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New Beginnings – Changing Audio Disciplines

Audio is a beautiful medium. There are so many things you can do within it, so many different paths your career can take. Sometimes, even if your passion for audio is as strong as it always has been, you can become disillusioned with your chosen discipline. This is what happened to me over the last couple of years.

If you’ve read any of my previous blogs for SoundGirls, you’ll have noticed that my discipline has been radio and podcast production. To recap, I spent several years working in broadcasting after obtaining my Master’s degree in Radio Production, and after going freelance during the pandemic, I started producing and editing podcasts. I also made a couple of radio documentaries which were both shortlisted in their respective categories at the New York Festivals Radio Awards (in 2021 and 2024).

“Sounds glamorous!” I can’t tell you how often people have said that to me on learning what it is I do (or have done). Everything I’ve made and every project I’ve worked on has been the result of hard work and dedication. But there’s a whole other side that most people haven’t seen, like the financial struggles and uncertainty that come with freelancing, the constant competing for jobs and fighting for acceptable rates of pay, and the long list of rejected funding applications and project proposals. Nobody ever said this industry would be easy, and plenty of people manage to stick it out despite wondering: “Why did I ever want to do this?” But others can’t, and I was one of them.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved a lot of it. I’ve always seen myself as a storyteller and I don’t for a moment regret any of the ideas I had that came to fruition. But the time came when I started to think there had to be more out there for me to do. For example, I really missed that live sound environment. Even though it still took place in a studio, one of my favourite things to do had always been to get my hands on the faders of a mixing console. That’s where I originally saw my career in radio going, but it didn’t quite end up that way (though not for lack of trying).

At some point I started to think more about branching out into theatre and live events. It’s ironic that this happened during a time when the entire industry was shut down due to a global pandemic, with little idea of when (or if) things would be the same again. But I made a promise to myself to explore the idea further when the picture was clearer.

Sure enough, Guildhall School of Music & Drama in London advertised an intensive three-day short course in theatre sound engineering in summer 2023, intended as an introduction to the different roles within a theatre sound department and a chance to learn some of the basics. I went, and loved it. I learned about mic fitting and a little bit of Dante networking and got to practise using a Yamaha console. I was also so excited by the drama school environment and decided to look into it some more.

That’s when I realised how expensive most drama schools can be, especially if you’ve already gained higher education qualifications as I had. It was also tough to find courses that focused completely on sound (rather than technical theatre generally) and wouldn’t mean investing another three years of my life in education. I put the idea on the back-burner for a while. In January 2024, I was lucky to get the chance to shadow the sound department on The Rocky Horror Show when it came to Dublin on tour. I had an amazing few days, and afterwards I asked several members of the team for advice on getting a foot in the door. They all recommended trying to find depping work. I contacted every theatre and venue I could think of, with no luck at all. Unfortunately the industry in Ireland is incredibly small so I knew I’d have to find a way to move back to the UK if I wanted to stand a real chance.

That’s when I stumbled upon a brand new, year-long professional diploma starting in September at the Bristol Institute of Performing Arts. While not a sound course per se, it was one of three pathways available along with lighting design and stage management. All you had to do was select your preferred pathway during the application process. It was also much more affordable than the other educational options I’d come across, and could give me the hands-on experience I needed in one year rather than three. I applied, interviewed and was accepted.

And now here I am, living in the beautiful historic city of Bath in south-west England, commuting the short distance to Bristol by train and immersing myself in an area of sound that is new to me, yet allows me to draw on the fundamentals I’m already well acquainted with (signal flow, for example, or — when it comes to sound design — working with DAWs). I’ve already designed and mixed one show and am about to start on another; all of which I’ll be blogging about my experiences of as the year goes on.

Some people have questioned why I felt the need to undertake a course like this when I “already know everything about sound”. First things first, nobody knows everything about sound. There are just too many different disciplines within it and no one can master all of them (even one is enough for most). And it’s not just about sound; I’m learning about how theatre works as a whole, how different departments work together, how technicians and performers communicate with each other and what it takes to bring a show to life. Beyond that, I’m making contacts I would not have had the chance to otherwise. I’m also learning more about myself in the process; discovering strengths I didn’t know I had and encountering new challenges.

Would I call it a career change? Yes and no. I’m still a SoundGirl either way, but crossing over into another discipline will hopefully expand the opportunities that are available to me.

Fielding Feedback

Sound is a department that a lot of people don’t understand, but everyone has an opinion about it. Learning how to navigate notes, complaints, and feedback (the people kind, not the speaker kind!) is a skill that’s imperative for your sanity in this career. So how do you deal with them?

Let’s start with the creative team. Obviously, whatever notes or feedback you get from your design team you should take and implement. It’s their job to fine tune the mix and tech is an excellent time to pick their brain so you can learn why they’ve made certain decisions, and then you yourself can make more informed choices when they’re no longer in the room.

Getting notes isn’t a bad thing. Sometimes it feels like it’s an inherently negative experience because people are telling you all the things you did wrong during the show, but it’s better if you can frame it as improving so you can level up your skills or your show.

Unfortunately, that’s not to say you won’t run in to people who are insensitive or even deliberately harsh when giving notes. I had an A1 who would give me notes one day then, on another day, give me additional feedback that seemed to contradict what he had said before. Another time, when I was learning the mix, the notes I got from the A1 was that “it was bad” and I “needed to do better.” Which felt like it was intended to knock me down a peg and make me feel insecure.

If notes don’t make sense, ask them to clarify. If what they’re saying feels cruel, that’s harder to unpack. In my example, I wish I’d had the wherewithal to ask my A1 to be more specific so I had actionable items to work on instead of a sense of general, unhelpful disapproval. Sometimes it’s simple as starting a conversation about how their tone is coming across, but that’s not always the case. If you don’t think you can have a productive dialogue with the person noting you, but do feel comfortable talking to someone else on the team, go to them and ask for advice.

If you’re an A1 noting your A2, it’s good to remember that in many cases, mixing is not necessarily something they consider their primary job. Some career A2s enjoy mixing, but others do it because it’s an expectation of the job and still get nervous at the console.

The most important thing is to be specific with your notes. Don’t just say it was bad, talk about what happened and the best way to fix it. (Again, harsh language like that is asking for confidence issues and potentially creating bad blood in your department.)

Acknowledge mistakes, but don’t harp on them if the mixer already knows. Missed pick ups are a fairly obvious thing, so I usually say something like “you missed that line, but you already know that.” That way they know I was paying attention, but we’re not spending extra time when the solution is to not miss it in the future.

