The Farewell Tour. Part 3 - A-list, B-side

I have touring shows - Burning Man/Preacherman, OCCUPY This!.

And I have what I call my b-side shows - The Show, The Magician, Partial Nugity.  These shows come about at a specific moment in time, are usually played for a specific city...to accomplish a specific purpose in my life, and are never meant to be played again.

(American Badass is a cross between the two, with about half the script written specifically for each of the three towns it played in.)

I once heard political commentator George Will say he doesn't know what he thinks until he writes about it.

Well, I don't know what I am until I put it onstage.  My b-side shows are those kind of shows.

The Show - my 'to be or not to be' show.
The Magician - my 'kill the character I don't want to become' show.

and Partial Nugity was my 'imprison the demon who spurs me towards being the character I don't want to be' show.  Fresno is the only place I could ever imagine performing this show, and I can't imagine ever playing it anywhere (including Fresno) ever again.

If my solo Fringe career really is over, this was the right show to end it with and the right town to end it in.

Even if it ended with a bit of a down note...


I (we) sold out both of my (our) second-to-last shows (I think I was the only artist with two different sold out shows - how's that for rock star?!), but each closing performance sold noticeably less.  Significantly less for Nugity as a clerical error kept my final showtime from being listed in the festival program.

It wasn't quite The Big Boom ending I would have liked, but it was still a helluva run - with a quietly magical final moment...

I snuck away from the closing party and out to the back alley (where the baaaad kids are known to hang out) with a printed copy of my Demon's final spoken words, brilliantly penned and performed by the great Scurvy - and once by the hilarious Kurvy (see below).

With a nod to whatever Mystical Muse inspired the show, I set the page on fire for a ceremonial burn. I watched the smoke and ash rise up, hoping the magic worked, and knowing the Demon and the Rock Star may very well be intertwined and that I can't have(be!) one without the other...

...or give up one without losing them both.

and if so, so be it.

Amen and farewell.

.

The Farewell Tour. Part 2 - The Beginning.

"Hey, I left my wallet in my bag in the overhead compartment.  Why don't you buy me a drink since I bought that case of PBR?"

"Ok."

A couple minutes later the male flight attendant hands me a Bailey's and coffee.

"Seven dollars, please."

"Oh, my partner is going take care of that."

Kurt whipped his head towards me at the use of the P-word, like "What the hell?;" the flight attendant smirked like "Aw, aren't they cute;" and when he walked away, I giggled and giggled...and determined to publicly acknowledge my 'partnership' at every opportunity - my partner's uncomfortableness feeding my joy!

A couple days, a few run-throughs, and an abbreviated dress/tech rehearsal later - it was showtime.  Early showtime.  An opening-weekend matinee.  We also had the late show that night, so we really had no idea what kind of crowd to expect for the afternoon world priemere of Bromance, our comedy about "two B-list solo fringe festival performers joining forces to create a A-list two-person hit" before one of them retires.

And here we were, just that.  Hopefully.

We're backstage laying out the hazmat suits for our costume change when the venue manager peaks around and tells us there's already a pretty healthy line at door.

Wouldn't this be something?  What if we really did make a hit?  Out of a show about our inability to make hits.  Did the $40 psychic call it right??

Kurt finishes setting up the show.  I head out front and give the thumbs-up to open the house.

And what a house it was.  The biggest either of us have ever played to on the fringe circuit.  A sellout and then some - they're pulling chairs from the adjoining restaurant.

I head backstage and tell my partner the news.

"This silly show?" he says, a little mystified and a lot excited.

I'm as excited for him as I am for myself.  Maybe more so...

I mean, he's worked longer and harder (and smarter and funnier) on the fringe circuit than I have.  And I already had my dream run in Fresno two years ago.  He had a good run (including his first sell-out) last year, but this one was already shaping up to be something special.  I remember thinking "he deserves this" and feeling glad that I got to help make it happen.

We would also sell out our next show a few hours a later.  And another later in the week.  We scored universally good reviews and had a shit-ton of fun.  It was really something special.

Two B-listers had an A-list hit.

I guess Madame Ida knows her shit.

The Farewell Tour. Part 1 - The End.

I heard Roy MacDonald laugh and I knew it was over. 

My partner Kurt was rapping, I was “singing,” Roy was laughing…and my career was ending.  Granted, “career” probably overstates my time on the ‘Fringe Festival’ circuit, but doing two to four festivals a year over the last seven years was a very big part of my life and identity; if not a big (enough) part of my income. 

Coming into the third and final stop on my supposed “retirement tour,” I strongly suspected it was over, but I didn’t really know it was until I heard Roy chuckle from the audience at the mention of his name during our ‘Thrift Shop’ song parody. 

I met Roy in 2008 immediately after my first ever time on stage in London Ontario.  I finished a two minute preview of my first touring show (‘Burning Man’) and somebody walked me over to “local legend Roy McDonald” who wanted to meet me.   Wikipedia sums him up nicely enough:

Roy McDonald (born June 4, 1937) is a poet and busker (street performer) in London, Ontario, Canada. He is well known for singing and reciting poetry in front of Joe Kool's Restaurant and Jim-Bob Ray's Bar on Richmond Street. For many years he stood at the northwest corner of Richmond and Dundas (the old center of downtown London) and discussed the literary world with passersby. His long, grey beard, plastic bags filled with books and journals, tweed jacket, and habit of striking up friendly conversations with nearly everyone, make him a very recognizable and well-known figure around the city.

McDonald has been growing his beard for decades. He claims his was the longest at the 1969 Woodstock Music and Art Fair. His clothes often fall into disrepair, and he occasionally mends his pants with duct tape. He decorates his jacket with buttons. He is often referred to as the unofficial president of Richmond Row, a colorful segment of Richmond Street located in downtown London. Contrary to what some believe, McDonald does live in a house.

(I love that last line.)

Essentially Roy is legendary for…being a legend.  But that’s enough reason for me to buy into it.  I liked him right away and made a point to treat him with the deference and respect due a living legend.  This may have had something to do with the fact that I thought he might be a future, parallel universe version of me.  And that may have had something to do with the fact that I was eating a lot of magic mushrooms at that point in my life.  Regardless, it made karmic sense to me to be nice to the future version of me.  I even bought a book from him, figuring I might need the money later on. 

I invited him to see my show and I put him on the comp list every night.  He never showed.  Same thing the next year.  And the next.  So I started putting his name on all my comp lists, in every city I played – an inside joke just for me.  I also started carrying around my 'Roy MacDonald Magic Crystal' - this little stone he handed me a few years ago in a London pub.  It became my talisman.  I took it everywhere.  I even had it mailed to me on the road one time when I forgot it at home.

When I came back to London this year (after a three year performing absence), I made sure to let Roy know a ticket would be waiting for him each night.  He told me “I intend to see your show this year.  Now I’m not promising, but I do intend to see it.”  

And there he was on closing night.  I saw him in the lobby before the show, but couldn't see him during the performance because of the stage lights and I forgot all about him.  Then I heard him laugh.  

And I knew for sure.  

I felt a pang of sadness.  I felt my shoulders slump a little.  

We finished the song.  We finished the show.  And I finished my time as a touring fringe festival performer.