Tricky Business

“I’m nervous because I care… I’m nervous because I care*…”

I repeated this aloud to myself in the makeshift sound booth of Seattle’s Paramount Theatre one recent Sunday afternoon, moments before turning on the microphone. I was poised to deliver a pre-show speech and live description for Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, and I didn’t feel entirely ready.

I rarely (maybe never) feel 100% ready. Even with weeks of prep time. I think that was true of my acting years, too. Anything could happen in the jungle of the present moment onstage. Back then, though, readiness wasn’t always requisite. I used to be an adept improviser. Now when I speak on the spot or off the cuff, I notice the clunky sentences and spaced-out pauses that jerk and screech. I clock the continued impact on my word bank, leftover from a brain injury seven(!) years ago.

An audio describer with a dented, gappy vocabulary. Funny how the absurd-humored universe plops me into the precise conundrum where my green growth edges against my comfort zone like a fern unfurling from cracked pavement to find its light.

I know the words are in there, somewhere, invited to make appearances with the support of a thesaurus and time. Ample time for dance. A good thirty hours to script a two-hour poetry marathon for a dance concert (a.k.a. an AD blank slate, compared to dialogue-heavy theater and film). I need the provision of a roadmap to help me highlight the most crucial points of the nonstop unfolding action with vivid, efficient eloquence. I want to guide listeners who have varying levels of eyesight into their best possible experience of and relationship with the artwork and artist.

That’s a big responsibility. 

“I’m nervous because I care…I’m nervous because I care…”

If nonverbal actions emotionally move me or anyone else with intact eyesight, such as the final moments of the musical Hamilton, I wish for everyone to have the same opportunity to be moved. I doubt I’m inventing the high stakes involved in my delivery. My word choices, timing, resonance, breath, and sincerity shape the window between the listening audience and the onstage, sight-biased storytelling. I don’t take that lightly.

After describing performances of Dance Theatre of Harlem, Camille A. Brown and Dancers, and Alvin Ailey (just a sampling of the national greats, no pressure!), plus our local butoh-rich Degenerate Art Ensemble, patron feedback has convinced me that meaningful dance AD is not the neutral-toned narrative interjection about a kick here and a spin there. It’s impossible to state every single flick of a wrist and concurrent pirouette in real time anyway. Therefore, technical dance vocabulary, objective “say what you see,” and other standard “rules” of AD aren’t useful tools in this context—not exclusively. Instead, dance concerts demand a dynamic vocal performance of poetry—and how interesting to try synchronous poetry!—to match the dancers’ embodied emotions and the choreography’s abstract ideas.

[To be continued…piece in development… Stay tuned!]

*Wise words bestowed upon me from director Paul Budraitis circa 2014-2018.