If there are repeat problems, ask for feedback. What seems to be tripping them up? Helping someone’s mix improve is a two-way street.

All that being said, if you think your creatives can be harsh critics, I’d like to introduce you to your audience.

There’s a Cracked article by Jason Pargin that I love. I’ve had it saved as my browser homepage for probably the last five or so years (probably more). The premise of the article is a “New Year New Me” feel, but with a side of smack-you-upside-the-head realism. It asks what you can DO. Not if you’re a nice person or have a lack of faults, but what skills do you have?

It’s well worth the read.

It makes a point that when you make something, people will feel the need to comment on, criticize, and critique it. When you put something creative into the world you are inviting that world to tell you how you’ve done it wrong. Cue the audience. Those who’ve never attempted to do it (and have no idea what goes into it) are sure they could do it better and all those Karens will happily tell you that your work is simply not up to snuff. After more than a decade at the console, I’ve met plenty of them.

When I was on Saigon, I had one man stand by FOH and tell me that the show sounded bad and just kept repeating that until I had exhausted my usual polite responses, hit the end of my patience, and finally told him he was being rude. To which he responded “I’m not rude, I’m telling you it’s bad” and huffed off.

In another venue we had a 45 minutes show hold for automation which resulted in four pages of audience complaints which ranged from “I can’t believe they still had intermission after we already had to wait for 45 minutes” to “we held for so long and the sound wasn’t fixed when they restarted.”

On Les Mis, I had someone tell me that he’s seen the show 25 times and he knew how it was supposed to sound.

I’ve forgotten the venue but there was an online review that I kept a screenshot of because I couldn’t help but laugh at the perfect example of what we struggle with every day:

Credit is usually given to the actors. Criticism is usually given to the crew. The sounds they heard that were indeed too clear and strong to come from a mere mortal since it was in reality coming from a sound system that created both the “out of body experience” and the times they had trouble with the lyrics.

Pro Tip: don’t go fishing for reviews. People like to criticize and complain much more than they like to compliment (again, reference the Cracked article’s point).

In one theatre I was warned by the house head that the venue gave out free drink tickets to mollify people who complained, so shows always got a lot of complaints because patrons knew they’d get the tickets.

On Outsiders I had a man come up to tell me that the show sounded atrocious.

We’d also had a couple complaints over a few shows that the speaker in front of them (a side fill) wasn’t working. I double checked and it was, but they were reacting to the fact that it was delayed in such a way that you placed the sound as coming from the stage instead of sourcing to that particular speaker.

Sometimes you’ll have a person come up and complain and someone else right behind them will overhear and tell you they could hear everything perfectly fine.

Some are trying to be helpful and alert you of a potential problem. Some want to talk to your manager. Some just want to be right. Others might have hearing issues that they don’t even know about. I’ve worked in theatres with seating capacities from 1,000 to 4,000 and it’s nearly impossible to make every single one of those people happy.

Most of the time, dealing with complaints in the moment is fairly easy. I’ll usually ask them where they’re sitting and tell them that we’ll look into the problem.

The belligerent ones and the Karens are the outliers. If anyone won’t take a simple answer, send them to House Management and say those employees can better deal with their feedback.

My general rule for complaints is: 

One person puts me on alert: there might be something wrong, but it’s doesn’t require immediate action.

Two complaints will put me on guard: I might need to do something, so let’s make some cursory looks at potential reasons for a problem.

Three or more means that something likely is wrong and I need to actively look into making a change.

The logistics of dealing with complaints is usually simple, the bigger issue is that it’s very easy for them to get under your skin. Now that someone has told you something’s wrong, you start to second guess what you’re doing and how it sounds.

Unfortunately, there’s no easy way to develop a thick skin so you can mix through negative feedback, but it’s almost an essential for mixers.

When in doubt, circle back to your team. If you’re in the same city as your designer, ask them to come back and note (or if they’ve already gotten feedback from other people who’ve been by to note the show). If you’re on tour, ask someone who’s been out to listen recently (PSM, resident director, conductor) if things still sound consistent, or ask if they can come out to listen at some point. Get out in the house yourself while the A2 is mixing (if there’s time in the backstage track). You can learn a lot about how everything comes together when you’re able to get out from FOH and walk around the balconies and the sides and hear how the mix translates to the other areas of the theatre.

At the end of the day, you were hired because they trusted you to do your job. Notes are meant to help you do the best job you can, and audience members will keep you humble. Treat everyone with respect (unless they fail to respect you in turn), and keep trying to learn.

Go Bother People

Over the past few years I’ve had the opportunity to do a handful of interviews (thanks to SoundGirls) and some talkbacks (thanks to Outsiders). After a while I noticed that eventually someone always asks a version of “what’s one piece of advice you would give?” My response to that usually ended up being: Go bother people. Go find someone who’s doing something you want to do (or something even remotely connected) and ask them how they got there. Ask them what they learned and what they would share with someone just starting out.

Personally, I love when people come up to the console during intermission or after a show to ask questions and share that they might be interested in pursuing theatre as a career. I have a stack of business cards at FOH just waiting for someone to walk up and start a conversation.

However, I also know that walking up to a strange to start a conversation is not an easy thing to do. I was the quiet kid in college who was more likely to sit back and absorb what was happening than put myself out there and ask questions. I was always worried about sounding dumb or appearing pushy or annoying. But now that I’m on the other side of those interactions, I wish I’d spoken up and reached out more. The truth is that almost everyone is happy to talk and answer questions. We’re all potential mentors just waiting to have an audience for our stories.

So, when you find someone doing what you want to do, go talk to them. If it’s at a show, find a moment before the show starts or at intermission to say hi, let them know that you’re interested in what they’re doing, and ask if you can come back at intermission or after the show to chat. Bonus points if you can find their job in the playbill and know their name! If I know someone’s going to come back to say hi, I’ll actually stick around at intermission, otherwise I book it backstage as quickly as I can to avoid everyone charging to the bathrooms or standing in the bar line.

Then, when you get to talk to them, think of a specific question or two to ask. I couldn’t care less if it’s “how long have you been doing this?” or “how do you like working on this show?” Even what seems like a simple question can spark a larger conversation. (Pro tip: if you’re a little shy and your parents are with you, bring them along as a buffer. They are great at asking questions, especially when they’re talking to someone about their kids’ potential future career.)

What it comes down to is that I want to talk to you and share what I do, but I want it to be things that you’re actually interested in. Just like you, most of us aren’t great at talking to people we’ve never met, so if you can give us even a nudge in the right direction it can help immensely.

