R&R in the Black Box!

I found myself in a little black box theater last night. It took awhile for me to locate the a/c so I immediately burst into flames, I always run hot; a muggy August evening, in a small enclosed space, stuffy, and hermetic, this is where theatrical magic happens. I was there for a band rehearsal, my other band, the one that rarely plays, rarely rehearses. We don't really want to be "good" or tame or put together. We like it loud and raw. I mean we are sort of musical, not dark, not too heavy, just a noisy garage band.

All the sweating reminded me of all the many years I have spent in dark, black-box theater spaces. Most of them have been homemade, marginal, and for some reason, there was never any a/c and I was always in there during the hot summer months. Lots of sweat. It was sort of agreeable. Made it always seem like the neccesary work. Essential. Important. Maybe it wasn't really important, but it felt that way. Like some sacrifice, some effort, some discipline was required to do the good work. The scene, the play, the skit, the one-off performance piece, the song, the monologue, whatever. I mean it was the good work even if the result was a bit shabby, or loose, or ramshackle.

It was always the doing, the effort, the willingness to endure, to stand up and try something. To try to create something that didn't previously exist. So many years doing it. So much of my life. Conjuring up things that came aand went with barely a ripple. I am left with a few photos, lots of memories, and  buckets of sweat, except of course, there were no buckets. I do know there were buckets of sweat. But nothing to point to. Sweat. Now evaporated. Who knows, maybe absorbed by the atmosphere, added to the great cloud of unknowing? How did rehearsal go? Fine. Hot, sweaty, ears ringing. I plugged my Fender Telecaster into a little tube amp and wailed away for all I was worth. The band played that old rock and roll in the black box. We all sweated, but it was good.