It was a very good year.

Now I think of my life as vintage wine
From fine old kegs
From the brim to the dregs
It poured sweet and clear
It was a very good year


It was about a year ago that I noticed something wrong with my heart, and went to the doctor.

In this past twelve months,  I've had open-heart surgery, regained my fitness, and created and performed a cabaret show "Unbreak My Heart", that told the story of my experience.

Now I reflect on what I've learned from this cabaret season:

• Trust yourself.  If  you've done the work, it will kick in, not suddenly desert you.
• The work has to be done regularly and over a long period.  You can't suddenly bring about a huge improvement in a short space of time.
• It takes a lot of effort to draw an audience.  You need to have multiple channels of marketing methods, all operating at once.
• Your friends will not come to all your shows.  People are busy.  You need to cast a wide net.  
• If you are due to get up on stage, you will have to sing, whatever the state of your voice on the day.  Once you get started, you will sound better.
• You can't control everything.  Once you've delegated a task, trust that it will be done, and stop stressing about it. 
• Mind on the job.  When you're on stage, never let your mind wander, or you will lose your lyrics.  Concentrate on the imagery of the music, and don't let any extraneous thoughts enter your head.
• Stay calm.  Don't panic.  Breathe.
• When someone says "You've improved 100% on last year" they probably don't mean that you were rubbish before.
• Hiring a theatre for yourself and presenting your own cabaret show is an audacious, somewhat egotistical thing to do.  There is no room for self-doubt.  Yes, you are good enough.

In the second half of June, I relax and enjoy the rest of the Cabaret Festival and Fringe.  It's lovely to sit back, sip on a glass of wine and watch others perform.  

I also scour the Internet for music I'd like to learn; order a new song book; find backing tracks on YouTube. 

I'm done with the heart-surgery cabaret.  It's had its season, and I'm ready for the next thing.

Despite my alarming medical "adventure", this has been a very good year.

Pressure

Our Sunday paper recommends my show "Unbreak My Heart" as one of the top 6 in the Cabaret Fringe Festival.

I have no idea how this has happened.  Was it the rather excellent press release I sent?  Or did someone attend one of the preview shows?

Now the pressure is on.  I have to deliver a good show.  The day before opening night, the nerves hit me.  Are we really ready?  Everything went well in our final rehearsal, but we have had a total of just four rehearsals.  Will I remember everything?  Will anything go wrong?

I go out walking and speak or sing every word of my piece.  They all seem to be there, present and correct.  But there is no accounting for the moment of truth when you step out on stage and you are alone, in front of a room full of people who have paid for tickets and expect to be entertained.

I explain to myself that this nervous attack is not serving me.  I'm just punishing myself, which will just drain my energy and will not help me on the night.

On opening night, there is a "tech rehearsal".  This is where you have to tell the sound and lighting technician what you want in terms of sound and lighting.  I give him my script and we work through it scene by scene.  This process starts at 4 pm, and doors open at 5.30 pm for a 6 pm start.  It takes an hour.  I don't know any technical terms for lighting.  I ask the guy to give me "multiple choice" questions and to show me various effects, to which I can answer "yes" or "no".  It is mentally tiring, and I start to feel vocal strain from the constant talking.  I have two sound-effects - the sound of a train, and one of a beating heart.  I explain where these fit, and tell him the cue lines.  The techie tests the sound-files and enters them into his computer.  Then I give him the CD I have prepared, of songs to be played while the audience arrives and settles in.

At 5 pm, pianist Emma arrives and we do the "sound check".  I stand on stage, adjust the height of the microphone stand, and test it by talking into it.  Then we run through a couple of songs.  The tech guy declares himself satisfied with the sound in the room, and Emma and I scuttle upstairs to "relax".  I definitely don't want to be there when the audience arrives - there is pressure to greet and kiss people, and to introduce them to each other.  I have done quite enough already to get this show on the road.

I'm not nervous.  I breathe deeply and "siren" a bit to check that my voice is clear.  We're given our five-minute warning and we come downstairs to wait for our cue.  The lights go down; Emma strides out to take up her place at the piano.

