One Score

 Today (assuming you're reading this date of publication, and if not, let's just pretend), marks twenty years that I have been performing improv, a considerable milestone, given that I never really expected to still be making things up for this long. 

Portrait of the artist as a young man, 2004

I joined my college improv troupe (the Stage Monkeys, itself the third iteration of a group that began as the Cult of the Stage Monkey at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, and shares a name with a global organization of stage hands and other theatrical technical experts, with which we share no relation) on a lark: my friend Robert Blackwood, who I met while working at the movie theater when we bonded over Magic: the Gathering, and I ran into each other on campus one day and he said "I'm going to this audition tonight, you're funny, you should come." My first scene was Party Quirks, and I played the Pillsbury Do-boy. I also probably did another scene, but regardless, I was accepted into the ensemble, where I made some of the closest and longest friends that I have. For the rest of my time in Hattiesburg, every Thursday night was spent doing improv.

First San Diego show, ca 2008

It's hard not to get at least a little wistful thinking back on 3 years of shortform games first performed at the JavaWorks (now the site of the "District at Midtown" shopping center) where we shouted "Shoulda saids" over the din of the espresso machine while students "snuck past us real quick" on the way to the bathroom. After we moved to quieter environs but harsher lighting at the student union, we made our weekly decamps to the Keg & Barrel to talk about improv: what we thought worked, what we wanted to try, how we wanted to make our shows better. Besides that general process accounting conversation, the only three other topics talked about more over post-show beverages is which improvisers got in trouble for some financial or professional malfeasance, what new teams should be formed, and which improvisers we don't like. (Seriously. If my 20 years have taught me anything, its that every single improviser alive is disliked by at least five other improvisers. The only exceptions are Karen Graci and Craig Cackowski. Everyone else, sorry, somebody out there thinks you're a clown, and not in a good way.)

Minus Winston, Chicago, 2008

I've found myself more and more this year weighing the "motivation" of improv: why I (and others) do this thing that makes almost no money, is generally considered a punchline (even among its practitioners), and generally the upper echelons of "fame" in it require you to leave the confines of improv to some adjacent art, like TV or standup. Why does anyone dedicate their time and energy to it? And maybe, more importantly, why, given all of improv's limitations, is there such frustration and anger about it, and who got on/didn't get on teams, who's running what theater, who's teaching, and who is in charge?

I ask these questions, because I feel like I am always at odds with getting my own teammates to come to shows and rehearsals. The last two years of producing, I've seen an increase in the "ah, dang". This phrase is always followed by someone telling you that they have double booked themselves and have to back out of a show they were "so looking forward to" and previously "can't wait for", but they're sure everyone else is "going to crush" and "kill it" without them. But you should definitely "let [them] know how it goes" because they are "definitely there next time". It's also said by teammates who "know you'll break legs" and "meant to let everyone know" before that they can't be there tonight. (This is also occasionally followed by a domino of other teammates who "also won't be there tonight", and then one brave soul who asks the immortal question: "who is actually coming tonight?")

With Charles Webber, ca 2015

I'm absolutely blown away by the number of teams that seem to have great chemistry, a strong group identity, and real potential who are filled with people who continue to act like individuals rather than members of a group. 

Relatedly, I see a lot of what I call "switchboarding": the practice of relatively young improvisers being on 50 different teams simultaneously; seemingly hoping that one of them will somehow become a great team. You make the community you're a member of, and when you make little investment in your projects, you can expect little return. And I say this knowing that I was one time someone who was on too many things, because it feels great to be told yes.

What I've noticed motivates improvisers a lot is "community", which is a term that I think means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. For some people, it just means like minded people, for others it fills a social need for friends, and others talk about it in reference to encouragement and collaboration. There's probably a whole 3D spectrum that most people would fall on, but one strange pattern I've seen is that if you get at least six improvisers together for at least 24-48 hours, it's only a matter of time until someone suggests an artist camp or commune. And this always sounds great in theory: living to do improv with your friends, no other concerns. But communities are sometimes defined as much by who is excluded as who is included, and any improv commune would rapidly be broken apart by arguments over who would be co-residents.

Effectively Merit Badge, ca 2016

Improv remains a prestige economy; in the absence of any significant money or fame or common power and authority, the only valuable currency that we can value is esteem. Even the gigs that do actually pay money (coaching, teaching) are valued far more for the honor of having them than for the actual dollars you get Venmoed to you. That prestige trades in myriad ways, from festival berths to show slots, from director's seats to team memberships, and from "good" teams to "good" crowds. Headliners are brought in by festival directors, which feed artistic directors, who pick choice players for select teams, and students are lucky to get "the tap". I feel fortunate that Covid has so upended the ecosystem at the local level, but in a universal sense, I think every improv veteran wants to be in a modern day Algonquin room, dispensing the "correct wisdom" and being respected for their opinions.

All this to say, at the end of the day I think improvisers want to be thought of as 1) smart and 2) funny. They want that intelligence and humor to be respected by their fellow improvisers, and the esteem of their peers might be the most highly sought goal. They want the adoration of an audience that fills the house with laughter. And maybe most importantly, they want the power to walk away. A show every week is great, but what's even better is getting to do your craft when its convenient for you.

Of course, there's also that yearn to get back the high you got the first time you hit a joke. An even bigger high the first time you had a great show, and higher again when you found a team you could jive with regularly. And I've never fully gotten back to the highs in the past, but quitting is even less of an option. What in the hell would I do with all my spare time?

"Sometimes you chase the dragon, and sometimes the dragon chases you."

Happy improvising everyone, hope to see you around the circuit.