This week the entire newsletter is chapter 6 of The Show. It’s a short chapter so even the busy among you can flip through it. (Those who want the full story to date click here)
Chapter 6: Anyone can write a script.
When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained. Mark Twain
“Can you hold this for me a minute?”
“What is it?”
“It’s the script of The Show.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“Sure amn’t I giving it to everybody!” I tell him paraphrasing an old joke.
I had to bring the script over to Gerry’s place because he ‘hasn’t had a chance to set up e-mail since moving house three months ago’.
“Now, Dezy,” says our new director, “before even reading this I can tell you, you have to rewrite it.”
“Yes, of course, I can see room for improvement.”
“Problem is,” he barrels on ignoring my comment, “There’s only one character in the show. That’s Peter’s character and although you play the piano and act as his foil it lacks the energy I see between you two guys off stage. Why?”
I open my mouth to answer but he continues, “Because your character is undeveloped. Peter’s character is bouncing off nothing and nobody. Write your own story into it. That should be the easiest thing in the world. Then you’ll see fireworks like you two create in real life. Where’s the point in having all the drama backstage. Put it on stage where the audience can see it. I’ll read this anyway,” he shakes the old script at me like yesterdays newspaper, “but you go and write it again. When did you say we’re putting this in a real theatre; three month’s time? It’s gonna be a close call. I have to block the play, fix the script, get rid of the songs that don’t fit and train ye to act. It’ll be a close call all right. Go home and get started.”
Anyone can write a script. I’ve done it a hundred times. Most of them are under the bed or in an old box in the attic but I wrote them. The first script I ever wrote was about a band I loved. I had played a big part in the life of this band. I had pushed them forward. I had held them back. I was their manager.
The story was a tragedy. A collection of superb talents ripped apart by disagreements over rehearsal times and the true meaning of a G minor suspended fourth. Six years after the band disintegrated I was still dealing with the loss. Writing that first script was my therapy. I showed it to my mother.
Ma said the piece had too many characters. But that was not what discouraged me. It was what else she said. Namely nothing! ‘Too many characters’ was the entire critique.
When, after ten years I plucked up the courage to again expose a script to the scrutiny of someone else whose views could sting, Tony observed that my musical, The Motivation Room lacked characters. Not character, it had plenty of character; in fact it had characters with character. What it lacked were characters without character.
“Where,” my friend asked, “are the bad guys?”
He suggested I create a villain who would build ruthless apartment blocks next to the kids playground, right up against the swings so that the six year old could merrily swing back but when she would swing forward she would smash her little face against a concrete wall. Lacking anything better I fooled around with that idea for a while. Pity me, please!
I got away from purposely writing scripts for a while.
I took my frustrations out on pianos. I would hit a C minor chord saying ‘take that you black and white bastard; how dare you fuck up my life by leading me away from a comfortable job at the bank’. I had never been offered a job at a bank but you know what I mean.
I was eventually offered a job banging pianos. That’s fair.
What a ‘live’ audience will teach you is that stories are gold and you’d better use your words well or they’ll eat you alive.
“Hey Dezy, do you know ‘Peaceful Easy Feeling’ by the Eagles?”
“No but you sing it and I’ll accompany you.” and I’d continue, “That’s very nice. You sing it beautifully. Can you write out the lyrics for me? Thank you.”
I went from knowing seventeen songs to a thousand and seventeen very quickly using the above tactic. And in my spare time I was writing my own songs.
There are two types of performers who do their own material.
Firstly there is the singer-songwriter who says, ‘I’ve suffered for my art, now it’s your turn’.
The other kind is an entertainer. Some think the only entertainers are ‘crowd pleasers’ covering Neil Diamond sing-alongs and telling slightly suggestive jokes. Maybe that’s the only sort of act an agent can sell.
“He’s a Neil Diamond tribute band.” The agent says.
“Oh, I like Neil Diamond, we’ll have that.” Says the office assistant who’s been delegated to book music for the Christmas party.
Agents cannot describe what I do. And to be fair, neither can I. All I can tell you is I am a writer/performer and my songs had better make ‘em laugh and cry every night or they don’t make next weeks team sheet. And as a performer it was not just the songs but the stories and interaction around them. I had to learn quickly what to say to hecklers, how to grab the attention of a sleepy crowd or hold a visitor all night who’d only intended to stay a minute. The latter were my favourites.
“We’d planned to meet our friends in The Blue Haven but instead we got them to come here and we’re all glad we did. You made our night.”
“And you mine!”
So when I went to write The Show, ‘Not the Life I Ordered’ I had a feel for words beyond what sitting in a den, pen in hand, gives you.
Gerry was surprised when I came back with the rewrite after only five days. I can be stubborn and obsessive when I want something done. He was even more surprised that it was ‘pretty good stuff’ as he put it.
Rehearsals began on the deck at the back of Gerry’s house. From what we could tell the neighbours liked it. At least they never sent for the police.
Peter was happy. When he’d say, ‘I can’t say that. Simon would never say that,’ instead of me hopping on him with, ‘Of course you could say it. Open your mouth, move your jaw and wiggle your tongue around and you’ll hear the words coming out,’ he’d have Gerry asking, ‘what do you think Simon would say, Peter?’
And Peter and I started fighting less off stage. We were doing that on stage instead and hopefully one day someone would pay us for it. When we practiced in my house, my son Ronan, who shared a rental with me at the time, couldn’t tell most of the time if we were acting or it was real. Hey, that’s not bad for beginners.
To be continued
