Surviving the Fringe

Well not empty but comparative lack of an audience. This is one for both audiences and performers.

So picture the scene. You take a punt on an unknown show. You take you seat. It’s a minute to go…. And the room is just you and a couple of people. In your head, you think “Why did I choose this when I could have walked another 15 minutes and seen what’s their name from Live At The Apollo?” You sit there thinking, no one has come to this. It must be rubbish.

At the same time as this optimism collapse is happening, elsewhere in the building, maybe about half an hour ago, the performer might have asked at box office “How many in today?” The box office person will have mumbled a number. The performer will have thought “Shall I ask them to repeat that number?” in the vain hope that they misheard and yet they dare not ask for a repeat because they will hear that disappointingly small number again. The box office person perhaps will suggest “Maybe there will be a walk-up” and both parties will exchange a knowing glance that accepts that walk-up will never come.

So why, The Recs guru, are you telling us this? Audiences will feel embarrassed by empty chairs surrounding them – performers could feel shamed by the cavernous void to which they are playing. It all gets quieter and politer. But The Recs is here to tell you that it doesn’t have to be that way. The Fringe is often a spin on the wheel of fortune and the size of an audience is not equal to the quality of a show. 

An anecdote: back in 1994, I was the technical manager to Miss Eartha Kitt at the Churchill Theatre where she was doing her one-woman interpretation of James Joyce’s Ulysses through the eyes of the character Molly Bloom. It was a hugely hot ticket that year and was playing to sell-out audiences in the generous-sized theatre. Later in the run, the producers of the show decided to add a matinee performance in the final week. Except for one reason or another, it never got advertised. Nobody knew the performance was happening. And therefore the legend that was Eartha Kitt was playing the show in a 891-seat theatre to about 13 people, at most twenty. Miss Kitt asked me how many were in when I went to fit her body mike. There was not the usual buzz of audience excitement being in the presence of an icon coming through the Tannoy so she knew. I told her the number and this famously combustible star just nodded. I went back to my lighting booth at the back of the theatre and it began. I had seen the show many times by this point. And yet… this performance to a handful of punters… what could have been awkward and shaming instead became something extraordinary. Eartha played Molly with all the brakes off. In the emptiness of the room, she performed the show like I never saw that show or any show performed. It was a choice by Eartha, I’m convinced. She gave everything to reward the fealty of that handful of fans. Watching from the box at the back of the room, I watched Eartha channel such rare truth and vulnerability, I almost missed a cue because the tears were rolling down my face. Instead of cringing, we few in that theatre shared in one of the most affecting and unguarded performances I’ve ever seen. One I’ll never forget.

So if you are a performer and there aren’t queues round the block or you are an audience member and you think “Oh bugger I’ve not chosen well“, please don’t be disheartened. You might still enjoy an a transformative hour of entertainment that will stay with you for years to come.