I recently completed the three-night run of my solo show, “You’re a Monster, Matthew Dicks” at Theater Works in Hartford.
I now find myself in that strange space where I am happy and relieved that the show is over and went so well and also saddened that I don’t get to perform it again tonight.
I’ve had theaters across the country inquire about touring with the show, so opportunities abound, and a video of the show is being edited now, so hopefully, I will be able to perform it somewhere again soon.
I accumulated some stories during the run and thought I would share them here. Here’s the first:
On opening night, I made two mistakes in the show. I forgot to tell two stories.
I was able to wedge one of the stories back into the show with relative ease (once I realized that it had been missed), but the other was highly problematic. I knew I had forgotten something very early in the show. I arrived at a transition and could not find the next story, so after a moment of thought, I moved on to the next section, knowing that I was leaving something behind.
But since I could not remember what I was forgetting, I could not determine what the missing part might mean for the show.
About five minutes later, amid my performance, I realized what I had forgotten, so then new calculations needed to be made:
- Do I wedge the missing story into the show somewhere else? Was this even possible?
- If I let the story fall by the wayside, how might it impact the overall show?
- If I didn’t tell the story, what other parts of the show might break? Would jokes or callbacks stop working? Would a character or setting, or idea need to be introduced in some other way later on?
All of this, of course, was going through my mind while I was performing.
I decided to leave the story out but made a mental note to include it the following night so it could be included in the recording.
Then I determined that at least two jokes would not work without the story, so I had to avoid those jokes and build transitions around them, again, while performing.
This is why bandwidth is so vital for a performer. The ability to perform, connect with the material, and maintain focus and energy while simultaneously problem solve for errors is something you can only do if you have ample capacity onstage.
If you’re overly nervous, panicked, or require every drop of focus and effort to remember and perform the material, you can’t adjust on the fly. Can’t correct a mistake. Can’t look ahead to possible problems lying in wait.
You certainly can’t find brand-new jokes, additional callbacks, and unexpected connections.
All this is to say:
As a performer – storyteller, comic, public speaker, and the like – you need a lot of reps. You need stage time. You need to understand how to perform and calculate simultaneously. You need to be proficient in verbal gymnastics. You need to be able to speak extemporaneously. You need to be able to revise on the fly.
It’s doable, of course. Some people can pull this off more easily than others. Confidence can be immeasurably helpful in this regard. But everyone can learn to do this with enough practice. Everyone can learn to adjust, revise, and problem-solve onstage with enough coaching, strategy, and bandwidth. This is why producers and directors who work with storytellers, comics, public speakers, and other performers without ever taking the stage themselves can only do a small portion of the job.
I’ve watched public speaking coaches work with folks in the corporate world, and within two minutes, I can tell that the coach rarely or has never actually performed onstage themselves.
I have listened to producers and directors work with storytellers and comedians, knowing within seconds that the producer or director has never done the job and has no idea what the job actually requires.
Until the lights are shining in your eyes and you are experiencing everything onstage that a performer faces every day, your coaching and direction can only go so far.
Crafting the material is a big part of the job. Performing the material is also a big part of the job.
Maybe bigger.
If you’ve never felt the fear of standing before hundreds of people, uncertain about what to say next, or worried about what you’ve just forgotten to say, you’re a writer, wordsmith, and maybe editor, but you can’t truly help a performer do the job.
The words are important. Of course. But the physical and mental act of performing is just as important. Unless you’ve done it yourself and understand what it’s like, in your heart and soul, your direction and coaching will ultimately fail the performer.
Do the job, and then teach the job.
