Official Festival Poster!

Yeah, pretty much all the information you need for WHEN you go to my play, not if. Be there.

A Taste of Dan Deacon

Not my favorite artist, but his live show (and the story of getting there) was crazy enough to inspire a play.

Check out the song I might use to end the show: Get Older.

The First Reading … but not the last?

Production team secured, we gathered for our first meeting and first reading of the script. As usual, the Jersey City headquarters of Triple Decker Productions was alive with activity.

After a quick dinner, prepared by Mandy (amidst various baking projects), I rushed off to the PATH station to wrangle my actors—first Giselle, then Tim. Soon enough, I conveyed them along the meandering route to our apartment—and quickly through to the conditioned air of our living room/bedroom/boardroom. On top of her game as usual, Mandy placed a series of snacks—a veritable smorgasbord—in front of our wide-eyed guests: fuel for their acting, and fuel for sitting on my ass. Meanwhile, Tim slaved in the bowels of Hell, I mean, our kitchen, washing every dish we own.

And so we waited and snacked, snacked and waited. The remaining member of our party, Mary, apparently was a victim of one of the many hazards of interstate and intra-metropolis travel: traffic. Though the Holland Tunnel practically drops you on our doorstep, getting to the tunnel and out is not a simple matter during rush hour. Cliché and logic cleared up the situation: the show must go on.

I began with the stage directions—my second favorite part of the script (like you care)—and Tim and Giselle did the rest. Around 15 minutes later, I had heard “The Concert” outside my head for the first time. Yes, I was nervous to hear my words aloud, but it wasn’t close to the nerve-wracking experience of that first KOTM reading back in March. No glaring inconsistencies or awkward phrasing struck my ears…this time around. Perhaps in coming rehearsals, I feel the need to edit. And for some reason, I seem bent on axing my props and set dressing. Aside from the couch, they aren’t essential to the story—but they do set the atmosphere, establish the context, and provide the characters with some action. But it’s just that, as an already fretting stage manager, I’m worried about setting and striking in the time-honored slapdash chaos of a festival. Well, there aren’t that many props. Let them be. Play this out as the author intended, genius that he is.

And…black out. More snacks.

Oh, yes, Tim (Decker, that is. God this is going to be confusing. Does he have a nickname or something? Oh ,that’s right: “The Tyrant”. That ought to clear things up.) made himself useful during all this—he is “Lead Helpie” and second understudy, after all—by playing appropriate party songs in the background to set the mood—or to set off Mandy. Either way, it was a good reminder of the soundtrack I need to assemble—how much time I need to fill, and how I want to cue it up (or “queue” it up?). And as I mulled all this in the sun’s dying glow, who of all people happened to show up on my stoop? Why our director, of course.

Gracious as ever, Mary jumped into a chair, grabbed a brownie, and we ran it all again for fresh ears. With a bit more energy and sense of tone, Tim and Giselle tried out there roles again. Fourteen minutes was the run-time, and we expect to add 4-5 minutes in blocking and pacing—including an indeterminately long dance break. No doubt already envisioning Tim and Giselle as “Wayne” and “Marissa”, Mary seemed satisfied with our starting point and was eager to move on to a setting a rehearsal schedule—perhaps even one at the famous Depot Theatre (where she herself once worked on a show—small world!). Looking forward to our next rehearsal, I guided my actors through the humid night toward home.

Actors, Directors, and Props*—Oh my!

Oh, dear Reader!

What I mean to say—to truly cry out wholeheartedly!—is that at long last (has it been over a half-dozen days since last I wrote?) I have assembled the theatrical troupe which will perform The Concert in twenty-three days hence.

The stately Timothy Chan will perform the character “Wayne.” Mandy Decker (né Blevins, of the Elkton Blevins) and I have worked with this young man in previous productions of the Urban Youth Theater, giving me full confidence that Messr. Chan will fulfill this role with vim, vigor, and authentic slackerdom. I look forward to it longingly.

