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Weber Brothers Circus and my time therein
Weber Brothers Circus.
A job.
Of sorts.
Comparatively Speaking.
I fly up. Not much to say really. Although a new safety procedure insists that the window blinds be open during takeoff and landing. Inexplicably I thought. Possibly so that Quantas snipers can shoot you from the terminal if you get rambunctious on the way up or down…
In an unsurprising turn of events I am not picked up on time and I sit in the arrivals lounge idly rolling crystals around for roughly twenty minutes until Fred Osler turns up. He is, to all intents, the Creative Director although he seems to shy away from this term. He seems pretty straight up and we shoot the shit most of the 80km drive to Wellsford on the state of Australian/New Zealand Circus Industry. He implies (or I imply that he is implying) that the majority of the staff seem to have a considerable inferiority complex regarding the new school of circus. It’s a weird hang-up to have as in my opinion there is little to compare. They’re simply two art forms that draw on each other in different ways. Or something. Can you compare Strauss to TOOL? Yes in that they’re both music. Apart from that common link they are hardly comparable.
I stay at a backpackers in town as there has been some pissing about regarding where I’m staying onsite. Once in my room I ring Amber and lower my phone account considerably.
I feel warm and fuzzy.
I get all paranoid because I can’t lock the door.
I shift rooms – the new one doesn’t lock either but at least the door shuts properly.
I play Snake till I pass out.
I wake and get picked up by Fred again about 9:30. We drive down to the circus lot and go to his trailer. Very flash – indeed well habitable. I watch the show on video. The Time Traveller is a considerably superior production compared to Illusions – the clown characters no longer drive the narrative and only do the occasional (slightly anachronistic and somewhat displaced) filler clown routine. A piece of puppetry/animation with a snake, a pseudo-strongman pastiche, a trad knockabout piece with brooms and big shoes, a direct, though abridged, lift of the English music hall “sand dance” sketch and, crime of crimes, the direct theft of John Gilky’s Dart routine from Saltimbanco(?). I can’t do the piece justice (although I could probably thieve it better than Dylan has) and will try my best to replace it in it’s entirety with something of my own. Possibly Pegs on Face to Mixed Biznis prefaced with the Flyswatter club routine if I can get it up to scratch.
My free time once I have learnt the requisite show skills seems to be more than adequate, perhaps even more than adequate as Dylan, Sam (Lander) and Marty’s(Flying Trapeze Catcher) 12:15 Tequila shots show. Still, when in Rome… Apart from performing and setting up the tent once a week (and the corresponding tear down) there seems to be little else that needs doing.
I meet a couple of other people (The sound technician (?) and some circus brats with incredibly foul mouths) before heading back to the backpackers. It’s raining quite heavily so no one is about and I have no wish to sit all day making chit chat with Dylan and his girlfriend.
My laptop trips the fuse and I have to unplug it. The electrics in this place must be shot to pieces which, considering the odd hole in the wall isn’t terribly surprising.
Later that night the lights blow again and I decide to go to bed rather than face the wrath of the landlady who would no doubt insist that I’d plugged my computer back in and screwed her electrics again. In an act of silent protest I plug it back in and work on my video some more.
The next day it rains solidly and the wind blows too strongly to put the tent up. I get moved into my temporary caravan. I’d be happy to stay in here; it’s much larger and more attractive than the pokey clown quarters on the end of the refreshments truck. I spend most of the morning lying under my sleeping bag listening to the rain. It’s quite soothing but the offshoot is that eventually I desperately need to piss. It’s a mad dash across the lot to the toilets and I try to put it off as long as possible, no doubt causing irreparable damage to my kidneys.
I alternate between playing video games, napping and eating dates for the rest of the day. Eager Sam pops in for a bit and I try not to despise him but it’s a losing battle. He leaves his wet coat on my shoes filling them with water and doesn’t take his own goddamn shoes off trailing water, grass and mud all through my lounge.
The next day the tent goes up. It’s hardcore. I get to the stage that my muscles are so fatigued that I can’t maintain the integrity of my joints and as soon as I pick something up they dislocate. Stinking muscular elastosis.
It only takes about three hours which is pretty sweet, especially since it took longer than that to rig and set up inside in America.
I briefly pass out in my caravan. Once the ability to move is regained I grab some quick eats and then my clubs and head over to the top to do some practice. I do maybe 25 minutes of juggling and then Dylan and Eager Sam turn up. We have to sweep the ring which takes freaking ages and then I learn the Egyptian sand dance routine. It is both a piece of piss and a piece of shit simultaneously. Dylan has the gall to tell me how to interpret it and how to make it funny. After this he buggers off (undoubtedly to start drinking) and Eager Sam gets out his German Wheel and rolls around in it for a bit. I continue to work on my clubs but I need my music to actually practice anything worthwhile. I do a round-off flick-flak in the ring just to see if I can. I can.
