<Yer Empty Room Awaits...
...This Ain't The Magical Mystery Tour!>
<i.>
Whether it's spoken word, standup comedy or singer-songwriter (to name the Three Obvious categories). if you've got a talent, you've probably encountered The Open Mic (or Open Mike). You know, those revue type of affairs where all comers strut their stuff for whoever's crying in their beer (or coffee), usually for 10 to 20 minutes.
Under the right conditions, this proposition can pay off, especially if you hit the sweet time slot spot. That's an art in itself, as any performing lifer knows. Sign up too soon, and you'll break out that flamenco-flavored Rod Stewart cover as people straggle in. Sign up too late, and you'll stare down an empty room as fumble through your opus about Amelia Earhart's last flight.
Grab the halfway mark of a three-hour night, however, and chances are, you'll still have a packed crowd -- or at least, a decent-sized, halfway enthusiastic one -- for whom you'll pull out all the stops. The response may help you land a paying gig, if not the promise of one. If you're just starting out, there's no better way to develop the skills you'll need to win people over.
That's the positive side. Now let's examine the flipside, with two surreal case studies, drawn from hard-fought, hardbitten experience.
<ii.>
It's 5:30 p.m. Sunday, in Small Town Indianaville. October has settled, crisp and cool, here. You've just rolled up to the venue, a small, boxlike coffeehouse that you've played this summer to about 50 people. The response to your half hour set proved encouraging enough to get invited back, though as a hoist.
Things come unstuck right off the bat. Tonight's headliners, the all-instrumental Pitch Black Troika, ask to play first. Something about another gig that they've booked somewhere else tonight, that requires some travel trime. You think they'd review their calendar more keenly, right?
But the promoter says okay, so you duly introduce them, and get out of the way. Pitch Black Troika sounds hot, loud 'n' crunchy, though your mind circles back to that nagging question: why do they want to leave so early?
Once their allotted 45 minutes is up, they slide out the door, and their following slides out with them. The house shrinks from about 80 people, give or take, to just half that number. Now the promoter asks you to play. Huh?
Guess what? He must have seen his headliner's alibi coming, because he's apparently booked several solo guitar performers, just in case. None of them have arrived yet, so he's got time to kill. Lots of time. You grimace, but agree. Don't want seem like a bad sport, right? Which is you end up getting your own 45-minute set.
The penny drops as the last-minute additions finish straggling in. Seems you were the only one who brought a real, working microphone -- but none of the stragglers did, which means ...they want to borrow yours. The promoter asks if you mind.
You do mind, because 10 p.m. is creeping up fast. You have an hour-long drive home, and a couple interviews to do tomorrow. The crowd has dwindled to about 30 diehards and their reluctant boyfriends or girlfriends drafted to film or record so-and-so's set for posterity. What started as a gig, at least theoretically, has wound down into...the never-ending mini-fest. Or never-ending open mike.
"C'mon," you plead, gesturing at the sea of empty tables. "I've got stuff going on tomorrow." You gesture again. "This is painful. Why don't we just call it a night?"
Nothing doing. The promoter claims he that promised to provide everybody some sort of adequate sound, so your mic is Plan A, B and C. You slump into a chair as far from the stage as possible, as the minute hand drags toward 11:00 p.m., and then....midnight, and finally...1:00 a.m.
Only a dozen diehards are left. You finally get the high sign to pack and leave, gritting your teeth through the usual after show BS ("Yeah, I really enjoyed myself tonight. Sure, I'll come back any time."). At least you won't have to beat the traffic, right? That's a positive, though it's the only one, after tonight's train wreck.
<iii.>
On the ride home, your mind flashes back to a similar experience. This one happened about five years before tonight, at a legendary venue in downtown Ann Arbor. It's a reliable schedule filler for alternative folk/rock legends like Alejandro Escovedo. So it's definitely got the Cool Factor going....if you can crack the usual gatekeeping stuff.
At the time, you lived 90 minutes south of Ann Arbor, so heading there didn't seem like a stretch. Maybe you could make a semi-regular gig of it, depending on your work schedule -- but there's a catch, as you and your small circle of musician friends find out, after you arrive.
A few questions are all it takes to fan the dismay. Yes, the host confirms, we're technically open at 6 p.m.. But open mike doesn't start till 8 p.m. (There's usually a "but" in the music business.) You guys will have to wait for signup until then. The giant double doors shut with a thud, leaving you all sprawled across the giant staircase and its imposing steps.
Time grinds slowly enough at work. Now this scenario, once you've exhausted the standard topics (what shows have you caught, what are you listening to, just why are we sitting here again?), the minute hand creeps toward its usual soggy conclusion.
At last, the appointed hour arrives, the doors wheeze open, and the jockeying begins for the best time slot -- a forgone conclusion, though, now that the regulars have arrived. They flash a knowing look: don't you know this setup works? Poor, poor pitiful you.
You end up playing between 10:30 and 11:00 p.m.-ish. You're tired and stiff, and once again, the usual hustles make themselves felt. The room feels smaller and smaller, as the favored regulars do their 15-minute bit and leave, taking (yet again) their mini-entourages with them.
Though your set got a decent response, it doesn't feel like a victory lap. That 90-minute drive home still beckons, followed by another workday at 10:00 a.m. As work schedules go, that's a civilized starting time (one of the few perks of working at a small town paper). The only problem is...you still have to act bright and cheery, after a late late night.
You kid yourself a little bit on the way home. Maybe it wasn't a typical night. Maybe they weren't prepared for so many performers. Maybe they new to the game. Maybe maybe maybe...indeed.
A couple months later, you're back for more, this time without your friends. Once again, you spend two hours camped out on the stairs. Once again, you don't go on till 10:30 or 11 p.m. Once again, the room slowly empties out. You now draw a new conclusion: man, I can't do this. I gotta make a living, and if they're gonna pull this kind of stunt, I should find somebody who does this to me at home.
So goes the never-ending open mic: a never-ending bad joke searching for a punchline to give it a home. Only it never arrives. Take heed, and proceed accordingly. --The Reckoner