Before you leave, ask if you can email them or reach out to them on social media. Some people just don’t think about it in the moment, but will be happy to say yes if you bring it up. I know of several people who keep business cards at FOH for that very reason.

If you forget, see if you can look them up somehow. I’ve had people message me on my LinkedIn profile or email SoundGirls asking them to forward an email so I can get in touch with them.

Once you have their contact info the most important step is to actually follow up and send the email. It wasn’t a first date, you don’t have to wait the proverbial three days so you don’t seem desperate. You want to show that you’re interested. I would guess the number of people who’ve followed up with me is a slim 10% or less.

Just like the initial questions, this doesn’t have to be eloquent or complicated. A simple “Thanks for giving me your card, would you mind if I reach out in the future with any questions?” is a perfectly fine intro. I think far too many people get too into their heads about needing to make a grand gesture when all you need is the electronic version of reaching out for a handshake.

Don’t get discouraged if the response isn’t immediate. There are plenty of times I’ve read an email, marked it to respond later, then got distracted with any number of things. Or it accidentally got filtered into Spam.

Since I still vividly remember what it’s like being the kid that didn’t want to cause a fuss I’ll make a point to tell people to give me a nudge if they don’t hear from me in a week. It’s not rude or pushy to do that follow up, often times we just get sidetracked and forget that we haven’t actually responded.

In general, I would say three is the magic number for trying to establish contact initially. If you reach out that many times over the course of a couple weeks and don’t hear anything back, likely they don’t have the time to respond. If you’ve already been talking, you have some more leeway since there’s an established relationship.

Once you have reached out and they’ve responded, continue to ask specific questions, even if it feels simplistic or like you’re just making up something to reach out to them. Like I said before, specific questions are easier to answer and once you start a conversation, the responses you get will bring up other questions and make it easy to continue chatting.

This is something that applies not only to meeting new people, but for reaching out to the ones you know. When you’re starting out in your career don’t be afraid to reach out and ask people for advice or see if you can shadow on projects they’re working on or let them know you’d like to work with them if there’s ever an opportunity.

Quite honestly, these are things you should do no matter where you are in your career. You can’t expect other people to read your mind, so learning to advocate for yourself and ask for opportunities early in your career will help you down the road. If you get nervous about reaching out to someone, just remember that we’re all people.

Imagine someone a few years younger than yourself coming to ask for help. Would you be happy to lend a hand and give them advice? The answer is usually yes, and the same applies in the other direction when you’re the ones asking for help.

So this is your sign to take a moment today and think of someone you’ve wanted to learn from. Then go reach out and ask them for help. Chances are you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

Living the Dream

This April I opened my first Broadway show: The Outsiders. It was a whirlwind, an adventure, and it was incredible: working on Broadway, on a show of my very own! This was something I’d dreamed of doing since I was a twelve-year-old middle schooler who stumbled headfirst into theatre and decided it was what she wanted to do for the rest of her life.

The highs were breathtaking: parties to celebrate our milestones, press events for morning and late-night shows, getting 12 Tony nominations when we had no idea what to expect with this jam-packed season, a Tony watch party where we celebrated as we won for Best Lighting, Best Sound (!!!), Best Direction, and practically cheered ourselves hoarse when they announced that The Outsiders won Best Musical.

Even better, my parents were there to support me for some of those moments. Having them there on Opening Night made me appreciate my own milestone in a way I would have missed without them there. They were my reminder that this was something special, that not everyone gets to do this kind of thing. Not only working on Broadway but achieving a childhood dream.

Some so many people knew that little girl with dreams of Broadway and when they found out I was mixing Outsiders, the grown-up me received a steady stream of congratulations and “Aren’t you just thrilled?!” as I was going into shop prep, then load in, followed by tech, and previews.

Most of the time my reactions were less than excited. Those old friends were thinking of the glamour of a dream come true as I stared down the reality of months of long days, endless stress, and fatigue of every kind. There were countless mornings when I groaned as my alarm went off before there was even a hint of light on the horizon. Load in days where I looked around the room with a sigh as I realized that I was once again the only woman on the crew, or that there were so few of us that you could count it on one hand.

One of our tech/preview days I had food poisoning and decided to suffer in silence instead of telling anyone, giving myself the excuse that no one else knew how to mix the show. So I spent any downtime during that morning work call and afternoon rehearsal with my head on the console or heading to the mercifully empty women’s bathroom in the downstairs lobby, hoping I could get to a state where I wouldn’t feel the need to mix with a trash can next to me. (Thankfully, I was functional for the show.) That was smack in the middle of six weeks working six 14-16 hour works days (80+ hour work weeks for those of you doing the math at home) before we made it to Opening.

It wasn’t easy or glamorous. But was it worth it?

Absolutely.

Maybe not the food poisoning. That I definitely should have called in sick for.

But the rest of it? 100% worth it.

There’s this thought in our culture that the highest goal we should aspire to is one where we don’t actually do anything, we’re always having a good time, and nothing is difficult. The adage that “if you do what you love you’ll never work a day in your life.”

The irony is that the exact opposite is true. But this thought lingers, so when things get hard, it causes so many people to doubt themselves until they give up. It’s not easy to slog through long days at work and come home in sweat-stained shirts with dirt ingrained in the creases of your palms.

It is easy to let doubt creep in when we’re confronted with things we don’t know or people who’ve been doing this so much longer that they make it look effortless.

When we’re starting to learn, we fall into the trap of thinking that obviously we aren’t doing something we actually love, because if we really loved it it wouldn’t feel like work, it wouldn’t feel difficult. We wouldn’t be banging our heads in frustration as we tried to solve problems because if this was actually our passion it would be effortless.

The reality is when you enjoy your job when you’re passionate about your work, and you love what you do, you’ll work harder than you ever have in your life. You’ll throw a project in the trash because you’ve tried absolutely everything, then come back and pull it out because you’ve thought of one more way you might be able to make it work. You’ll go the extra mile to organize your workflow, clean up the cable runs, double double-check everything because you’re proud of what you’re working on.

There’s an energy around a show when people are excited to be there. Where everyone wants to be a little more ambitious because they know that the whole can be so much better than the sum of its parts.

I was incredibly lucky that The Outsiders was one of those projects. From the first day, you could tell that everyone was ready to make some magic with this show. That drive and dedication to say “I have an idea” or try a hundred different solutions to scenes that “weren’t quite right” until we found the one that fit (or realized we’d had the best one along) made our show something special. It’s likely one of the reasons we won Best Musical, even with amazing contenders where so many people thought that Hell’s Kitchen had it locked, Illinoise would break the mold, Suffs would have its rallying cry or Water for Elephants would wow with its incredible acrobatics. Our passion shone through every corner of the production and people have responded to that in amazing ways, which is really what you hope for. The nominations and the awards are incredible recognition, but nothing makes the long hours and the stresses of tech worth it like hearing an entire audience gasp or seeing people leap to their feet night after night, knowing we got it right.

