Bardic and Performance Arts
So you want to be a bard? I might as well come clean now, so you can decide whether or not to go on to a more suitable web page. I like to philosophize. These pages will be filled with material suitable for performance...but along the way, I'll talk a lot about how the material came to be, with my thoughts on the whys and wherefores. Since I think I've learned more from my mistakes and goofs than from my successes, I'll talk a lot about what I think I did wrong. I'll continue adding to these pages as long as I keep thinking of stuff...
These pages are mainly metaperformance: nothing on this will teach you anything technical, like how to project, etc., but what I hope to express is how to think about the field. If you want content, here are the SCA related songs and SCA related stories that I've performed in various capacities.
Lesson Four: Mechanics, Part One
Quickies
These are some of the directoral comments that have been given to me in a mostly futile attempt to improve my performing ability. They've been culled from various sources: a lot of commedia, some standard drama classes, and some advice given to me by my one of my thesis advisors.
Volume.
If you can't be good, be brief.
If there's a gun on the wall in Act One, it better be shot by Act Five.
Don't confuse the audience.
If you move, make it count.
If the audience wants to interact...let them.
You can't go wrong by making the audience feel smart.
AM and PM
You can't go up in front of an audience without being a little arrogant...er, self-assured. Since confidence and arrogance don't come naturally to most of us, this is the most difficult thing to master.
How do I do it? I'm self-assured because I've got a lot of natural talent, and I'm incredibly modest besides. All right, I'm arrogant, too. And...all right, since we're among friends here, I'll come clean: a lot of it is distancing myself from the audience. I have a harder time performing in front of people I know than in front of complete strangers. It helps that, without my glasses, I can't see clearly beyond about ten feet, so the audience is generally a blur. The arrogance and self-assuredness is a sham; it's me talking very loudly to convince myself that everything will be all right. (You can tell when I'm nervous: I make a lot of jokes and talk a lot. Those of you who know me will realize that I do this all the time...)
What it comes down to is this: I've got a split personality. One is Average Me (AM), the ordinary person who's a bit odd. The other is Performance Me (PM), the manic nutjob. AM is too nervous to perform in front of an audience, so he hides. PM says “Aha! My turn!” and takes over. Afterwards, AM comes back and says “What have you done to my furniture!”
If you're still having difficulty with the confidence, try this: maintain a running dialog with yourself. Out loud. Everywhere (at least, everywhere that won't affect your job, love life, or safety). Sooner or later, you'll realize in your gut that no one really cares; they might think you're odd...but what does that matter? In fact, nowadays with ear clip cell phones, people will figure you're talking to someone on the phone. (I miss the days when my conversations with myself would cause people to move away from me on the bus...)
Even better: if you're working on a piece, practice it in public (same comments as above). If nothing else, it'll help you get a seat on the bus: no one wants to sit near the crazy person...
Stage Persona
I like to talk. Talk, talk, talk, me, me, me. Again, you can't go up in front of an audience without having a little arrogance; otherwise, you start to get doubts like “Gee, does anyone want to hear me? Anyone? Anyone?”
As noted in the preceding lesson, it's useful to have Performance Me take over when on stage. Let's further develop this idea: I tend to do somewhat longish introductions to my songs and stories. Part of this is to allow Performance Me to get on stage. But it's also part of my performance style. I believe that if you want to gain recognition, it's important to be distinctive. There are many people who can tell jokes...but only one Robin Williams.
You might wonder why you'd want to do an introduction. For me, it's strategic: I want people to hear the song or story. If they don't hear the introduction, that's fine; the introduction is to get people settled and allow them to focus. As an example, consider your basic Star Trek episode: it doesn't open with the action or whatever the key point of the episode is; it opens with filler, people walking around, going about their business, etc...then the photon torpedoes hit and everything goes crazy. If you miss the first ten seconds of the episode, you might miss something interesting, but not something crucial.
Now, William is something of a pedant, so my introductions tend to discuss history, or ethics, or objectives. Since being a pedant comes naturally to me, this type of introduction is easy. Other people can get into their personas more easily, and introduce their work by talking about their (persona's) lives: “This is a story I heard whilst on pilgrimage to Jerusalem...” You'll develop your own style, but a few suggestions to get you started: Use a distinctive greeting. “Good gentles” is rather common; I've started using “My friends...”, while Fujimoto uses “Sumimasen...”, this last being an example of a linguistically distinctive invocation. I have a preference for this last type, since they are so very distinctive.
Quantity or Quality?
When discussing creative endeavors, you often hear people saying “Quality over quantity!” What they forget is that quality comes through quantity.
Consider this: every great creative artist was also a prolific artist. Mozart wrote 500+ pieces of music; Beeethoven's output was similar. You can fill books with the artistic production of a Michelangelo or a Durer. Shakespeare wrote 37 plays and 153 sonnets. Great chefs cook every day.
Conversely, no great creative artist was non-prolific. I claim there is a causal connection: prolificity contributes to greatness. Or: quantity begets quality.
Since this is a radical notion, I'll leave aside the supporting evidence and instead explain why I think this is true. Two factors go into making a work great. First, you have to have an inspiration. Second, you have to have the technical skill to match it.
You have no control over your inspiration: it comes or it doesn't. But you can control whether or not you have technical skill. This is where the prolificity comes into play: if you write/draw/sculpt/etc. a lot, your technical skills get better.
Of course, there is a proviso. You can't just create; you also have to accept criticism of what you've created. You might be able to do this on your own, but it's a slow process. It's better to receive criticism from a group, whose members will have a different viewpoint from yours (and from each other).
You might wonder how to be inspired on a consistent basis so you can produce a lot of work. I'll take what I call the Asimov approach: the real world is your inspiration. Write a story about a historical event, or put the laws of inheritance in verse form; use a song to describe how to cook quiche lorraine. (Hmmm...)
Mechanics, Part One
I'm big on gestures and moving. Part of that is my temperament: While conscious, I can't stand still for more than about a quarter-second at a time. I tell people it's because of all the coffee I drink, but to be honest, I don't drink that much coffee. (That is, I drink a lot of coffee, but not enough to make me as frenetic as I usually am)
Now those who've known me for awhile are very familiar with my habit of "bouncing"; I've been told people watching me can become seasick. When I was in high school, I bounced so much my speech teacher (we had a team) taped my feet to the floor; as you might expect, I found myself unable to talk. Recently I discovered two things about myself, which are probably worth sharing, since they could help other people.
First, the bouncing is because because when I stand, I'm on my toes, leaning forward. This means I'm ever-so-slightly off balance, which means that it's very easy for me to bounce. Now, if I'm trying to portray a naturally ebullient character, that's exactly what I should be doing. It's when I'm trying to be serious that it's a problem. (Of course, I tend to resolve that problem by not being serious most of the time...)
Second, here's an easy way to ground yourself: lean slightly backwards (or "tuck your butt in"). You might feel tension in your thighs (I certainly do). This forces you to put your weight on your heels, to keep from falling over, and it makes it more difficult to bounce.