Next, the impeccable Giselle D’Souza will grace the stage as “Marissa.” Adhering to social etiquette, I deigned for Mandy to engage the initial communiqué with Miss Giselle. Impossible to believe, I am not above the rigid bounds of proper decorum—even in pursuit of an actor! But with communication established, my pleasurable acquaintance imparted her heady desire to carry my prose heavenward, and bestow her talents upon Marissa and her foul-mouthed charms.

And fresh from her Grand Tour of the Continent, Mary Geerlof, reprising her role as “Director.” If you, Reader, were by chance lucky enough to be in Town to catch a mere glimpse of the world premier of King of the Mountain, you should consider yourself truly blessed by Providence. Who would have thought a velocipede standing alone with rider for an hour’s time would be truly soul-rousing theatre? Mary Geerlof, for one. Under her incomparable direction, "Max" rode to the top of that daunting Alpine summit, taking our breath away with each agonized pedal-stroke. May she so craftily handle my script again, albeit three-fourths shorter and three-times dumber.

And there you have it, Reader. Though my network be small, and my time short, there are people out there eager pledge to themselves and make something of this crazy little show.

Yours truly,

T. Dekkes

*Well, actually, converting my stolen twenty-year-old red milk crate/trashcan into a milk crate/prop really took no effort, but I needed to mention it for the Wizard of Oz allusion. Do you see what I’m getting at? Never mind. And sorry for the pseudo-Victorian nonsense, this is what happens when I write late at night, by candlelight, overlooking a fog-tinged moor.

Logo!

Here's a little fresh hotness, courtesy of Timothy Decker.

Visiting the "Theater"

Okay, that’s not fair. The Philipstown Depot Theater (in Garrison, NY—more on that later) is a theater; more so than many I’ve seen in NYC. But I must add it to the list odd spaces converted into theaters that I’ve been involved with: 13^th Street Rep. (a dilapidated brownstone) and Manhattan Rep. (squeezed on the third floor of an all-purpose arts center). It is a historic building, the former train station of a town whose only claim to fame is that very train station—and it does hold a real light grid and 67 seats. These features go a long way in lending it legitimacy.

But I seem to be getting ahead of myself. First, I had to make the journey to Garrison via a Metro North train from the grandiose Grand Central Terminal. The train ride through the Hudson Valley is certainly the most scenic of commutes throughout the tri-state area. The tracks run right along the river, passing through towns built to the water’s edge—panoramic views abound. In an hour I was in Garrison. Everywhere I turned: trees … and not much else. Afterward, by the time the meeting finished, the clouds had passed, revealing a dying golden sun. Strolling along the platform, the scene became tranquil, perhaps even serene as I stared out over the water. Quiet. That’s what it was. The city was far behind me. Rustling leaves, lapping waves, birdsong—these small doses of sound were just enough. And interrupting all this natural sublimity (besides the occasional rumble of a commuter train), the steel-grey walls of the West Point citadel looming on the opposite bank. Lovely.

Back to the matter at hand—visiting my next performance space, and getting the gist of the competition. Yes, the organizers emphasized that this was a competition: that our fortunes would be in the hands of the audience and a few judges, and we’d advance toward additional performances according to their votes. So, I need to fill that house. I need your vote. Yes, YOU. But they assured us the structure of the festival nearly guaranteed each production two shows, either by advancing to the next round the second weekend, or in a “wild card” round. And when is all this madness taking place you ask? Ah, that was my #1 question. My play will be the last of five one-acts on Saturday, September 5—a show which begins at 8 p.m. Information on tickets will be forthcoming, as will transportation arrangements.

Other matters…I have already secured my largest set piece: a readily available couch in the men’s dressing room. Check that off. (And yes, the infamous production “to-do” list is posted on my living-room wall.) Wait, I can cross off that I went to the meeting—and started another web-log. Awesome. Be right back.

[Minutes pass.]

Whew. Sorry for that. Long story short, I had to rehearse my Partridge Family rendition of a Decemberists’ song for my insane family’s talent show. Yeah … its gonna rock. Oh, wait…I’m singing. No, never mind then.

