Performance is a Sport

I may have a usable picture or two from my gig last week at Pearl's, which was a lot of fun, but also a lot of work. I'll try to post the pix tomorrow. Prior to the gig, I had fun getting prepared--shopping for clothes and cheap flashy accessories that look like a million bucks in the dark, sending the promo emails, contacting papers, rehearsing, practicing, formulating and reformulating the setlist, etc. I also felt excitement and a bit of fear that I might be nervous during the gig. In fact, at the gig I wasn’t nervous at all—usually I’m not, but the damn adrenaline has been known to start pumping without much provocation.

But live performance is so much like a sporting event. I started running more seriously a few years ago. It’s interesting to see how elite runners prepare for competition (not that I’m anywhere close to that, but the great thing about running is you can pretend that you’re an undiscovered Olympic talent and nothing but the stopwatch will ruin your fantasy). Visualization, systematic training, relaxation, rest—you know, The Inner Game of Tennis stuff. And yet, no matter what you do to prepare, it all comes down to that moment of truth: the day of the event, the feel of the wind, the mood of the crowd, the vibe in the band, the flow of the mind. I suppose if one aims for spontaneity as a goal then you’re going to have some ups and downs, as opposed to perfection. But perfection would be so nice, just once!

I remember watching ice skating during the last Olympics. Each contestant was struggling to do the most complex leaps ever, and so many fell. But I remember the winner, a little girl, and when she got out on the ice she was like a spinning top, a hummingbird, infallible and effervescent. In a way it was sad that womanly gravitas could hold nothing to that immature sparkler, capable of doing all the state-of-the-art spins.

Anyway, this show is over and it’s on to the next. A teacher once told me that the more you perform, the less emotional freight each gig carries and it doesn’t become such a life-and-death thing, where either you’re flying with glee and can’t sleep for days or you destroy yourself with preemptive criticism and can’t sleep for fear of the monster waiting for you. It all makes you understand the attraction of superstition and ritual in performance. You want to win, to soar, and whatever has worked in the past becomes something to cling to before each new gig.

Wayne stopped by at Pearl’s at half-time—I mean intermission—and gave Murray Low, David Flores and me our music for our gig in Nevada with the Reno Jazz Orchestra. I also had a few songs to learn for Grace Cathedral, so I had something new to focus on after the gig.