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My first American gig was a lesson, hospitality,opulence, poverty, celebrity, celebration.
All in one tangled, multi-faceted dollop.
I was sought out and confronted by American persons unknown who wanted to know whether I had any experience with large budget event parties?
I replied that performing at retired Japanese starlets 21st parties was not unknown to me and that I had done 'party' work in the largest indoor nightclubs in Europe,
[I had spent an entire season on Ibiza.]
I was in London while this little email adventure/misadventure played out.
They replied that they could tell me very little other than they sought to employ me for a private party, that James Brown and Aretha Franklyn and a 300 strong choir would be there, that it was to be held in an old ballroom Truman Capote had had built and would I please sent them a contract and a rider.
What?
I knew what a contract was, I believe I had sold my soul to the Catholic faith at around twelve, and had a great many contracts since then, always delivered to be scrutinised and signed, usually with a sigh of feigned indifference at the latitude taken.
OK sure you own my image and can use it commercially any way you see fit,and yes I know as well as providing celebrations of art you also sell laxatives.
But This? I was as a matter of course being empowered by these Americans, They wanted me to formulate an outline of business with them, very quaint from my perspective.
A rider?
Obviously a term in some sort of 'buzzspeak' I was uneducated in.
This was in the late nineties, the Internet was new.
I pregoogled and found out that a 'Rider' is a luxury certain artists employ, wherein they request a shopping list of pre performance requirements provided for them backstage as a basic requirement in providing a level of comfort inside which said artist can best, 'do their shit'
So I replied; As to the contract, I will be satisfied with a gentleman's agreement in which you agree to pay me X for services provided Y.
As to the Rider, I have two, the first primitive, the second less so.
The primitive is a dressing area containing something I can sit on while getting my stilts on, quantities of ice water and or softdrink
and the second involves four cheerleaders, a therapist and a puppy.
I hit 'send'
The next day I received a brief reply, "What kind of puppy do you need?"
I liked that these Americans were playful.
I ran with it.
Explaining that as a clown I had studied this and found that the funniest puppy was the Irish Wolfhound given it's paws were about half it's body weight.
Then got to business.
They would fly me, put me up, feed me and pay me then return me for X In return I would provide them with 3 hours of my services and whatever other times I needed to inspect the venue.
They agreed outright, stating that I would be flying United as their employer, whose party this was, owned a great deal of the company.
I decided at this point a hissy fit was called for, I only charged them X? What is it with me and catholic residue? I could have charged them XX, This guy owns airlines! I could have charged XXX!
But then I calmed. I was going to America, James Brown would be playing at a private party, I was being paid to attend and be disdainful, it was all good.
The seat was first class, it was in the economy section but I was very impressed with it, it had a window and a perfectly weighted sense of humility. Which suited me as I was deliberately penniless. I had decided to live the dream, to arrive in America without a cent to my name, achieve great wealth and one day buy the very plane I was now traveling in as a recursive indulgent memento.
To this day I wonder about these dreams I have, whether they're in fact the bow of a vehicle that leaves a wake of unrealised potential. It is only after a few years that most people remove themselves from the bow to have a look at their entire vessel, check the rudder, gaze at their wake.
Sometimes that's all it takes to see that for example you had been sailing in circles for years.
I arrived in Chicago.
Customs was a breeze, 4 days, return ticket, invited to a party, have fun Sir, Welcome to America.
I use a brooks brothers suit and shirt I bought for $2 now when traveling but in Chicago I was employing my fail-safe 'shoes and sunglasses' social signifier gambit. My sunglasses cost $500, my Italian boots just slightly less. You only need to signify you have the means to spend discriminately and without reserve to glide through any number of social layers. I was looking forward to paddling briefly in America.
I was met by an extremely tall black American holding my name on a card. He wasn't just tall, he was rock and roll tall, freakish, suited up impeccably and he either had feline grace or a piece of shrapnel stuck in him somewhere.
He led me outside, not to the carpark but to a nearby area where his stretched black Limo sat.
This was classic stuff, I was loving this.
I explained to my driver that he needed to know straight up that I couldn't tip him. I had no money at all. I apologised. He gracefully informed me that everything had already been taken care of.
So I got in and started drinking, the back of this limo was salted with hidden compartments and baskets filled with impulsive treats, Champagne, Chocolate, Beer, Cognac, fresh fruit, while outside the highways seemed filled with lesser vehicles. Poor non stretched limousines.
