On Receiving Praise

Tonight was the debut performance of the "Best of Broadway" show that has been monopolizing my spare time in recent weeks. The culmination of all our efforts will be summed up in three nights. If tonight was any indication, the two performances this weekend will be successful. Approximately 250 musical theatre enthusiasts attended tonight's show, so I expect that this will be the smallest crowd we will entertain this weekend.

But that's not what's bugging me. Actually, I was quite pleased with the outcome of tonight's show. What is eating at me has much to do with the camaraderie of the shows' performers.

I understand the merit in being kind to people. But performers are an insecure bunch. They are overly critical of their own performance -- and I'm no exception. I don't talk about it, but I scrutinize my every performance, noting every small error I make.

Because I am the sort of person who wants to achieve perfection, even though I know it is impossible to attain. It is my motivation to work harder, to study my instrument and deconstruct it to its' bare elements.

In order for me to pull off such a show requires a great deal of mental focus. 30 minutes prior to the performance, I am concentrating on the music, going over last-minute details so I can deliver the best I possibly can, to those who paid good money to see the show.

Perhaps other people notice this, as one of tonight's performers spoke to me mere minutes before the curtain went up and told me that I had this "awful scowl" on my face. In response to the observation, I smiled, loosened up a bit and told her I was in a good mood, to forgive my awful complexion, and that I was channeling my energies.

I felt I played well tonight, but it was far from a perfect performance. Still, in the last few days, members of the chorus -- many of them whom I have never met, and wouldn't know them if I ran into them on the street, have been telling me (in passing), how much they loved the sound of my drums, or how I played.

Of course I did the right thing, and told them "thank you".

I don't know where or when the complex developed, but when someone tells me how much they liked my playing, I can't help but think they are full of shit.

I mean, who listens to the drummer? I am no more than a foundation; a supporter. I am not the show, and I don't play a show like this to be noticed. I do like performing, but when I do a show like this I want to do my best to make the soloists look (and sound) good.

Perhaps the reason why I don't like people paying me compliments is that I think they are trying to kiss my ass.

But then, tonight I realized something important. How do I know that these performers are kissing my ass? Maybe they really were listening to me. More importantly, perhaps they were involved in a show in years past when the percussionist played poorly, or did not support the soloists, or played too loud and drowned the troupe out.

This is epistemology. How do I really know what these people thought of me? Yes, there is a contingent of performers that will kiss your ass, because they like theirs to be kissed in return. Some people like to give credit where it is due. Some people generally mean what they say, but truth-tellers are getting fewer and further between.

I consider myself to be a very humble person. There were approximately two times in tonight's performance when the Master of Ceremonies and the soloists recognized the bands' efforts, which of course, was met with fantastic applause from the attendees. Yes, these sorts of things are baited to elicit applause, and a part of me wanted to crawl inside my bass drum and hide, but all you are supposed to do is smile, like doing a show like this required no sacrifice on your behalf.

Yes I love to make music. I make too many sacrifices in my life (like sleep) so I can entertain audiences. I like it when people like me.

You like me; you really, really like me! I say, as I hold the world's smallest trophy.