The jobs like that where you can point to something tangible and say “This is amazing, this is why I’m here” make it easy to justify why we chose this career, but what happens when you’re not there because you love the show?  Not all pieces are “art.” Sometimes you just have to pay the bills.

When that’s the case, look to the intangibles that will help you in the future. Does this job give you more experience, better connections, or open up other opportunities? If the answer is no, it may be time to look for something else. If it’s yes, remind yourself of that when you feel exhausted and frustrated. You can’t see it now, you can’t hold onto it, but this temporary moment becomes an essential building block for a stronger foundation down the road.

Dirty Dancing was one of those shows for me. I was there to learn how to be an A1 because I wanted the Les Mis tour going out the next year. Dirty Dancing is entertainment: you’re going to have a good time, but it’s not going to change your life. I worked with wonderful people who are lifelong friends, but I had no illusions that I was going to be artistically fulfilled on that tour.

What that show did do for me was pack a massive amount of learning into a very short time. I’d had the option to stay on Phantom, potentially move up when the A1 left, and then learn as we moved the show every 2 weeks. Instead, I encountered a lot of raised eyebrows as I took a smaller tour that moved multiple times a week. It was the harder, more labor-intensive option, but it was the right one. In one year I moved Dirty Dancing more times than I would have in three or four years on Phantom and got better that much faster at being an A1. Anytime I felt confused or ready to call it quits, I reminded myself that this was working towards a goal, this was a stepping stone and a temporary situation as I learned and improved.

When you don’t have a concrete goal in front of you (or forget that you do), you have a tendency to fall into the trap of self-doubt and wonder what all the hard work is actually for.

I’ve run into some new stagehands who’ve looked at me, already dejected when they’ve barely even started, and said “I don’t think I can do this.” To those people, I tell them to give it time and we’ll talk again in a few weeks. To give themselves the space to learn how to do the job and how to ask questions. So far I’ve yet to have anyone come back to me and still feel like they’re floundering.

This has also come up in troubleshooting. Now, I’ve reached a point where I can troubleshoot most problems over the phone without having to look at the gear. When I remotely pinpoint the problem I usually get a frustrated sigh of, “How do you know that?!” I try to remind them that I have over ten years of experience. Ten. Years. Over a decade of yelling and grumbling at gear while I searched through menus or looked up user manuals. I’ve learned the most likely fails and the best questions to ask to narrow down the possibilities, but that took time. A lot of it.

Those who aren’t plagued with self-doubt tend to veer in the opposite direction and just want to skip to the “easy” part. They want to go on tour, but not one-nighters. They want to be a designer, not an assistant. They want to work on Broadway, not the smaller Off and Off-Off Broadway shows. These are the people who forget that cheat codes are best left in video games. The jobs that get your foot in the door will prepare you one hundred times better for that future dream job than getting dropped in the middle of that amazing gig with little experience and no network to act as a safety net.

Shows don’t get easier, they just get bigger. Bigger budgets, higher stakes, less margin for error. Yes, on The Outsiders I don’t have to move from theatre to theatre, so the physical labor is less, but the shows where there hasn’t been a producer, director, choreographer, composer, or other creative in the house are few and far between. There is a microscope constantly on this show and it never lets up.

Even now, some people hear that I moved to the city last year and think it’s a Cinderella story that I already have my own Broadway show. I remind them of the time I spent on tour. Ten years that gave me the skills to stay calm under pressure, to develop systems that make me efficient, and a habit of responsibility so my designers and creatives know that I will take good care of my show. I wouldn’t be able to handle this show if I hadn’t had all the practice over the years on smaller ones.

The jobs that seem overly difficult or thankless are usually the ones that do the best job of preparing you for your future. The days that you question if you can do this are the days you start figuring it out. It’s not always easy or fun, but it’s necessary. Dream jobs require a lot of work not only to get to them, but to be in them, and that’s what makes them worth the journey. Let’s be honest, most of us who end up in this industry would be terribly bored without a good challenge anyway.

Returning to Work: Reopening Broadway Post-COVID

Broadway was dark for 18 months starting March 12, 2020. I was head sound on a musical when we shut down. When all the COVID closures were ramping up, I knew Broadway would close soon, but I didn’t know it would be that soon—nor did I think it would be for so long. Nobody did. And I did what pretty much everyone in our business did during the pandemic: Actively sought ways to not lose my freaking mind while wondering if I would have to answer the question of who I am without a gig. I stripped wallpaper and re-alphabetized my bookshelves and my spice cabinet. I shredded 20-year-old paperwork and vacuumed my attic. You know, the usual.

What, you didn’t vacuum your attic?

When the George Floyd killing happened, shows started having company Zoom meetings where we could talk about what was going on. People talked about concerns ranging from race relations to mental health to COVID protocols.

We talked a lot about treating our fellow humans as humans and understanding that we can’t make assumptions about anyone’s situation or how they’re doing. We discussed how it’s part of our job to consider the way we make our coworkers feel: Are we being considerate, or are we assuming that what everyone needs is just a dose of our personalities? Everyone assured everyone else that when we returned to work, it was going to be different.

And it was different…just not in all the ways I thought they meant.

Reopening protocols

The first day back in the theater to reopen my show in the fall of 2021 started with a debriefing by the house COVID officer. This was after we’d shown proof of vaccination, demonstrated proper N-95 masking, and got our names checked off against the pre-approved list at the stage door. The debrief was the usual stuff: Masks are required and there were extras if we needed them, wash your hands a lot, social distance wherever possible.

We began the very surreal process of seeing what state our show was in after 18 months dormant. My biggest surprise was the lack of rodent activity around the console. Turns out, without audiences dropping their candy and snacks between the seats, mice seek more fertile pastures. Who knew?

Taking personal responsibility

Moment of honesty here: I drink a lot of water. I’m kind of a jerk about it, constantly asking people how their water intake is because hydration is legit one of the best things you can do for your health. When I’d drained my 32-oz bottle this first morning, I went to go fill it up like normal. But the water coolers were pulled out and disconnected. The unexpected long period of disuse made them mildew and new ones hadn’t arrived yet. No big deal.

At the coffee break I went out and bought a couple of giant bottles because I advocate personal responsibility (I’m impatient, and it’s faster).

