Skip to main content

... and I'll break out in hives if I want to!

That's right. It's my party. So, regardless of how cool I may look or how organized things may appear ... I'm having travel-sized panic attacks for at least a week leading up to a major event. My sixth annual Verbatim show was no different. (Friday, Nov. 18, 2005)

I was mostly worried about butts in chairs; I knew the show itself would be great b/c all of the performers on the lineup were fire. However, a hot lineup does not guarantee butts in chairs. I've mistakenly leaned on that lesson before.

So marketing is it, right? My bread and butter. My goal from Show 5 to this one was to elevate my marketing efforts from "the underground" to the mainstream. The accurate phrasing of this goal, truthfully, should be "My goal is to have a mainstream marketing budget." Let's face it; we do the underground because we gotta make the most of the resources we have, yeah? Do you think McDonald's or Nike or would opt for squads of college kids cramming flyers under wiper blades instead of advertising? Uuhh ... no. The answer is no, they would not.

And I didn't want to rely on that either. Use it, yes. Rely? If-y. So, of course, I secured even fewer sponsors this year. Of ... course. Money where the mouth is, right? Yeah, well ... whoever coined that little phrase wasn't staring down the barrell of a stack of bounced checks and cycles of phone calls that rotate quickly enough from friendly to firm to furious to fuck you and don't you ever call me about another show again.

Butts in chairs.

Sponsors or no, I have to set in motion everything I promised myself that I would for this year's event: more headline talent, advertising, ticket agents, street promotions. I've done them all for past shows, but with varying degrees of both effort and success. This year, I had to turn on all the jets. Taalam told me that someone told him the best way to promote a show is to start months in advance, then drop off. When you start back, the public will think "hey, i thought i missed this ..." or "hmmm ... i've heard this somewhere before ..."

Made sense to me. So I tried it. Kendall told me that I needed more people selling tickets ... and sooner. Made sense too. So I tried that. I used the six dollars I had left to advertise on the radio, and in the paper. I cross-marketed. I emailed people incessantly. I did my PR thing. I bartered with another PR pro to help me do the PR thing. I point blank asked-slash-pleaded with my friends and family to buy tickets, especially the folks who always wish me luck and never support my shows! I passed out fliers to the girls in drive through, guys in Walgreen's, everywhere. AND enlisted a pair of folks to focus on nothing but getting flyers out.

I can say, with a straight face and free heart, that I did everything I could do to make this show successful. The day before, I told my mother that I was proud of myself.

That made her smile, in that way only a mother can beam.

Butts in chairs would've been gravy, at that point.

Gravy, I say: the show was amazing! Truly the best Verbatim production yet. Plenty of butts in chairs and an unbelievable showing by the performers [Death from Below, Al Letson, '05 Milwaukee Slam Team, La'Ketta Caldwell (actor), Mike Bonner (comic), Tana Reed (music) & Carlton Thompson (music)]. The host was pretty good, too (me! me!)

So, the moral of this story is that the Superwoman cape is much more effective now when I join with other superpowers. I have a lot of people to appreciate between Show 1 and this Show 6. I'm sure I'll double the number of souls I'll be indebted to even by the time Show 7 rolls around next year.

And, yes, even when Verbatim explodes into a national tour and everything is being paid for by Virgin Records and Dannon Yogurt, best believe there will still be a tiny rash of hives on my hand as evidence of a week of tiny panic attacks.

Hey ... it's my party.

Comments

congrats mama! keep making moves like superwoman wishes you could've if she lived in milwaukee and made drinks like mama duck

Popular posts from this blog

Tiger Pause

At eleven, my daughter's fears were getting mauled by a tiger, injured a car crash and being a victim of rape. We talked a lot over the years about sex, sexuality and patriarchy, music lyrics and power, media, shame and the law, discretion, integrity and the whispered fragility of boys. At sixteen, I rocked her as she wept. Her slender shoulders were violent from crying. One of her friends had been raped. Months ago, but was only beginning to share. Months ago, when she started losing weight, stopped hanging out before pre-calc, and kept exhaustion shadowed beneath her makeup contours. We sat crouched on the stairs leading up to my room. She'd called out my name from the dark hall. Her voice, normally expectant and full, had been small and reaching. I peeled away from my husband to find her on the landing, shaking. My daughter felt helpless and hurt that her friend had gone through so much all alone. That she didn't know. Couldn't have known. That it was so unfair....

Nothing promised

When I'm not scribbling lines of poetry on Q'doba receipts or dialogue quips on my daughter's homework (hey ... Yale will not be asking for copies of her worksheet on words that start with "th"), I'm pretending to be a marketing consultant. Actually, I'm pretty good at what I do (I'm allowed to say that, right?) I only say "pretending" because I'm one of those people who always thinks they could and should be better, especially since I started working independently 6 yrs ago. I used to recoil from the [whisper] overachiever label ... but I used to think I'd be a Size 10 again, too. Right. Get over it. Anyhoo, I was hired to plan a 99th birthday gala for the first African-American woman to become a licensed mortician in the State of Wisconsin (I know). But, this sista was smooth, you hear me?! She's still vibrant and eloquent and graceful and warm and funny, simply amazing. I put together a photo montage for the reception and din...

Standing and Waiting

I always felt for the kids who were picked last for everything. Even now, my chest will ache at some silver screen footage of kids hoping for a pudgy finger to point in their direction, of them standing and waiting for someone to call their name and rescue them from another gym class Debacle. In school, I was seldom among the first kids to get picked for kickball teams and group projects.  I was rarely the last kid standing, either. Falling in the middle, and playground politics being as volatile as they were, I could never be sure if "today might be the Last Kid day." It wasn't until I was finally making my way to one team or the other that the adrenaline and waves of anxiety would subside and I could, once again, acknowledge the existence and plight of other human beings. Relief was quickly replaced by pangs of guilt as the remaining cluster of classmates awkwardly stood and waited for someone to call their name, for someone to rescue them from Last. I thou...