By some freak fluke I manage to fall asleep while listening to Nine Inch Nails and almost miss the start of the show. I wake up with five minutes before opening and panic a little, no doubt actually slowing my exit rather than speeding it up. I make it to the queue dressed in an odd combination of work and dress clothes just as the last punters go in. Sweet.
The show is slightly better in real life than on video. The Columbian guys really make the show happen – high skill daredevil shit. The theatrical aspect is still laborious and stilted but is heaps better than the rubbish they were passing off as a show in Illusions.
Afterwards it’s Dylan’s farewell party and I shoot more shit with Freddy over what I will do to replace Dylan’s theft of John Gilky’s clown sketch. I sell him on latex explosions but fail to get around to juggling as the mention of the word sets off a diatribe regarding the last juggler they had working for them who was, by all accounts, something of a cock. I come up with ideas involving danger props. In retrospect I don’t think I can pull off my club routine to the standard I’d want to – especially without being able to do all the smart mouth shit on the inevitable drops.
I ring Amber and drunkenly ramble at her. I can’t really recall anything that either of us said but a general air of wellbeing permeates my caravan afterwards so it must have been good.
I have a god-awful dream about playing improv games with Philippe from the Cooperage and being shrieked at by Patrick Duffy for not advancing the story. I’m woken at 9.30 by Circus brats knocking on my window yelling, “Quick get up the tent’s blowing away!” I stumble out the door and blearily look out. The tent is perfectly stationary and William and his partner in crime are staring at me with, “we’re very funny aren’t we?” looks on their faces. A passing tent hand, Clayton, tells me I should knock them out. I’m in concurrence but don’t actually do so. I’m sure I will regret this at some stage in the future.
The day peters away until Dylan turns up and we do some practice. I learn the snake charming routine – rubbish and the strongman bit – which is quite fun but the full body harness tends to give you a mega wedge. I also learn most of the knockabout routine which is quite amusing in itself. The opportunity to fall over on a regular basis is quite neat. However I am then told that I am to learn John Gilky’s routine and that there is no way I will be doing anything other than that. This settles it for me. I will not be staying longer than my trial period. I will inform Freddy of this next time I see him.
However in the meantime I still have to be able to do the goddamn thing. Being in a somewhat self destructive mood I decide that I will practise catching it on my head without wearing the padded shit or indeed a shirt at all. It comes as no surprise then that after five or six successful goes I catch it neatly in the flesh of my back. It momentarily hangs there before dislodging itself and innocently lying on the ground tempting me to try again. I’m sweaty again after just putting on clean clothes and in a general pissed off mood so it’s also not surprising when soon after I catch the stinking thing with my forehead. It’s quite a shock to the system.
Amber turns up. She so is the best. The weekend is all round a bit of a horrible exhausting experience but she stops me from freaking out completely. I do the majority of Dylan’s roles in the show. Most of it is prop setting. It’s more than a little unpleasant. Join the circus – Handle llamas! I hate animals.
The teardown is a disgusting amount of work, over 6 hours of trekking through mud carrying heavy things. My shoes are ruined and my scrotum is burning from wearing boxers, sweating and then chafing. It is painful to walk. It feels like I have carpet burn on my ball sack.
I hate the culture of this environment.
It is incredibly straight-laced blokey guys and their submissive wives.
It is chain smoking and crassness.
It is taking performance and turning it from art into labour.
It is, “So why have you got nail polish on again?”
It is alcoholics and drug addicts.
It is mechanical and joyless.
It is dick talk and practical jokes
It is high skill low emotion
It is low brow entertainment trying to pass itself off as something else and failing.
It is cliquish, isolating and lonely.
I feel ridiculously out of place and under valued. I can do a round off Flick Flak on most surfaces, I can juggle five balls, I am a funny shit, I have several very polished original routines both technical and humorous yet I am employed to steal other people’s material and ruin my clothes. The only thing that this place has going for it is the money and I don’t even need it that much.
Amber leaves. I feel awful, I’m covered in dried sweat, I desperately don’t want to go outside (It’s cold and dark and there are circus people out there!) and between my legs feels like someone has given it a quick rubdown with sandpaper.
The next day I resign. I feel amazingly better. An hour later my agent rings me for the first time ever with a job possibility. Sayings regarding doors opening and closing spring to mind. I smile the rest of the day, a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye.