When we broke for lunch, I dumped my tools and stopped in the women’s restroom. I started washing my hands and then realized there was no soap. Like, zero. And no paper towels.

For a little context, I’m often the only woman on a crew. Most load-ins I do, there’s no toilet paper in the ladies’ room. The housekeeping staff doesn’t start working until the actors move into the theater. Guy stagehands end up stealing the paper out of the ladies’ room because they run out (housekeeping isn’t there to replace their TP, either) and hey, there aren’t very many women, anyway. While it pisses me off, I would absolutely do the same thing were the tables turned and I’m used to carrying my own Starbucks napkins into the john because, again, it’s a faster solution.

But I’ve never used a theater bathroom without any soap in it.

What a COVID safety officer does and doesn’t do

I left the restroom, hands dripping, fully cognizant of the fact that I’d just used my wet, unwashed hands to open the door in a major breach of COVID (and decent humanity) protocols, and wandered around looking for hand sanitizer closer than FOH. Then I remembered the COVID officer. We had someone on site helping us with whatever we needed that was COVID-related.

I found him and said, through my properly fitted N-95 mask, “Hey, the ladies’ room doesn’t have any soap or paper towels. I figured I’m supposed to tell you.”

And he replied, “Yeah, the housekeeping staff doesn’t come in until the actors are in the building.”

I waited for the part where he said he’d take care of it, being the COVID officer and all, but that didn’t happen.

Acknowledging reality

I have 25 years of experience in the business at this point. I’m no stranger to gender discrimination or crew being treated as less than. But not providing soap during a pandemic after having a freaking meeting before we’re allowed to work about how we need to wash our hands? I was blown away.

And I was surprised by how bent I got.

What this said to me was that the crew didn’t matter, and especially not me. Hard to not take personally the lack of soap in the ladies’ room as the only worker on-site impacted by it. And yes, I’m aware that I’m allowed to use whichever bathroom I choose. Rest assured that as the only woman on the crew, I was doing exactly that.

I was angry with myself for being bothered in the first place and not just happening to have hand soap on me. I was angry for believing the industry meant the crew when it spoke of treating people more equally. And then I was angry at the COVID officer because it seemed to me that if this was his job, he should’ve had some hand soap in his kit.

Advocating for change starts with personal responsibility

Straight up: I’ve been less than graceful about Soapgate. The feelings that come up now when I tell the story prove to me that I haven’t yet let go of the resentment. I’ve mulled and percolated. I knew at the time this was more about soap and water, and I wanted to sift through what it was.

In the meantime, until the actors came into the building, I carried hand sanitizer into the restroom along with my Starbucks napkins and brought three liters of water with me every morning. You might think I would have simply placed a bottle of hand soap in the restroom, but after having not worked for 18 months, that level of forward planning and organization was beyond me.

Besides, had I done that and someone swiped it, I probably would’ve become entirely unhinged.

If we’re going to make changes in this industry—changes toward prioritizing well-being, changes toward gender and racial equality, and changes toward the crew being treated as the true partners that they are in every production—we’ve got to start with personal responsibility. Without that, we’re embracing victimhood, not advocacy.

What personal responsibility means

I start by evaluating what about the situation is within my control. I take the action that I can. And then I usually have a conversation with someone. That brings more information and helps inform my next actions.

Sometimes taking personal responsibility is leaving an unsafe job site, as we saw last year with the Blue Ridge Rock Festival. Sometimes it’s making those decisions on behalf of the crew you supervise. It may be having a difficult conversation with someone above you to get clarity about responsibilities and expectations. It’s always taking a moment for yourself to first acknowledge what you need inside your own head. And sometimes it’s stocking up on hand sanitizer, napkins, and water while you allow yourself to process—and possibly imagine petty, vindictive, and highly entertaining revenge scenarios in your head.

How are you taking personal responsibility for your well-being?

 

Julie M. Sloan has served as A1 on Broadway’s Tina: The Tina Turner Musical, SpongeBob Squarepants, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, On Your Feet, Jesus Christ Superstar (2012 revival), Guys and Dolls (2009 revival), and Jersey Boys from its inception at La Jolla Playhouse in 2004, as well as the tours of Hairspray (First National) and Jesus Christ Superstar. She was A2 on Broadway’s Ain’t Too Proud and the tours of Aida (First National) and Annie Get Your Gun (2000 Revival First National).
She holds a degree in Audio Technology from the Indiana University School of Music and has mixed everything from a tree planting ceremony with the Dalai Llama to monitors for GWAR.

She left full-time industry commitments to pursue writing and health coaching in November 2021. Currently a sub mixer on Broadway for both SIX and Hamilton, she is in the editing stages of her first book, Lights, Camera, Breakdown: Raising the Curtain on Workplace Well-Being.

Readings and Workshops and Labs, oh my!

 

In a previous blog which you can read here, I detailed some of the key differences between mixing an existing work (or revival) and mixing a new musical. New musicals, as many of us know, are their own special beast, always evolving and keeping you on your toes as you process changes in real-time. But getting to the premiere production is already a long way down the road, and before that, a show will go through various iterations and phases. Often those phases won’t have a full production design with sets, costumes, etc. Perhaps they won’t be more than some actors with binders and one musician at a keyboard. There will, however, almost certainly be a sound designer and a mixer. In this blog, we will be diving into the specific challenges of mixing presentations of shows that are in development: what they are, why we do them, and how to set yourself up for success as the mixer.

 

A still from a staged reading of the musical “Theory of Relativity” produced as part of Goodspeed Musicals’ annual Festival of New Musicals.

 

What are the different ways to present a work in progress?

The three most common terms for a public presentation of a show in development are readings, workshops, and labs. First, some quick definitions are in order.

Reading: A presentation of a musical where the show is read and sung aloud for an audience by a group of actors. As its name would suggest, reading is almost always done with scripts in hand, i.e. the actors are not “off book.” Sometimes readings are more of the “concert” variety, with actors at music stands delivering their lines; sometimes they include more staging and choreography (hence the term “staged reading”). Since most readings are not considered to be fully staged, someone will often be tasked with reading some of the stage directions aloud to give the audience a sense of what’s going on in the play. The actors will not usually be in wireless mics and the sound support will consist of some handheld mics set up near music stands, or at other strategic locations around the stage. Other times the actors will be in wireless mics for ease of mixing and moving around. The orchestration will typically be minimal (e.g., a keyboard and possibly a rhythm section).