The company manager and artistic director went over sound and lighting specs, our tech rehearsal schedule (very little time to mess around, as usual), and finished by giving a tour of the space for those of us first-timers. (“You mean you’ve never been to the Depot Theater? Oh, it’s an absolute delight. I’m a regular subscriber.”) At first I was a tad nervous considering that I am young and don’t have a local fan base, but I need to embrace all of my outsider status and use it to my advantage. And hell, if nothing else, I’ve already produced a kick-ass play, just three months ago. I kinda know what I’m doing. And I’m pretty adamant on having my productions not suck. So I might as well have fun.

And I’d say that began on my sun-drenched ride back to Gotham, with a few of my city-bound competitors. Amid stories of socially-oriented plays, colonics, professors, vaginas, and classmates, I learned that they were newbies taking a class assignment to the next level. Rock on, Mike and Katabe. At least I’m not the only one representing the city (well, technically, Jersey City.)

And soon enough, I emerged at the base of a Midtown canyon—42^nd Street—looking through Times Square to the scene of my last project from the gateway to my next.

And it begins again …

Yesterday, I received the bittersweet news that a play of mine—a ten-minute scene written sporadically over the last couple months “just for fun” (the name of which I momentarily forget as I was on the phone)—has been accepted in a short play competition.

Around 10:45, a phone call interrupted my incredibly productive morning at work. Anticipating a miraculous dream job offer, I answered the vibrating Samsung. Strollers piled up outside my “office,” as I struggled to grasp what the man on the line was saying.

A play of mine called The Concert? In a festival?
“Wow. Really? Thank you.”
What festival? Where is it? When?
“Thanks. Sounds great. Uh, yeah I can be there …”
Where the hell is it? Upstate?
“Uh…”
I don’t have a car.
“Can I take MetroNorth?”
Please? Yes.
“Okay, great.”
When is the festival? How long do I have to pull this together? Omigod, how am I going to do this? I have to be a producer. Again? Chill--you’ve done it before. Write down what he’s saying. There—the newspaper. Jot it … good. When is it?
“Can you email all this to me? Thanks so much. See you Sunday.”
What the hell? Wait … I did it again. Without really trying. Ha. Haha. Hahaha. Sweet. Let’s do this. Wait—when is this happening?

In a month. As part of the competition, I am guaranteed one performance on the weekend of September 4-6. Each of those days will see a performance of four short pieces (under 20 minutes). And if my play is selected by the judges and/or audience, we’ll do it again the next weekend. And if we get through that round, that following Sunday. And yes, there are cash prizes for finalists.

Whew. That was close. It’s been a very long three months—to the day—since my last play, King of the Mountain closed on 42nd St (more time, actually, than it took to produce KOTM). Thankfully, the only seemingly productive thing I was able to accomplish in that interval has born fruit.

Actually, I began writing The Concert on a bus trip College Park, MD in late March to visit some friends at a local university, my alma mater. For whatever reason, inspired slightly by a ten-minute scene from a festival I had worked that winter, I began a scene revolving around a guy and a girl meeting up at party. Actually, I began to describe in vivid, overwrought detail an epic concert I had survived that winter. So, I attributed this passage to the dude. And the girl at the party was also at that concert; and it seems, much to their surprise, they had met there. Well, this was enough to get my pen moving in that shaking bus. But the scene was not complete. No, no, not even ten minutes worth. But I had a seed—a proto-scene. And besides, I was in the midst of producing a play.

And so it sat on my desktop all spring. Occasionally, I’d type out another descriptive monologue, or reorder my disjointed passages. It was just another item on my list of ideas, conceived and sketched, but hardly complete. Frustrated with my progress on a full-length play, I needed a project I could actually finish—and in order to do that, a deadline. A play competition in little Garrison, NY was taking submissions until mid-July. And if I could get the play finished by Independence Day weekend, I could have several writers/family members give it a look before sending it off. And so that’s what I did.

Director and actors. Actors and a director. That’s all I need. As soon as possible. My mind flitted past the set, props, sound, lights—thank God, I’d reduced my production costs and wrote an extremely simple show. I just need the people. I can stage manage, get the props, do sound and lights. But I can’t act in it or direct. They are essential. And I only have one month. Time to pull out the old check list and get to work.