The Rhythm Method

the rhythm of your voice is the wave your inner truth rides in on

I was working at a club. In Queens, I think. I’d just finished my set and the applause sounded - fair. They sounded like they felt just like I did. Yes, I was on to something. But still standing next to it, not fully inhabiting it. Not fully being inhabited by it. I hadn’t somehow gotten, intimate with it yet.

I reluctantly walked off stage, because, well, nothing had changed. Every time you want on stage there’s a change that the molecules in the room will rearrange. That hadn’t happened.

I was still somewhere in that nether world between killing and bombing. I tried to feel good - happy? - at least proud. Honestly, I tried to feel anything. I escape to my head when things are uncomfortable. And yes, I’d clocked another twenty minutes of my 10,000 hours. But I was frustrated. And determined. And of course the thought flooding me instead of emotions: Why aren’t I killing?

It’s so hard to become yourself.

I approached the club owner awkwardly. Because, how to be, when you’re hungry for congratulations but feeling apologetic. That’s a weird combo that ends up reading as defensive.

The club owner was squinting as he was paid me. Like he was trying to see something. I sensed he wanted to say something. Was wondering if I’d be open to hearing it?

I guess he thought I was.
They’re not laughing, but they’re listening.
He paused, for dramatic effect.
Landing his eyes right onto mine.
That never happens.

Thank you?
I really did not know what to say.
It was constructive criticism.
But also in some weird way a compliment.
Because I did want people to be listening.
Honestly more than I cared about the laughing.
But I knew the laughing was important.
I mean, it was also the point.
Serving two masters, is always hard.
Even of one of them is a mistress.

But he kept booking me.
I was a jigsaw puzzle he floated out of bed to go sit at.
Why are they listening but not laughing?
Pour me another one Sam.

Then one night I got off stage and headed over to get paid.
He had a different look on his face.
That light bulb look.

I figured it out, he said.
I was as excited as he was.
At last. I was going to be solved.
You’re doing the wrong rhythm.
Comedy is: one TWO, one TWO.
And you’re doing: ONE two, ONE two.
It’s like you’re in a rock club but playing jazz.
What?! Ugh. I hated jazz.
I wished I didn’t because I agreed with jazz.
But my playlist was Blondie, Talking Heads, B52’s.
Maybe Brian Eno if I was in a mood.
But, also, oh!
That seemed so…. fixable.
Ok!

So I walked around NY
repeating this mantra in time with my footsteps.
Internalizing this rhythm.
One, TWO. One, TWO. One, TWO.
Left, right. One, TWO. One, TWO.

I wish I could remember going back to that club and killing.
That would make a great third beat to this story.

But instead the third beat is a longer, more subtle (complicated?) one.

I did get funnier. #phew
But that’s the result of the story, not the story,
The third beat of the story is how I came to understand his note.
What was true about it.
And what was not true.

What was true, is easier and less profound, so let’s start there.

The TWO.
You do have to learn to land the punch.
Punching takes confidence.
And also self-knowledge.
Or idiocy.
There’s nothing more depressingly brutal
than a comedian who understands punching so well
they are getting laughs, with zero behind it.
A soulless laugh extractor.

The ONE.
The idea of The One
is the way I finally got which part of what he said
that is not true.

Years later, we were editing our third UnCabaret CD.
The Good The Bad and The Drugly.

I was a few rooms away from the editor
And I could hear the voices.
Just the sound of the voices.
The hums and pops.
Bubbling and the screeches.
Not the words.

After like the third person, I realized
I could tell who was talking.
But not by what they were saying, by the sound.
I was far enough away that even the timbre and the tone were muffled.
All I could hear was the rhythm.
And it struck me how very different
How distinct
The rhythms were.
How singular.
How each one was The One.

Everyone at UnCab really spoke in their own rhythm.
And in some ways
It was this uniqueness of rhythm that was defining, allowing, essential.
That the rhythm wasn’t just a tool for telling stories
Rhythm, in some way, was the story.

There isn’t
A correct rhythm.
We all have our own rhythm.
It’s part of what we listen to when we listen to our heart.
It’s there for us to discover.
Like a buried treasure.
Ba bum ba bum ba da bum.
Use a diving rod.
X marks the spot
Get a shovel.
Listen to your breath while you dig.
Can I get you a water, that looks like it’s going to take a while.

Soon after that, I was trying to help a student with their dynamics.
Honestly, lack of articulated dynamics is a hallmark of beginning comedians.
I was searching for a way to help them understand
that dynamics aren’t just about being more entertaining.
I heard myself say:
The rhythm of your voice is the wave your inner truth rides in on.
Woah, we both said.
Then we laughed.

Not sure I would have gotten there
without that club owner pushing me.
I wish I could remember his name to thank him.

The path reveals itself as you walk the path.
One foot after another.
Walking as only you do.

With Infinite Love and Gratitude,
Beth

If you’d like to hear my rhythm live and in person! I’d love to see you at It’s A Lot this September.