once in a while.
Once a year, let's say. To die on your
ass, once a year, (ideally in front of someone you admire) is
healthy. Keeps you on your toes. Every fighter needs to get rocked by
a overhand right every so often, just to remind him to keep his hands
up. Back in the day, after a gig like that, you would have found me
sobbing into a clamshell of chips on a train platform (As happened in
the late 80's after a gig at the bearcat club that ended a couple of
minutes after it began, with members of the audience throwing my own
props at me..), but these days, I know a little better. It still
hurts, sure, but I'm able to analyse what was within my control, what
wasn't. What I can improve on, and what I can't.
And these days there are enough amazing
gigs to more than balance it out.
Talking of which...
Yes! The 2013 season of Mat Ricardo'sLondon Varieties kicked off last week at the brilliant Leicester
Square Theatre. We had a packed bill of variety performers from all
over the UK, and I got to interview the lovely Omid Djalili. It's
been a stressful old time, putting these shows together, but walking
out on stage on that first night was – as I knew it would be –
like slipping into a warm bath.
As I said, I often feel my most relaxed
and happy on stage, and I can pinpoint the moment in last weeks show
where I felt happiest. I had invited my old friend Andre Vincent on
stage to trade a few hat tricks. We had planned to attempt a
five-hat, two person move. Not spectacularly difficult, but for two
men in their 40's who hadn't done it for years... well, it took a few
attempts, a few failures and there was a moment when, after yet
another calamitous fail, we were both just bent over double laughing
at ourselves, as the audience did the same. Blissful.
Next month - March 28th - we have a truly incredible bill: I'll be interviewing Al Murray, and we'll be getting performances from the Boy With Tape On His Face, Award-winning magician Pete Wardell, the hilarious Elliot Mason, and of course a brand new trick from yours truly!
