It is our yearly pilgrimage. A visit to the convention that brings together theaters, artists, agents and those that feed off all three food groups. It’s an initial feeling for me of dread. Partly because it is a reminder that I am getting older, and I still am attending these conventions because I need to in order to do what I love doing. Partly because everyone else there most likely feels the same. The only people who are really excited seem to be the people who are there for the first time, young and intensely naive. They still have their sharp edges, and I was once like them. I am not anymore.
Don’t get me wrong. There are the artists, theater “presenters” and an agent or two that I am truly happy to see. And that brings a lot of joy when we see each other. We meet and talk for a while, finding out how each person has fared in the prior year. We’re like mountain men gathering at the rendezvous, happy to trade and happy that each person has some skin left in the game. We swap survival stories and occasional gossip. Once the rendezvous is over, back we will go out onto our lonely trail, hoping to find more pelts.
There are acts that once were big names. People from bands that I once listened to on the radio and whose songs are still played on nostalgic music stations. That they are here working the convention is a reminder that in this business, there is no guarantee of riding high forever. That they too, offer songwriter lessons, programs for schools and also “are easy to work with” means that they also need to be there.
Being at the convention is also waving the flag. It sends a signal to everyone that we are still alive and available. For the presenters, seeing us means that someone is booking us. They may never book us, but we are here because we are playing for someone, somewhere. That puts that seed of doubt in their mind, that perhaps the Neil Diamond tribute act may not be the right route to take. Perhaps an original musical act might be something to take a gamble on. Or the ballerina, or the comic. They swallow that doubt for another year and huddle with agents that will have not only Neil Diamond tribute acts, but most likely Neil Diamond.
It is a world that seems to be always facing ruin, the live musical venue business. The demographic that makes up audiences age, die and the worry is that fewer people are around that have that interest to make a night of a show. The big screen TV in their own homes is the very enemy that threatens their ability to buy that big screen TV. Yet, here we are. We make the best of it, because there is truly no other way we can do this better. The quick showcases of our talents, the talking to each other, the commiseration and the occasional reminder that “such and such” theater hasn’t booked us in a while is very important. And, regardless of the awkwardness, it does work to some degree. Somehow, there is that one theater willing to take that one act. It is enough to keep everyone going. Probably the most important element is fear. That fear we all have of wondering if we all matter. Another year and I see the actor dressed up as Winston Churchill go ambling by to the elevator. A bit older, a bit more rotund, a bit slower. He is still here and still pursuing his craft. I feel like rushing up to him, grabbing both of his hands and looking him in the eye and telling him, “You do matter!” But I don’t, but instead nod the nod of respect for his being in service to the muse, just like me.
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