A job.
Of sorts.
Comparatively Speaking.
I fly up. Not much to say really. Although a new safety procedure insists that the window blinds be open during takeoff and landing. Inexplicably I thought. Possibly so that Quantas snipers can shoot you from the terminal if you get rambunctious on the way up or down…
In an unsurprising turn of events I am not picked up on time and I sit in the arrivals lounge idly rolling crystals around for roughly twenty minutes until Fred Osler turns up. He is, to all intents, the Creative Director although he seems to shy away from this term. He seems pretty straight up and we shoot the shit most of the 80km drive to Wellsford on the state of Australian/New Zealand Circus Industry. He implies (or I imply that he is implying) that the majority of the staff seem to have a considerable inferiority complex regarding the new school of circus. It’s a weird hang-up to have as in my opinion there is little to compare. They’re simply two art forms that draw on each other in different ways. Or something. Can you compare Strauss to TOOL? Yes in that they’re both music. Apart from that common link they are hardly comparable.
I stay at a backpackers in town as there has been some pissing about regarding where I’m staying onsite. Once in my room I ring Amber and lower my phone account considerably.
I feel warm and fuzzy.
I get all paranoid because I can’t lock the door.
I shift rooms – the new one doesn’t lock either but at least the door shuts properly.
I play Snake till I pass out.
I wake and get picked up by Fred again about 9:30. We drive down to the circus lot and go to his trailer. Very flash – indeed well habitable. I watch the show on video. The Time Traveller is a considerably superior production compared to Illusions – the clown characters no longer drive the narrative and only do the occasional (slightly anachronistic and somewhat displaced) filler clown routine. A piece of puppetry/animation with a snake, a pseudo-strongman pastiche, a trad knockabout piece with brooms and big shoes, a direct, though abridged, lift of the English music hall “sand dance” sketch and, crime of crimes, the direct theft of John Gilky’s Dart routine from Saltimbanco(?). I can’t do the piece justice (although I could probably thieve it better than Dylan has) and will try my best to replace it in it’s entirety with something of my own. Possibly Pegs on Face to Mixed Biznis prefaced with the Flyswatter club routine if I can get it up to scratch.
My free time once I have learnt the requisite show skills seems to be more than adequate, perhaps even more than adequate as Dylan, Sam (Lander) and Marty’s(Flying Trapeze Catcher) 12:15 Tequila shots show. Still, when in Rome… Apart from performing and setting up the tent once a week (and the corresponding tear down) there seems to be little else that needs doing.
I meet a couple of other people (The sound technician (?) and some circus brats with incredibly foul mouths) before heading back to the backpackers. It’s raining quite heavily so no one is about and I have no wish to sit all day making chit chat with Dylan and his girlfriend.
My laptop trips the fuse and I have to unplug it. The electrics in this place must be shot to pieces which, considering the odd hole in the wall isn’t terribly surprising.
Later that night the lights blow again and I decide to go to bed rather than face the wrath of the landlady who would no doubt insist that I’d plugged my computer back in and screwed her electrics again. In an act of silent protest I plug it back in and work on my video some more.
The next day it rains solidly and the wind blows too strongly to put the tent up. I get moved into my temporary caravan. I’d be happy to stay in here; it’s much larger and more attractive than the pokey clown quarters on the end of the refreshments truck. I spend most of the morning lying under my sleeping bag listening to the rain. It’s quite soothing but the offshoot is that eventually I desperately need to piss. It’s a mad dash across the lot to the toilets and I try to put it off as long as possible, no doubt causing irreparable damage to my kidneys.
I alternate between playing video games, napping and eating dates for the rest of the day. Eager Sam pops in for a bit and I try not to despise him but it’s a losing battle. He leaves his wet coat on my shoes filling them with water and doesn’t take his own goddamn shoes off trailing water, grass and mud all through my lounge.
The next day the tent goes up. It’s hardcore. I get to the stage that my muscles are so fatigued that I can’t maintain the integrity of my joints and as soon as I pick something up they dislocate. Stinking muscular elastosis.
It only takes about three hours which is pretty sweet, especially since it took longer than that to rig and set up inside in America.
I briefly pass out in my caravan. Once the ability to move is regained I grab some quick eats and then my clubs and head over to the top to do some practice. I do maybe 25 minutes of juggling and then Dylan and Eager Sam turn up. We have to sweep the ring which takes freaking ages and then I learn the Egyptian sand dance routine. It is both a piece of piss and a piece of shit simultaneously. Dylan has the gall to tell me how to interpret it and how to make it funny. After this he buggers off (undoubtedly to start drinking) and Eager Sam gets out his German Wheel and rolls around in it for a bit. I continue to work on my clubs but I need my music to actually practice anything worthwhile. I do a round-off flick-flak in the ring just to see if I can. I can.
