It took me sixteen years to land my first Broadway chair. Sixteen years of subbing, showing up to whatever gig was in front of me, staying in touch with people even when nothing was happening. When the call finally came, it didn’t come from an audition. It came from someone I’d known for years, long before that show was slated to go into the Shubert Theater. Somebody who watched me show up over and over again, long before there was anything in it for either of us.
That’s not a story about talent. That’s a story about a relationship that got built over years.
Here’s the truth few people in this business want to say out loud. Broadway isn’t a meritocracy. It’s a trust economy. There are thousands of incredible musicians in New York City. Nobody hires the best player in the city. They generally hire the player they trust, the one whose number is already in their phone, the one they’ve actually sat next to on a bandstand, at a bar, or across a dinner table. That’s not me being cynical. That’s just how it works, in this business and every other one.
Which brings me to something that’s been bugging me. I know, I’m about to sound like the “get off my lawn” guy for a second, but stick with me. My generation, we used to say we were dating somebody. That word described an action, something still happening, still figuring itself out. Younger folks don’t talk that way anymore. They say they’re “in a relationship.” Three weeks in, and the label’s already locked.
I get it, I’ve got kids in their late teens and early twenties, so I’m not totally out of touch with the lingo. And yeah, I know they’re usually talking about a romantic one. But aren’t we all in some kind of relationship with somebody, all the time? Just different kinds. My relationship with the guy who got me my Broadway chair isn’t the same as my relationship with my fiancee, and neither one is the same as my relationship with a colleague I’ve subbed for. They’re all relationships, but the word is doing almost no work unless you know which kind you’re talking about.
Take Facebook. I’ve got close to 5,000 friends on there. Out of those 5,000, maybe 400 are people I actually know in some real sense, colleagues, coworkers, people I’ve lived near or worked with over the years. Strip that down further and I’ve got somewhere between 100 and 200 people I’d actually call a friend. Out of that group, maybe 50 would show up for me through thick and thin. Fifty. Out of 5,000.
That gap is the whole story. “Friends” on a platform is a number a website made up to keep you scrolling. The guy who called me wasn’t one of 5,000. He was one of fifty.
I’ve got a fiancee, a son, a daughter, two sisters, a long list of cousins. Every one of those is a different kind of relationship. They survive, or they don’t, because somebody calls, somebody shows up, somebody does the unglamorous work of staying connected even when it’s inconvenient. It’s the same as the relationship that eventually got me hired for Memphis the Musical back in 2009.
So here’s a real question. Right now, you’re in a relationship with me. You’re reading something I wrote, you probably know my name. But what kind of relationship is it? Are you actually here, doing something with this, or are you a number on a list, same as 4,950 of my Facebook friends? Pick one person this week, somebody you played with once, somebody you’ve been meaning to reach out to. Don’t text them. Call them. Better yet, schedule a time and date to meet in person.
I try to practice that myself. A few months ago, I put out a post asking people to meet me in Midtown during rehearsals for Cats: The Jellicle Ball. A handful of you took me up on it and we got lunch. It was great actually getting to know some of the people who follow Broadway Drumming 101. Each conversation was maybe fifty minutes, and I learned more about what they actually wanted out of their careers than I would have from a hundred DMs. Now if somebody asks me about one of you, I can actually vouch for you, because I know you, not because I’ve seen your name pop up in my notifications.
And here’s the thing. Watching me play in my little booth at the Broadhurst doesn’t count. I love that people come see the show, but that’s an audience, not a relationship. There’s a new spot called Jazz Cultural, right around the corner from the theater on 46th, and you don’t have to love jazz to walk in and feel what a room full of musicians actually showing up for each other feels like. That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about.
So here's what I actually want from you. Leave a comment and tell me where you're playing this June, July, or August. Not a pit, not a musical, that's the last thing I want to go see, I get plenty of that already playing in my own booth eight shows a week at the Broadhurst. I want to hear the real music, the stuff that gave birth to all of these musicals in the first place. I don't need to spend any more time than I have to going to see the kind of music some of my colleagues jokingly call "almost music" when they mean theater. If it's late enough that I can get there after my own curtain comes down, and it's not a trek out to deep Brooklyn or Queens since I don't have a car anymore, I'll actually show up and watch you play.
And it's not just about me showing up. Somebody else reading this might be looking for the same thing, a real club, with real musicians who actually want to connect. Not follower counts. Actual gigs, actual nights, actual people showing up for each other. Let's see how many of us end up at the same gig this summer.
Hit that button below and let us know what’s going on!
You know I don't get out much, and I know you don't have a lot of reasons to visit this ass-end of nowhere I dwell within. But my door is always open to you, because this has been a relationship for nearly a dozen years, one for my part which I highly value and count it an honor to be a part of.
(I have no clue, folks, what this good man has ever seen in me...)
We've never met in person. And I count you as one of the best friends I ever had. So there.