I HAVE UNLEASHED MY FRINGE.
And it feels pretty damn good.
Yesterday was a full on day of shows, morning noon and night and midnight and in my mind as I slept and in my bones as I woke and here I am in Black Medicine, one of the great coffee shops that pepper this city like sand on a magnificent beach. This surprised me last year. I assumed it would be all tea, all the time. British people drink tea, American drink coffee.
Not so.
And absurd amount of coffee houses here. And they each have their distinct feel. Black Medicine is as groovy as you can get. Right now, it's full of theatre people young and old and most hung over and jazzed and has Rhinestone Cowboy playing.
I love it so much I feel like hugging the walls, dancing on the tables, hugging the staff like old friends I haven't seen in years.
So. Yesterday. We rise early and walk over to New Town, past the Burnt Church and Prince Street, over to George where Greenside has it's headquarters and several venues. We had met a bunch of fellow Greensiders at the press launch, and so we lined up four.
But then we added two more. One of them was for a friend who had a critic coming and needed to fill the house, the other was just some folks we had chatted with here and there and who seemed cool.
That's how it goes here a lot. You meet people, they give you good karma, you vibe as it were, and then you go see their show. And the simple act of going to see these shows fills your soul, gives you magic and insight and courage and wonder.
First show: Barbara (And Kenneth). It's a mostly one-woman show, with accessory Kenneth who joins in for a song and a monologue. It's energetic and funny and smart, full of original tunes and a force of nature in the lead role. My whole group loved it beyond measure. Lisa wants them to come to Colorado and do the show at our school. It's just brilliant and a must see.
Next up: Wait, Why Don't We Just Build a Boy? This one is an original play about 3 Gen Z roomies who build a young man in a variation on the Frankenstein story, using various movies and tv shows to program the Creature's personality. The cast and the writing feel like the Creature in the story, raw and seeking identity, but full of promise. Some of the joy in the Fringe is seeing young aritsts just starting out, finding their way, reaching for the stars.
On we go.
Show Three: The Bronze Boy. This one is directed by an old friend from NYC, Todd Faulkner, and stars another old friend from Gotham, Nicole Greevy. It's a show about two women who have had their lives irrevocably shattered from a school shooting, and it's breath taking, at times hilarious, at ultimately beautiful. We all cry a bit at this one, the better for it and maybe a wee bit wiser. A must see.
Then we have our show. We know there are one or two critics coming. We have asked all our new friends to come. Our old ones too. At one point, we had maybe 5 tickets sold. So we were and are in a bit of a state of panic. The show is in good shape. We are ready as can be. The doors open. And all these people file in. Not just our friends, who show up of course, but strangers. People who bought tickets simply because they thought the show sounded cool.
We are energized. The crowd is rowdy. Loud and encouraging. At first, we think, well, our friends are being nice. But it keeps going. Song after song. Scene after scene. The cast lets that energy feed their performance. Magic is happening. The rough magic of live theatre when it's all new and veils are lifted and we touch the collective soul of the world.
So, feeling brilliant and charmed, we head to the next show, back on George Street. We get there a little early and grab a soda in the lobby, and there are a few of us so we move some tables, and ask this fellow who is sitting solo writing on his laptop if he minds us moving the tables. And he looks up and says "I'm writing a review of your show! I just saw it and it was brilliant." He writes for the Scotsman. Hope to post that review soon. We chatted a bit, and I got the vibe he might indeed write a few good lines about our show.
Life is funny sometimes. And it never hurts to have a bit of good luck.
Fourth Show: Shower Chair. This is a one person show about a young mans journey to selfhood by way of booze and denial and bad choices and horrible moments and friends good and bad. It's beautiful and brave. A bit rough around the edges, but so much heart in this. We all love it.
Then it's off to our first late night show of the Festival.
DANCEFLOOR CONVERSION THERAPY. This show makes you happy to be alive. It's like a rave, a sermon, an old friend you love so much telling stories of life and dancing and parties. It's a revival meeting. It's a rave. It makes you feel high when in fact you are stone cold sober. I laughed and shouted "amens" and at the end, after we moved all the chairs we were sitting in to the side of the hall, danced with both my wife and cast mates and strangers who were, for that moment, part of me. And I was part of them. I could have dance all night like a manic version of Eliza Doolittle, but it was past one in the morning and time to head off. This is a must see. A must experience, actually.
And that was our day. Crammed full of everything. On to the now.
Always.
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