By some freak fluke I manage to fall asleep while listening to Nine Inch Nails and almost miss the start of the show. I wake up with five minutes before opening and panic a little, no doubt actually slowing my exit rather than speeding it up. I make it to the queue dressed in an odd combination of work and dress clothes just as the last punters go in. Sweet.
The show is slightly better in real life than on video. The Columbian guys really make the show happen – high skill daredevil shit. The theatrical aspect is still laborious and stilted but is heaps better than the rubbish they were passing off as a show in Illusions.
Afterwards it’s Dylan’s farewell party and I shoot more shit with Freddy over what I will do to replace Dylan’s theft of John Gilky’s clown sketch. I sell him on latex explosions but fail to get around to juggling as the mention of the word sets off a diatribe regarding the last juggler they had working for them who was, by all accounts, something of a cock. I come up with ideas involving danger props. In retrospect I don’t think I can pull off my club routine to the standard I’d want to – especially without being able to do all the smart mouth shit on the inevitable drops.
I ring Amber and drunkenly ramble at her. I can’t really recall anything that either of us said but a general air of wellbeing permeates my caravan afterwards so it must have been good.
I have a god-awful dream about playing improv games with Philippe from the Cooperage and being shrieked at by Patrick Duffy for not advancing the story. I’m woken at 9.30 by Circus brats knocking on my window yelling, “Quick get up the tent’s blowing away!” I stumble out the door and blearily look out. The tent is perfectly stationary and William and his partner in crime are staring at me with, “we’re very funny aren’t we?” looks on their faces. A passing tent hand, Clayton, tells me I should knock them out. I’m in concurrence but don’t actually do so. I’m sure I will regret this at some stage in the future.
The day peters away until Dylan turns up and we do some practice. I learn the snake charming routine – rubbish and the strongman bit – which is quite fun but the full body harness tends to give you a mega wedge. I also learn most of the knockabout routine which is quite amusing in itself. The opportunity to fall over on a regular basis is quite neat. However I am then told that I am to learn John Gilky’s routine and that there is no way I will be doing anything other than that. This settles it for me. I will not be staying longer than my trial period. I will inform Freddy of this next time I see him.
However in the meantime I still have to be able to do the goddamn thing. Being in a somewhat self destructive mood I decide that I will practise catching it on my head without wearing the padded shit or indeed a shirt at all. It comes as no surprise then that after five or six successful goes I catch it neatly in the flesh of my back. It momentarily hangs there before dislodging itself and innocently lying on the ground tempting me to try again. I’m sweaty again after just putting on clean clothes and in a general pissed off mood so it’s also not surprising when soon after I catch the stinking thing with my forehead. It’s quite a shock to the system.
Amber turns up. She so is the best. The weekend is all round a bit of a horrible exhausting experience but she stops me from freaking out completely. I do the majority of Dylan’s roles in the show. Most of it is prop setting. It’s more than a little unpleasant. Join the circus – Handle llamas! I hate animals.
The teardown is a disgusting amount of work, over 6 hours of trekking through mud carrying heavy things. My shoes are ruined and my scrotum is burning from wearing boxers, sweating and then chafing. It is painful to walk. It feels like I have carpet burn on my ball sack.
I hate the culture of this environment.
It is incredibly straight-laced blokey guys and their submissive wives.
It is chain smoking and crassness.
It is taking performance and turning it from art into labour.
It is, “So why have you got nail polish on again?”
It is alcoholics and drug addicts.
It is mechanical and joyless.
It is dick talk and practical jokes
It is high skill low emotion
It is low brow entertainment trying to pass itself off as something else and failing.
It is cliquish, isolating and lonely.
I feel ridiculously out of place and under valued. I can do a round off Flick Flak on most surfaces, I can juggle five balls, I am a funny shit, I have several very polished original routines both technical and humorous yet I am employed to steal other people’s material and ruin my clothes. The only thing that this place has going for it is the money and I don’t even need it that much.
Amber leaves. I feel awful, I’m covered in dried sweat, I desperately don’t want to go outside (It’s cold and dark and there are circus people out there!) and between my legs feels like someone has given it a quick rubdown with sandpaper.
The next day I resign. I feel amazingly better. An hour later my agent rings me for the first time ever with a job possibility. Sayings regarding doors opening and closing spring to mind. I smile the rest of the day, a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye.