As some of you probably recall, I had a couple of hosting gigs in December (Amazing Things open mike) and January (the Nameless Coffeehouse). For some, I think hosting is something that you graduate to – it seems to be a lot like how teachers aspire to be administrators so they don’t have to deal with those goddamn kids anymore. If you’re hosting an open mike, you know you’re going to play two songs, or more, every week, same day, same time. You might get paid a little something to do the night, maybe more than you’d normally find in the hat after a feature (I don’t know anything about the economics of doing this on a regular basis, so I’m guessing here) – for some, probably a good deal.
Not for me, however. Let’s face it, I’m not a patient man – I hardly ever stay at an open mike past 10:30 or 11 PM, and I pace a lot, and you’ll frequently find me out in the hallway during some of the less, er, compelling sets. This is not what I’d describe as gracious, community-supporting behavior. (Sshh! Don’t tell anybody.) I covered this particular wart on my personality, as well as a bunch of other issues related to open mike hosting, a few months ago. There are all sorts of things you can anticipate not enjoying about that sort of gig – but one thing I missed entirely is how much work it is.
First, you arrive early. This I knew. If you’re lucky (and in both cases, I was), there will be a sound person who’s already taking care of stage setup. But you’re on duty the moment you walk in. You’re an ambassador – the right thing to do is smile at everyone who comes through the door, shake their hand and greet them if you can. Introduce yourself. Ask them if they’ve been here before. Show them around if necessary. You’re the most visible person in the room for the next several hours, and you have to fill the part.
Then there’s the performance order. Again, if you’re lucky (and in both cases, I was), someone else has taken care of this for you. But you’re not done. If it’s an open mike, people will come in afterward; at the open mike I ran, we had seven people at the end of the list that weren’t there when we started. And then there’s the fiddling: this person’s accompanist isn’t here yet, that person wants to wait until his friend is in the room, this person is, say, 5 months old and really needs to be in bed by 9 PM, so can he please do his imitation of a turnip before the feature instead of after?
And then there’s your own set. Performing is different than hosting, in lots of subtle ways, and the mental context switch is so important, and so intriguing, that I think I’ll devote an entire essay to it next time. For now, it’s simply worth noting that whatever prep you usually do before you go onstage has to be done quickly, and in public. At both events, I found it pretty jarring.
If it’s not the draw, or the physical act of introducing people, or doing a couple songs yourself, it’s something else. At the Nameless, I had to monitor the set times, give people signals when they were almost done, and interview the acts beforehand to figure out what to say about them, not to mention plugging the club, the volunteers, and the upcoming shows. At Amazing Things, I had to remember to exit the stage on the same side of the room as the performance order was posted, so I could find out who was next. In the end, I really didn’t even have time to worry about getting bored or staying too long; in fact, I barely had time to listen.
In the end, my usual level of impatience was basically irrelevant. There was something I was supposed to be doing, besides listening, just about every minute of the evening. I imagine that it gets easier over time, especially if it’s a regular gig – most of my friends who host open mikes never look distracted or harried, which is partially a function of their personalities (laid-back, or rigorously organized, or both) and partially a function of practice. In this way, subbing is actually harder than being the regular host, because the routine is new.
So will I do it again? After all, I was pretty good at it. But I’d rather not. Phil Knudsen has already threatened to dragoon me into subbing for him at TCAN, and I’ve asked him not to ask. For better or worse, I’m trying to focus. I’m a songwriter, performer, and essayist, and that’s quite enough for the moment, thank you.