October 25, 2011
I’ve discovered that the letter of the English alphabet that
falls between “l” and “n” on this keyboard is inoperable. I will continue this account using only
twenty-five of the twenty-six letters.
Our brilliant _usician will now be known as T. and our
extraordinary production _anager will be designated C. Other than that, everything should be nor_al
and just the sa_e.
A wet day, the rain isn’t falling, but it’s in the air,
carried by a cool, westerly wind. We’re
up early, packed and ready for the road.
T. and C. pull up just after nine and we’re off, over the bridge and
north up into Aberdeenshire. The rain
catches us outside Dundee and erases the landscape of sloping valleys and
sudden hills. Above Aberdeen the road
narrows, turned two-laned and twisty, and we snake north, growing puddles on
the side of the road now, trucks blasting by and showering us with their spray.
We pull into New Pitsligo just around 1:30. It’s a low, stone, slate-roofed town, the
buildings lined up shoulder to shoulder along the road like soldiers gathered
for inspection. We find the hall which is locked up tight and search,
unsuccessfully, for an open restaurant or café.
Back to the hall at two and we’re shown in by two silent scowling townfolk
who point at stacks of chairs and file away.
Out front a young guy getting into his car shouts “Are you playing
tonight?” We say yes and he shouts “Are
you any good?” I say buy a ticket and
find out and he shouts, “Perhaps I’ll be there and boo! I’ll heckle!” and gets in his car and drives
off.
So the legendary kindness and generosity of the people of
New Pitsligo turns out to be true.
We load into the New Pitsligo Public Hall, another wooden,
high-ceilinged space and it’s an easy one, through a side door right off the
alley. It’s just the five of us, no
extra hands or venue technician to help and this is how it will be for the rest
of the tour. A self-reliant apocalyptic
quintet: bringing it in, setting it up, shouting and singing and cursing for
just over an hour and then breaking it down and on to the next town.
We check into the hotel, just down High Street, very nice digs
for a little town out in the wilds of Aberdeenshire. Naps, soup in the restaurant downstairs and
back to the hall to focus lights and get ready.
A gang of old ladies waving their canes bursts in out of the
rain about an hour before curtain. They
agree to wait in the kitchen until we open the house. Outside the cold rain continues to fall and I
worry about our crowd. On a wet and wild
Tuesday night in New Pitsligo, who wants to see a dark, brutal cabaret about
the end of the world? We’ll know in an hour.
At seven people appear, crowding in the tiny hallway that is
our lobby. And they don’t stop, a steady
flow of couples, groups of four and five, sitting and talking and laughing
together. I realize that they all know
each other, of course. This is the
village theater-going crowd. They see
everything that passes through, regardless of title, poster, reputation or
reviews. I feel a weird privilege in
playing for this tribe tonight, knowing they will talk about us the next day in
the shops and on the corners, weighing us against a shared body of experience.
We put up every table we have and line chairs up along the
back and it’s just enough for everyone gathered. Lights down and the players launch into their
strongest start yet, the dialogue crisp and confident, the tone playful and
charged. It continues, our cleanest show
yet. Pace lags a little bit as the show
powers on, but that’s an insider’s critique; it’s a great show.
The crowd responds throughout and at the end, one gent even
stands at the end, applauding fiercely and grinning like a loon.
We break down, load up and sit in the bar back at the hotel,
toasting each other, all tired but happy to have known New Pitsligo.
No comments:
Post a Comment