I wait for a suitable point in the music, then I head out on stage.  We have a good-sized audience.  I feel very determined to get this right.  No mistakes.  I will hold nothing back.  Tonight there will be reviewers in the audience.  I am not going to have anyone writing that I messed up, or that my performance lacked energy.  I use everything I've got.

Afterwards, I'm pretty happy with my performance, although it was probably a bit more intense than it needed to be.

My voice feels very tired.  Probably I "over-sang".  At least I have a couple of days to rest until the next show.

A review comes out.  It's very positive.  Apparently this reviewer is not easily pleased, but she seems to have enjoyed my show.  This is good.  A good review helps to sell tickets, and I need to fill the remaining two shows.

The second show is on a Saturday night.  It's sold out, and they are cramming a few more people into the room.  Emma and I have to wait until everyone has a drink and a chair to sit on.  We start a few minutes late.

From the moment I step on stage, this audience is responsive.  They laugh in places I hadn't expected.  I feel I'm on fire - I'm loosening up.  Then, there is silence.  I'm expecting to hear a heartbeat sound-effect but it doesn't start.  I stand there, waiting.  Then Emma starts to play the song.  I begin to sing, and start to become aware of the heartbeat sound as well, but it was meant to be played on its own, before the song started, and its rhythm doesn't fit with the song.  I have forgotten to say the cue-line, and now I have a beat that doesn't match the song.  I try desperately not to be distracted by this - I know that it only lasts for ten seconds.  Then the lights come up a bit and I see a few faces in the front near the stage.  Suddenly I have a moment of self-doubt, and my words are gone.  I lose two lines of lyrics and have to hum along until the start of the next verse; I know the opening line, and I'm back on track.  But these are the only words I forget across the three performances.

The final show is on the next night.  I've organized to have the show filmed.  I didn't want the pressure of having a video camera there on opening night.  This audience is quieter, but I'm feeling more confident.  Tonight my singing is better, and I tell myself I'm on the home straight - just keep going and you'll get there.

Afterwards I feel a huge sense of satisfaction and relief to have completed my three-show "season".  Now, I can enjoy the rest of the festival and watch my friends perform in their shows.

For the moment, the pressure's off.

But I can't help thinking that next time there will be more expected of me.   I'm stepping a notch, and I feel ready for it.

I must get better at coping with pressure.

Read the review of Unbreak My Heart

No pressure!

A week before my new cabaret show "Unbreak My Heart" opens in the Cabaret Fringe, I receive an invitation to sing at the Festival Centre Piano Bar.  This will be the opening night of the Cabaret Festival, the larger, mainstream festival featuring big-name international acts.  

At the end of the gala opening of the Festival, the audience will spill out into the Piano Bar for champagne and entertainment - including me.  No pressure!

It is going to be a Brazilian "open-mic" session, with guitar and percussion accompaniment.  The invitation comes from Charmaine, a professional jazz diva who performs in a duo with guitarist Mike (who will be accompanying us).  I feel honoured to be invited and immediately accept.

My instructions are "Arrive at 9.20 pm, with charts, ready to go".  There will be no rehearsal.

At home before this event, I assemble my music.  I feel confused and conflicted.  There are so many songs to choose from.  Should I select easy, well-known songs?  What if we all choose the same song?  I might end up having to sing something I'm not so familiar with.  But if I choose something too obscure, it might make things difficult for the musicians.  Plus, every piece of sheet music seems to have something a bit wrong with it.  Many songs are in the wrong key - my accompanists have transposed by sight as they played, or they made their own notations.  I can't go there expecting Mike to work out a new key in front of an audience.  He could probably do this, but it would not be fair to impose it on him.  Some songs are in the right key but I haven't sung them for ages, and I might forget the words.  I don't want to sing with lyrics on a music stand in front of me.  Some songs seem perfect, but it's piano music; sheets taped together into a strip about a metre long.  That won't work for a guitarist.

The bottom line is that I don't have any "charts".  I've mainly worked with pianists, and they play from sheet music - "dots".  Guitarists like to play from "charts" or "tab", showing only the chord notations.  I pick out several pieces of sheet music that condense the song into one or two pages, in keys that I can sing.  They are not perfect, but they'll have to do.  I shove all the Bossa music books into a carry-bag and take them along too, just in case they are needed.

