In its first cycle, City Love Song was an improvised story about New York which was performed in 24 cities around America. In its second cycle, City Love Song is a portrait of America, drawn from those 24 cities and the railroad tracks between them, which Jack will be taking to 13 cities around the world.
- A wind farm on a grain farm near Appleton, Wisconsin.
High on the experience of Madison the night before, I cruised into Appleton as a passenger in the car of dear Angela, who had called my bluff and set the stage for a homecoming performance which would rank among my favorites over the remainder of the tour. She makes her home in Appleton and has made her name as part of that town’s refreshingly vibrant arts scene. She had also arranged my booking at Harmony Café and even solicited the attention of the Appleton Post-Crescent, which published a column about the tour after a telephone interview held while I was in Detroit.
The staff at Harmony received me graciously and lent numerous hands as I set up an over-sized room adjacent to the coffee bar.
Angela had seen the show in Madison, and Jay and Crystal, who then lived near Madison, had driven up to see a second performance here. (Jay and Crystal now live in Los Angeles. You’ll be hearing more about Jay in a coming post about the Dakotas.) This in itself was exciting: there were few people who saw multiple performances, and it was always interesting to hear their take on separate tellings. I was further excited by the slow build of total strangers who were filling up this room: many of these were friends of Angela’s, but a good number more had learned of the show by way of that article. It was not hard to think that buzz was building–and may even spread.
A manager offered a microphone which I politely declined. He repeated the offer, pointing at an enormous metal box fastened to the ceiling above me. “It’s off right now,” he warned. “But when it’s on, it’s loud.” When I asked how long it would run, he estimated 5-10 minutes on, then 10-15 minutes off in a repeating cycle. I refused; I could reach the back of the room vocally, and after the steam and hiss of Detroit I was sure this box would prove no distraction. (I admit I was feeling a bit invincible.) I polled the gathering crowd, who agreed they could hear me in the back–but the machine was off when I asked them.
The performance commenced. Whereas in Madison my spirit had resided fully within the sphere of the story, here I let my tongue do the walking while my brain explored the room. It was fascinating to take in this mixed collection of friends and strangers. Jay had propped up a video camera and I was glad it was on a tripod and not in his hands; I could see his face and ignore the lens. An older couple in the back seemed a little puzzled by the event and I wondered if they had expected something else or had just happened to show up and discover this was happening.
(Oops–something’s off. What happened there?) My brain raced back to the story: something had gone wrong. A quick dialogue between spirit and brain revealed that a step in the story had been skipped. My spirit admonished my brain for being inattentive, and my brain responded by promising to smoothly correct the oversight. I had made a simple omission, but it was an image I wanted to plant firmly in the mind of the audience in order to bring a few things full-circle later. I had just begun to cycle back to present the image when that metal box roared to life.
Immediately the faces in the back of the room tightened, then slackened. My brain raced out to assess the scene and my spirit roared with frustration at this untimely new abandonment. My balance was gone and my tongue struggled to reestablish rhythm. This effort was hindered further by an additional distraction: I had broken a personal rule and eaten right before the show. Whether a response to my stress or a natural consequence of the gastrointestinal, my lungs now presented my mouth with a series of garlic-and-broccoli flavored belches. These had to be expelled as quickly and quietly as possible. There was nowhere to hide.
The box shut off and my brain returned, raging. The omitted image had been restored but so far out of place that it made little sense. In making this evaluation I committed the most grievous error, the most damning infraction any performer in art or sport or life can commit: I condemned myself.
Stumbling along, I wrapped up the story and took a short bow to polite applause. (Those who were present may describe the evening differently, and the fact that I was in a state of self-loathing probably colors my perception of the evening, but I was fuming, and am still frustrated and embarrassed by what I consider a poorly rendered performance. The people of Appleton deserved better, and it was my own foolish pride that put me in that position.)
Harmony Café treated me to a beverage, over which I sulked. Angela watched with concern, and Jay asked, “Why the long faces?” I shook my head and tried to sell a few t-shirts.
The crowd was gracious and kind, and I had a few drinks with Angela’s friends afterward. Conversation with them assured me that the performance hadn’t been a total waste–there were elements enjoyed by all. But I was smarting: on the heels of Madison’s glory and the euphoria of Chicago, I had made an unprofessional, poor showing in a town where good friends had rustled up significant support and attention.
It is true that this is the brutal assessment of a man who is his own harshest critic, but awareness of that habit didn’t stop me from kicking myself all the way to the Twin Cities.