We eventually swished into some huge downtown multinational hotel, I thanked my driver and went to introduce myself to the staff, I shrugged off the bellboys, "I'm penniless, I'll get back to you."
I informed the front desk that I had no credit card to give them however if they were to allow me one local phone call I would arrange a suitable deposit to be made. They humored me, I again fought off the bellboys advances and went up to my room, it had an on-suite and large windows and most importantly a telephone.
I lined my couple of bottles of limo-swag up to drown my sorrows if this didn't work and picked up the phone.
I rang my employer, got one of his secretary's , explained that I was checking in with them and could they arrange a trip to the venue the next day, the day prior to the gig so that I could look at it and additionally could they please immediately advance me 20% of my fee and have that be a deposit on my hotel account so that I might eat. I had travelled a long way and needed to eat and was reliant upon them in this.
She told me she'd ring me back in moments and sure enough, within five minutes rang back to tell me that it was all taken care of and that I was free to use the services the hotel offered at my leisure.
Roomservice and I got on famously. I would give them $20 tips and they would bring me whatever I asked for. I asked for a typewriter, they brought one, I hadn't planned on using it but I just liked the look of it, I typed a couple of hundred words so it looked all latent and creative then ignored it. I asked for copious amounts of food and drink, I'd sign for these and write $20 in the tip portion.
My room was fun, I had my costume and props scattered about artfully, 100 year old baby doll here, 3 pairs of stilt trousers draped thus, triangle, flyswat, Swedish tank-helmet. Outside Chicago looked grey, I was looking down from a high floor and myself in a forest of skyscrapers. I planned to walk it the next day but my day of arrival was all about gorging in my new habitat, fueling up for a party in 48 hours. I handled about two hours of American TV before discarding it. Hard, it's quite hypnotic. I found it's cartoon pace seductive and insulting, the adverts clumsy hallucinations.
I read a book, "The Box Man" by Kobo Abe, with some of my own selection of music playing, while drinking and gazing at the typewriter for it's Feng Shui.
I read and drank until I could no longer focus.
America was not so different.
...cont, pt 2
All in one tangled, multi-faceted dollop.
I was sought out and confronted by American persons unknown who wanted to know whether I had any experience with large budget event parties?
I replied that performing at retired Japanese starlets 21st parties was not unknown to me and that I had done 'party' work in the largest indoor nightclubs in Europe,
[I had spent an entire season on Ibiza.]
I was in London while this little email adventure/misadventure played out.
They replied that they could tell me very little other than they sought to employ me for a private party, that James Brown and Aretha Franklyn and a 300 strong choir would be there, that it was to be held in an old ballroom Truman Capote had had built and would I please sent them a contract and a rider.
What?
I knew what a contract was, I believe I had sold my soul to the Catholic faith at around twelve, and had a great many contracts since then, always delivered to be scrutinised and signed, usually with a sigh of feigned indifference at the latitude taken.
OK sure you own my image and can use it commercially any way you see fit,and yes I know as well as providing celebrations of art you also sell laxatives.
But This? I was as a matter of course being empowered by these Americans, They wanted me to formulate an outline of business with them, very quaint from my perspective.
A rider?
Obviously a term in some sort of 'buzzspeak' I was uneducated in.
This was in the late nineties, the Internet was new.
I pregoogled and found out that a 'Rider' is a luxury certain artists employ, wherein they request a shopping list of pre performance requirements provided for them backstage as a basic requirement in providing a level of comfort inside which said artist can best, 'do their shit'
So I replied; As to the contract, I will be satisfied with a gentleman's agreement in which you agree to pay me X for services provided Y.
As to the Rider, I have two, the first primitive, the second less so.
The primitive is a dressing area containing something I can sit on while getting my stilts on, quantities of ice water and or softdrink
and the second involves four cheerleaders, a therapist and a puppy.
I hit 'send'
The next day I received a brief reply, "What kind of puppy do you need?"
I liked that these Americans were playful.
I ran with it.
Explaining that as a clown I had studied this and found that the funniest puppy was the Irish Wolfhound given it's paws were about half it's body weight.
Then got to business.
They would fly me, put me up, feed me and pay me then return me for X In return I would provide them with 3 hours of my services and whatever other times I needed to inspect the venue.
