put
together. The audience would see each piece of stage gear being put into place and then see, as soon as possible afterward, what that instrument (or type of lighting) did. It seemed like such an obvious idea that I was shocked that I didn’t know of a show (well, a music show) that had done it before.
Following this concept to its natural conclusion meant starting with a bare
stage. The idea was that you’d stare at the emptiness and imagine what might be possible. A single work light would be hanging from the fly space, as it
typically does during rehearsals or when a crew is moving stuff in and out. No glamour and no “show”—although, of course, this was all part of the show.
The idea was that we’d make even more visible what had evolved on the
previous tour, in which we’d often start a set with a few songs performed
with just the four-piece band, and then gradually other musicians would take their places on pre-set keyboard and percussion risers. In this case, though, we’d take the concept further, with each player and the instruments themselves appearing on an empty stage, one after another. So, ideally, when they walked on and began to play or sing, you’d hear what each musician or singer was bringing to the party—added groove elements, keyboard textures, vocal
harmonies. This was done by having their gear on rolling platforms that were hidden in the wings. The platforms would be pushed out by stagehands, and
then the musician would jump into position and remain part of the group
until the end of the show.
Stage and lighting elements would also be carried out by the stagehands:
footlights, lights on stands like they use in movies, slide projectors on scaffolding. Sometimes these lighting instruments would be used right after
their appearance, so you’d immediately see what they did, what effect they
had. When everything was finally in place you’d get to see all the elements
you’d been introduced to used in conjunction with each other. The magician
would show how the trick was done and then do the trick, and my belief was
that this transparency wouldn’t lessen the magic.
Well, that was the idea. A lot of it came from the Asian theater and ritual I’d seen. The operators manipulating the Bunraku puppets in plain sight, assistants 56 | HOW MUSIC WORKS
coming on stage to help a Kabuki actor with a costume transformation, the fact that in Bali one could see the preparation for a scene or ritual, but none of that mattered, none of the force or impact was lost, despite all the spoilers.
There is another way in which pop-music shows resemble both Western
and Eastern classical theater: the audience knows the story already. In classical theater, the director’s interpretation holds a mirror up to the oft-told tale in a way that allows us so see it in a new light. Well, same with pop
concerts. The audience loves to hear songs they’ve heard before, and though
they are most familiar with the recorded versions, they appreciate hearing
what they already know in a new context. They don’t want an immaculate
reproduction of the record, they want it skewed in some way. They want to
see something familiar from a new angle.
As a performing artist, this can be frustrating. We don’t want to be stuck
playing our hits forever, but only playing new, unfamiliar stuff can alienate a crowd—I know, I’ve done it. This situation seems unfair. You would never
go to a movie longing to spend half the evening watching familiar scenes
featuring the actors replayed, with only
a few new ones interspersed. And you’d
L
grow tired of a visual artist or a writer
who merely replicated work they’ve done
before with little variation. But some-
times that is indeed exactly what people
want. In art museums a mixture of the
known, familiar, and new is expected, as
it is in classical concerts. But even within
these confines there’s a lot of wiggle room
in a pop concert. It’s not a
together. The audience would see each piece of stage gear being put into place and then see, as soon as possible afterward, what that instrument (or type of lighting) did. It seemed like such an obvious idea that I was shocked that I didn’t know of a show (well, a music show) that had done it before.
Following this concept to its natural conclusion meant starting with a bare
stage. The idea was that you’d stare at the emptiness and imagine what might be possible. A single work light would be hanging from the fly space, as it
typically does during rehearsals or when a crew is moving stuff in and out. No glamour and no “show”—although, of course, this was all part of the show.
The idea was that we’d make even more visible what had evolved on the
previous tour, in which we’d often start a set with a few songs performed
with just the four-piece band, and then gradually other musicians would take their places on pre-set keyboard and percussion risers. In this case, though, we’d take the concept further, with each player and the instruments themselves appearing on an empty stage, one after another. So, ideally, when they walked on and began to play or sing, you’d hear what each musician or singer was bringing to the party—added groove elements, keyboard textures, vocal
harmonies. This was done by having their gear on rolling platforms that were hidden in the wings. The platforms would be pushed out by stagehands, and
then the musician would jump into position and remain part of the group
until the end of the show.
Stage and lighting elements would also be carried out by the stagehands:
footlights, lights on stands like they use in movies, slide projectors on scaffolding. Sometimes these lighting instruments would be used right after
their appearance, so you’d immediately see what they did, what effect they
had. When everything was finally in place you’d get to see all the elements
you’d been introduced to used in conjunction with each other. The magician
would show how the trick was done and then do the trick, and my belief was
that this transparency wouldn’t lessen the magic.
Well, that was the idea. A lot of it came from the Asian theater and ritual I’d seen. The operators manipulating the Bunraku puppets in plain sight, assistants 56 | HOW MUSIC WORKS
coming on stage to help a Kabuki actor with a costume transformation, the fact that in Bali one could see the preparation for a scene or ritual, but none of that mattered, none of the force or impact was lost, despite all the spoilers.
There is another way in which pop-music shows resemble both Western
and Eastern classical theater: the audience knows the story already. In classical theater, the director’s interpretation holds a mirror up to the oft-told tale in a way that allows us so see it in a new light. Well, same with pop
concerts. The audience loves to hear songs they’ve heard before, and though
they are most familiar with the recorded versions, they appreciate hearing
what they already know in a new context. They don’t want an immaculate
reproduction of the record, they want it skewed in some way. They want to
see something familiar from a new angle.
As a performing artist, this can be frustrating. We don’t want to be stuck
playing our hits forever, but only playing new, unfamiliar stuff can alienate a crowd—I know, I’ve done it. This situation seems unfair. You would never
go to a movie longing to spend half the evening watching familiar scenes
featuring the actors replayed, with only
a few new ones interspersed. And you’d
L
grow tired of a visual artist or a writer
who merely replicated work they’ve done
before with little variation. But some-
times that is indeed exactly what people
want. In art museums a mixture of the
known, familiar, and new is expected, as
it is in classical concerts. But even within
these confines there’s a lot of wiggle room
in a pop concert. It’s not a
Similar Books