Workshop/Lab: A workshop is a fully-staged presentation of a show where the actors have memorized their lines and are performing the show “full out,” complete with choreography. Technically, as of 2019, a workshop of a show is a “lab,” but we’ll get to that in a moment. There might be a few minimal props, or a large-scale approximation of the set, much like you might see in a rehearsal room for a full production of a show. There aren’t usually costumes and there is not a lighting design other than “lights up, lights down.” The actors will be in wireless mics, and the expectation is that the presentation will be mixed line-by-line, like a standard musical. There is almost always a band, and likely a larger audio support package including either foldback wedges or a personal monitor mixing system like Avioms.

Fun fact: The history of the workshop dates to the 1970s, when a director/choreographer named Michael Bennett gathered a bunch of Broadway dancers in a room for a few weeks to try out writing songs and scenes based on some cassette tape interviews he had done with them about their lives working as what we in the biz call “ensemblists.” The result was the musical “A Chorus Line” which went on to run for over 6000 performances on Broadway.

Today, the words “lab” and “workshop” are often used interchangeably to describe a developmental process where a show is “put on its feet” and “presented” to either the public or an invite-only audience.

Side note about the word “lab”: Remember a few paragraphs ago when I said that all workshops are technically labs? “Lab” is now the technical word used to describe all developmental presentations or work sessions governed by the Actors Equity Association, the labor union representing theatre performers and stage managers in the US. The new lab contract has multiple tiers that delineate how much staging or props can be used, how many weeks of work can be done, and how much the actors and stage managers are paid per week. Additionally, as was the case in the former workshop contract, actors and stage managers who participate in a lab of a show that goes on to turn a profit on Broadway are now entitled to a small cut of the box office gross (https://broadwaynews.com/2019/02/08/actors-equity-reaches-agreement-on-lab-contract-ends-strike/). This is to account for the fact that even though they may not have been the directors, writers, or choreographers themselves (and might not even be working on the show if/when it gets to Broadway), the work and contributions they made back in those labs are an integral creative component of the eventual full production and should be recognized and compensated. The lab is meant to be overall more flexible as to how the producers and directors are allowed to use the time that they have their actors on payroll.

Why do shows do these developmental steps?

Two big reasons: to experiment and make changes to a piece before investing lots of time and money into a full production, and to “pitch” your show to potential producers and investors who might be willing to get behind a full production of the work if they think it has potential. It’s basically a place to work out your show’s kinks before putting on a “backers audition.” The team is here to “sell” folks on their idea for this musical. As the mixer, you are there to help them make their case by delivering the dialogue and music as clearly as you can so that they can decide if the songs are catchy, the jokes are funny, the story is meaningful, etc. This means that your goal behind the faders will be a little different than just “making it sound good.”

So without further ado, let’s get into some tips and tricks for how to do this!

DON’T. GET. FANCY.

This is probably the single biggest and most overarching piece of advice I can give when mixing developmental work. This process is going to feel like mixing a new musical on OVERDRIVE. The changes will be flying at you even more quickly, and you want to be able to adapt and react quickly and efficiently.

So, what are some ways you can do that?

DON’T GET FANCY with your programming.

Write as few snapshots/scenes as you possibly can. Do the least amount of programming you and your designer can get away with. Unless there is a compelling reason to do more (e.g., it’s what your designer wants), your programming really shouldn’t be anything more than some VCA changes, a little bit of band mixing/fader wiggling, and maybe a little bit of reverb safing/unsafing.

My personal favorite way to program a workshop is using what I call the “All-Skate” scene. Basically, I analyze the script, figure out which characters have the most dialogue, and design one console scene with VCA assignments that will work for most of the show. For a standard musical, every principal will be assigned to their own VCA, with the ensemble in two groups. That way if the writers suddenly throw in a new scene/song, you’ll be ready to mix along with minimal adjustments. Here’s what that looked like in a workshop I mixed last fall:

This is my programming scheme for Norma Rae with everyone assigned to their “home faders.”

Once you’ve got your all-skate scene written, build every subsequent scene out of that template and only change what you need. On a standard musical you might eliminate characters who don’t speak from your VCAs; don’t bother with that here. The likelihood of things changing and people getting added is so high that you might as well be prepared. So, to return to our example from above, here is what my programming for the whole show of Norma Rae wound up looking like.

You will notice from the color coding that I have changed as few VCAs as I need to in each scene to make the programming work. So, even if REUBEN isn’t in a scene/song, I didn’t bother clearing him out unless I needed VCA 4 for something else

DON’T GET FANCY with your book.

I am a stickler for a clean book, but there’s not going to be time. Use all your shorthand. Be ready to erase, rewrite, rip out pages, glue in new lines, etc. For the last reading, I mixed I simply crossed out all the stage directions by hand with a thick pen and did most of the write-ins with white-out and pencil.

On a reading in particular, you’ll most likely not be changing your VCA assignments as much, since you’re just mixing on wired mics that are in fixed positions, and the people speaking at them are the thing that is changing. Make yourself good notes so that you are always on top of who is singing where. If a whole page is just 2 or 3 people having a conversation, I’ll simply write a huge “2+3+4” in the top right corner of the page and then park the mics up. That way I’m not having to follow the dialogue as precisely and I’m not risking missed pickups attempting to be fancy and do a proper “line-by-line” when I don’t really have to.

If you read music notation, working off the piano-vocal score is going to be very useful here. I found myself constantly scribbling on the PV for the 2 workshops I mixed last year, because even with a great script PA, sometimes the score is just more accurate, and gives you a better idea of what’s going on in a song. I mixed only a few songs on the score for the actual presentations, but even so, I was constantly referencing my PV notes.

I know some folks are moving towards digital scripts, but until you are a true workshop expert, I would highly recommend sticking to a good old-fashioned paper script. It will allow you to make changes more easily and get your thoughts down more quickly. You’ll also be able to process subtle and small changes in the room that might not make it into the PDF of new pages that will eventually be emailed out. This is especially true if your show isn’t going to “freeze,” meaning even once you’re into presentations the creative team might continue to make changes.

USE YOUR ALLIES AND GET INFORMATION

Much like on any new musical, the script PA and the music assistant are going to be your new best friends. They are the folks who will be the most aware of what’s changing, who sings when, and what email threads you need to be on. Make sure you are not left out of the conversations that are relevant to you, especially if folks on the team aren’t as experienced or used to working with a mixer. Sometimes they don’t realize how much work you’re doing, and why you need all this information. But hopefully, once they do, they’ll be on your side and will do everything they can to help you out.