I arrive on time, but the place is already full of cabaret patrons - flamboyantly dressed, milling about, chatting animatedly, buying flutes of champagne.  There are some big-name artists in the room, including the festival Director.  No pressure!

Various friends spot me in the crowd and keep me company for a while.  The room is noisy and as I raise my voice to be heard over the rabble I can feel my throat straining.

Charmaine, Mike and Fabian (the percussionist) take to the stage.  They produce some wonderful music.  Charmaine's vocals soar and she improvises brilliantly. Then it's time for the guest performers.  I'm the second one to be called up.  I step up onto the stage, have a brief discussion with the musicians and show them my music.  We choose the first song.  It's one that Mike and I performed together about two years ago.  Then I take my seat in the armchair alongside them.

I pick up the microphone for the first time - I have no idea how I'll sound in this room.  It is quite a big open space, and my first few notes are too quiet.  I'm not used to singing sitting down.  I can't get my breathing going; can't make my voice work the way it should.  But as we progress through the song my confidence builds.  During the instrumental break I count the bars carefully, so I'll know when to come back in.  Now I'm singing better.  We move into the second song.  Part-way through I decide to stand up.  Now I'm breathing more deeply and I sound much better.  Overall, my performance is passable.

Stepping off stage, three women invite me to join them at their table.  I relax and have a glass of champagne and we chat a little.  More friends emerge from the crowd and congratulate me.  The rest of the show is wonderful, with fantastic singers and some complex arrangements.  I'm just happy to be a part of it.

A week later we do the same show again.  I bring the same two songs (no point reinventing the wheel), and also bring along my Brazilian percussion instruments.  This time, I choose to stand for my entire performance.  My first couple of lines are not smooth as I would like, but when I focus on my breathing the tone sounds a lot nicer.  Charmaine plays piano and adds an improvised section, then we harmonise together.  A lady in the front row wields my shaker happily.  We bring the second song to a close, and I'm done.

Much as I would have liked to rehearse my songs beforehand, I can see how time-consuming it would have been to give everyone that opportunity.  I'm pleased that I was able to remain calm and keep my wits about me.

It's good to test yourself in different situations.  Under pressure.

Multi-tasking

You can't do everything at once.

But I can try.

My cabaret show "Unbreak My Heart" starts next week.  I have to be ready.

I've been finalising the script and rehearsing with pianist Emma.

Memorizing the song lyrics and the patter, during my daily walks.

Thinking about my outfit for the show.

Trying not to check the booking site obsessively, looking to see how many tickets have been sold.

Doing daily singing practice and vocal exercises (throughout the day, whenever I can remember to)

Attempting to edit sound-effects for the show, on my computer.

Selecting songs for "ambient music" to be played as audience members arrive.

Remembering to eat a healthy, moderate diet so as to lose the weight I gained on holidays.

Trying not to drink too much, despite the fact that it is now cabaret season, and a glass of wine is part of the experience.

Going to the gym when I can, trying to firm up my upper-arms.

Trying to drum up business for my business, as I have been away and now I have no work.

Tidying up the messy lounge room after some work that was done in our house.

And promoting the show.

I've sent out 500 flyers and 100 posters.  Done four radio interviews (not bad for someone who once had a phobia about doing this), and one TV show (screened twice).  Written a press release and sent it to every email address on the Cabaret Fringe Press list.  Sent out nineteen blog posts.

All my friends are sick of hearing me talking about the show.  I pull flyers out of my bag and shove them into people's hands.

I take part in two preview shows, where Emma and I perform several songs from the show.  This is a valuable opportunity.  You think you know a song, then a line of lyrics can vanish.  You miss an entry that you thought was solid.  You imagine that when you go on stage you'll feel great, but when you actually get into that spotlight you find yourself standing rigidly and your hands feel like blocks of wood.  I hadn't had a performance opportunity for six months, and it is great to get on stage again and remember what it feels like.

Emma and I now know what we need to practise, to get ready for Opening Night.