They agreed outright, stating that I would be flying United as their employer, whose party this was, owned a great deal of the company.
I decided at this point a hissy fit was called for, I only charged them X? What is it with me and catholic residue? I could have charged them XX, This guy owns airlines! I could have charged XXX!
But then I calmed. I was going to America, James Brown would be playing at a private party, I was being paid to attend and be disdainful, it was all good.
The seat was first class, it was in the economy section but I was very impressed with it, it had a window and a perfectly weighted sense of humility. Which suited me as I was deliberately penniless. I had decided to live the dream, to arrive in America without a cent to my name, achieve great wealth and one day buy the very plane I was now traveling in as a recursive indulgent memento.
To this day I wonder about these dreams I have, whether they're in fact the bow of a vehicle that leaves a wake of unrealised potential. It is only after a few years that most people remove themselves from the bow to have a look at their entire vessel, check the rudder, gaze at their wake.
Sometimes that's all it takes to see that for example you had been sailing in circles for years.
I arrived in Chicago.
Customs was a breeze, 4 days, return ticket, invited to a party, have fun Sir, Welcome to America.
I use a brooks brothers suit and shirt I bought for $2 now when traveling but in Chicago I was employing my fail-safe 'shoes and sunglasses' social signifier gambit. My sunglasses cost $500, my Italian boots just slightly less. You only need to signify you have the means to spend discriminately and without reserve to glide through any number of social layers. I was looking forward to paddling briefly in America.
I was met by an extremely tall black American holding my name on a card. He wasn't just tall, he was rock and roll tall, freakish, suited up impeccably and he either had feline grace or a piece of shrapnel stuck in him somewhere.
He led me outside, not to the carpark but to a nearby area where his stretched black Limo sat.
This was classic stuff, I was loving this.
I explained to my driver that he needed to know straight up that I couldn't tip him. I had no money at all. I apologised. He gracefully informed me that everything had already been taken care of.
So I got in and started drinking, the back of this limo was salted with hidden compartments and baskets filled with impulsive treats, Champagne, Chocolate, Beer, Cognac, fresh fruit, while outside the highways seemed filled with lesser vehicles. Poor non stretched limousines.
We eventually swished into some huge downtown multinational hotel, I thanked my driver and went to introduce myself to the staff, I shrugged off the bellboys, "I'm penniless, I'll get back to you."
I informed the front desk that I had no credit card to give them however if they were to allow me one local phone call I would arrange a suitable deposit to be made. They humored me, I again fought off the bellboys advances and went up to my room, it had an on-suite and large windows and most importantly a telephone.
I lined my couple of bottles of limo-swag up to drown my sorrows if this didn't work and picked up the phone.
I rang my employer, got one of his secretary's , explained that I was checking in with them and could they arrange a trip to the venue the next day, the day prior to the gig so that I could look at it and additionally could they please immediately advance me 20% of my fee and have that be a deposit on my hotel account so that I might eat. I had travelled a long way and needed to eat and was reliant upon them in this.
She told me she'd ring me back in moments and sure enough, within five minutes rang back to tell me that it was all taken care of and that I was free to use the services the hotel offered at my leisure.
Roomservice and I got on famously. I would give them $20 tips and they would bring me whatever I asked for. I asked for a typewriter, they brought one, I hadn't planned on using it but I just liked the look of it, I typed a couple of hundred words so it looked all latent and creative then ignored it. I asked for copious amounts of food and drink, I'd sign for these and write $20 in the tip portion.
My room was fun, I had my costume and props scattered about artfully, 100 year old baby doll here, 3 pairs of stilt trousers draped thus, triangle, flyswat, Swedish tank-helmet. Outside Chicago looked grey, I was looking down from a high floor and myself in a forest of skyscrapers. I planned to walk it the next day but my day of arrival was all about gorging in my new habitat, fueling up for a party in 48 hours. I handled about two hours of American TV before discarding it. Hard, it's quite hypnotic. I found it's cartoon pace seductive and insulting, the adverts clumsy hallucinations.
I read a book, "The Box Man" by Kobo Abe, with some of my own selection of music playing, while drinking and gazing at the typewriter for it's Feng Shui.
I read and drank until I could no longer focus.
America was not so different.
...cont, pt 2
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