BRING YOUR ARSENAL

The workshop mindset requires you to work quickly. There is so little time. You’re basically doing an entire rehearsal, tech, preview, and run of a new musical in two weeks. Be ready with your A-game and all your tricks, hacks, and cheat sheets. Be ready to program quickly, either by keeping things simple, using the “all-skate” method, or some combination of the two. In a reading, consider not using scenes at all if you don’t need them. And above all else, breathe, smile, and have fun. You’ve got this!

If you have any further questions about mixing developmental works, feel free to send them my way and I’ll try to answer them in a future post. I’m always eager to hear from my readers about what topics they would like to learn more about, so all suggestions are welcome!

Time to Train

 

At the beginning of this year, I made a major life change

I left a tour to see what life would be like living off the road, specifically in New York City. Touring folk tend to fall into two camps: those who are planning to eventually go to NYC to live and work full time, and those who enjoy visiting, will go there for shop prep, but never want to live there. They’re either happy to head back to their home locals when they get off tour or plan to spend the majority of their career on the road. I’ve always been of the mind that touring was a phase of my career, not the endgame. I know I’ll miss it, I look forward to visiting for vacation coverage or tech periods, but I’m ready to try something new.

It’s rare that you’ll move to the city and immediately get a full-time show tossed in your lap (although there are people that move here because they have a job already lined up), so I came here with the intention to find work subbing on the mix for Broadway shows (which would provide income, but also counts towards qualifying days to help me keep my health insurance, plus getting to mix!) as well as working in the shops (for income and the ability to meet more people in the industry, so part socializing, part networking).

Thanks to my time on the road, I have some contacts here, so I came to the city with a rough semblance of a plan. Part of which was subbing on Funny Girl. The same sound design team I worked with on Mean Girls also did Funny Girl, so when I let them know I was planning to leave the tour and move to the city, they put me on their list of people they could call. It worked out that they needed to get someone up on the mix around the time I settled in, so  I was able to get approved by management and start the training process fairly quickly.

When you’re learning to mix an existing show

You usually have between two and three weeks (16-24 shows) to get from watching the show to mixing it and your training is live, during performances with a paying audience. I got approved about a week before I actually started (it took time to finalize a schedule), so I was able to get the script and an audio archive recording of the show to start. It’s a much shorter process than I’ve talked about in a previous blog, but I still retyped the script, added in my own annotations (all the while listening to the recording of the show so I could get familiar with it), and practiced mixing it all the way through at least once a day, going through my script, adjusting or adding notes or figuring out how to make page turns easier.

Once I was in the theatre I set a rough schedule of goals. I try to break it down so I watch the show at least once, only to watch so I can start to connect what’s happening onstage to what I’ve been hearing in the recording. Then I’ll use a couple of shows to watch the mixer with my script in front of me and make notes or mark questions. Next, I’ll ghost mix for a few shows, which is basically the same thing I did with my practice board the previous week, just in the theatre, during the show where I can see how my timing lines up with the mixers. Usually, you can make a side fader bank on the console blank, so I can mix at the console, next to the mixer, without actually controlling anything. After that, I’ll start mixing the show, a few scenes at a time, adding on more each show, and ghost-mixing the rest. Finally, once I’ve mixed through the full show, I’ll plan it out so I have a few shows left in the training period where I’m just mixing the show, getting repetitions so I can settle in.

It’s worth noting that as a sub, my script has far more markings than when I’m the primary where I learn the show in tech and consistently mix it afterward. A sub is someone they’ll call for sick days, vacations, or possibly for a brush-up if it’s been a while. All of this means that I might go weeks or even months between mixing (hopefully if it’s months, that’s where the brush-up show would come in), so I need to have more detailed notes instead of assuming that I’ll remember some timing or nuance.

When you’re breaking down the show into sections

There are a couple of ways to do it, based on how you learn best:

Personally, I prefer to learn a show first to last, and this seems to be the case with most mixers. After consistently mixing shows for a long period of time, I have a system for my script and notations to make busier, more complicated scenes easier to navigate. That way, jumping straight into a difficult scene isn’t as daunting. Plus, I found I don’t have to look down at my hands as often anymore. In my last blog, I talked about how I anchor the heel of my hands on the console and that muscle memory reference helps me know how far I’m throwing the fader. That means I can keep my attention on the script and what’s coming next instead of having to always check where my levels are.

However, when I’m the one responsible for training someone (usually when an A2 is learning the mix) I like to use the least to most complicated method. It tends to be a good way for people who are either new to mixing or don’t do it on a regular basis to ease into the show.

No matter how many shows you’ve learned or how comfortable you feel mixing, it’s a daunting task

The first show I started pushing faders for real on Funny Girl (I mixed almost the first 30 minutes of the show), I was so nervous: my palms were sweating, my shoulders were tense, and I was on edge the entire time. I try to keep in mind that everyone makes mistakes, especially when they’re learning, but that only does so much to ease your mind in a high-stress environment. However, as you start mixing chunks of the lives shows, the mixer is always standing by, ready to step in if you lose your place in the chaos of a busy scene or fumble a section and need a moment to regroup. They’ll gradually give you more space as you settle in because it’s also important for you to learn how to recover if you miss a pickup, but they’re still there to support you and get you back on track.

There’s a period after you’ve mixed a few shows and you’re getting comfortable: this is a danger zone.  This is where you’re prone to make more mistakes than at the beginning.

The first few times you mix a show you’re laser-focused and have plenty of adrenaline pumping through your system. As you mix scenes over and over again, that adrenaline starts to fade and you end up thinking about notes you got from the last show or a mistake you made before that you need to avoid. This is when the easy things that you thought you knew to start to slip and you make more mistakes.

I call them regression shows. In high school, we called it the “second show slump” when our first show would be great and full of energy, in the second show almost everything would go wrong, and then the third would finally be solid. Regression shows happen at different points on different shows and for different mixers, but there will likely be a point where you’ve mixed something enough times to feel confident and then out of the blue you’ll make a dumb mistake. When I was training on Mean Girls, I did well as I was learning the mix and flubbed a few smaller things like band moves or cues that were just a touch late. Then, when I was mixing the full show for the first time, I ended up missing two pickups that I’d never missed before, neither of which were in the scenes I was mixing for the first time. Same on Funny Girl: the first pick-up I missed was the fifth show I mixed, and it came with the third page (so a section I’d mixed all five times) as I was focusing on a band move.

Every time, you just have to get back up and keep going. The more mistakes you make, the better you become at recovering and sometimes you’ll even be able to catch them before you miss a line or stop yourself before you take a cue at the wrong time. The more shows you do, the more you discover better ways to help yourself learn which speeds up the process. Always ask for help when you need it: if someone’s training you to mix, they already know you can do it and they want to help you succeed.

Mechanics of Mixing

Mixing is an active experience

Anyone who’s watched me mix a show knows that I’m never standing still. I’m usually tapping my toes or bopping my head to the music while timing my fader throws. I’m constantly shifting my focus as I look up at the stage, down at my hands, or at the monitors on either side of me. I’m listening so my fingers can respond to the actors or musicians while keeping a thought on what’s coming up next. The actual mixing might happen in a small footprint, but there’s a lot going on. It helps to have a solid physical foundation to make your day-to-day life easier especially as so much of our job requires repetitive motion, which can take a toll on our bodies.

The first thing to look at is how you stand or sit at the console

If you’re sitting, it makes it easier because you can adjust your chair to the right height every time and call it good. Personally, I prefer to stand: it keeps me more alert and focused, especially when I’m on a show for months or years. Also, I’m short, so it’s easier for me to reach the top of the other fader banks of the console if I’m standing rather than having to get out of my chair or slide it any time I want to make an adjustment. If you prefer to stand as well, do yourself a favor and get an anti-fatigue mat. The floors at FOH can be anywhere from concrete to carpet to plywood, and it pays down the road to be nice to your knees now.

However, standing at the console can present a challenge if people mixing the same show are at different heights. If you’re short, you can stand on a case lid or apple box. If you’re tall, you can lift the console up with wooden blocks, or (if you already know when you’re in the shop) get racks that are taller and can make the board higher. Personally, I know that 16 space racks put the console at a good height for me to mix while standing.

In some cases, you might not able to find a good solution, or the console is already set to someone else’s height (if you’re a sub or A2 and the console is already set at a good height for the A1). In these cases, I end up using a chair, even though I’d rather stand. It’s far better to have a proper position and the minor inconvenience of having to get up if you need to make an adjustment than force yourself to mix in an uncomfortable position.

For me, a comfortable position means

That I aim for a console or chair height where my elbows are bent at a relaxed, roughly 90˚ angle so there’s an almost straight line from my elbow through my wrist when my hands are resting on the console, fingers on faders. If you’re too far above the console, your elbow ends up higher than your wrist and you put extra pressure on your joints as you naturally press through your palm with the way the wrist bends. On the other hand, if you’re too far below, your shoulders have to rotate outward to get your hands on top of the console and that puts pressure on your shoulders as well as the wrists.

Any rotation of a joint, even a small amount, can create problems over time. On Les Mis, I used my index and middle fingers to move the two orchestra faders, which is fairly common for most people. However, that rotated my wrist to an awkward angle which put stress on it. Eventually, my forearm muscles started to tighten up from that strain, which made it uncomfortable to mix. Even in the mix videos for that show (recorded after maybe 50-60 shows into the run), there are a couple of times where I have to find breaks to stretch out my hand or roll my wrist to relieve some of the tension. I went to physical therapy and got stretches and exercises to help (if something hurts, always go see a professional in a timely manner), but what actually fixed it was when I realized that I could use my middle and ring fingers for the band faders instead and that would shift my wrist to a better position. This eliminated the cause of the problem itself, and as a side benefit, I had my index finger free to make verb adjustments without having to move my hand off the band faders!

No one mixes the exact same way

So what works for me might not work for you, and that’s okay. I prefer to use my middle fingers as the primary for mixing dialogue, but some people use their index. It takes time and a willingness to experiment to develop what your mixing style looks like.

Here are a few things I’ve found that have helped me as a mixer

 

I use the heel of my hand as an anchor point while I’m mixing: as my hands have to move back and forth to different faders, that bone at the base of my palm always ends up resting on the same area of the console, just below the faders. From there, I have a general reference for where the fader is without having to look at my hands: I know based on how far my fingers are extended because my hand is always the same distance from the base of the fader. (With any rule, there are always exceptions: sometimes I’ll have to throw further than usual, so I’ll lift up the heel of my hand and use my pinky for additional stability, or a scene might have me jumping around more than usual so I’m not in one place long enough to truly anchor my hand. When it works, use it. If it doesn’t, find something that does.)

If my left hand (usually dialogue) is free, but my right hand (usually band, some vocals, and the button for sound effects, next scene, etc) is in the middle of a band move when I need to take a cue, I’ll cross my left hand over my right to hit the GO button, similar to playing a piano. I’ve gotten skeptical looks from mixers when doing it while I’m training on shows, but it’s something that works for me. It takes a little trial and error to make sure it’s the right choice and I’m not taking my hand off a fader when I really shouldn’t or my right hand actually does have a moment to talk the cue, but when it works, it helps to simplify my mix choreography.

I’ve spent a lot of time tweaking how my script works. While the script itself isn’t a mechanical part of mixing, how you integrate page turns definitely is. As I developed my system for marking and formatting, I made it my mission to condense the script to as few pages as possible and minimize how many times I had to reach up to flip a page. While that is a legitimate strategy, I found that it put my page turns at awkward points in the mix and had me scrambling at times. Over the course of several productions, I found that it worked far better for me to make sure that each page of the script ended on an easy (or as easy as possible) turn, whether that was a pause in the action or splitting a long line up over the end of one page and the beginning of another. This added a few page turns overall but put them at much easier places in my mix.

Something I need to continue to work on is my focus. Once I’ve been on a show for a while and I have the mix down, my mind will want to wander. Another mixer told me she uses yoga and meditation to help improve her concentration and her ability to bring herself back to the present and to the show. I’m slowly improving, but it’s another skill I need to hone, especially after I lost some of that ability while I didn’t have the chance to mix on a regular basis during the Covid hiatus.

However, consistency will help you as you develop better focus. While I obviously encourage being flexible, once you find what works, set a routine. That’s taking a cue on the same beat of a song, or presetting the band on the same word, even when you could do it anywhere in that sentence, or even taking a water break during the same line every show. Just like standing helps keep me focused when my show count-ticks into triple digits, consistency builds a muscle memory that has saved me more than a few times if my concentration slips.

The most important thing is to listen to your body and your instincts. If something hurts or feels uncomfortable, find a way to change your process so you don’t have to do that. If you have an idea for something that might streamline things, try it. The worst thing that happens is you go back to what was working just fine before and try the next idea when it comes along.

How to Own Your Work Without it Owning You

Working in theatre can be full of ups and downs. You get some jobs; you lose out on others. You don’t always get to know why. Some production processes are smooth; others are nightmares. Since I resumed working in live theatre in 2021, I’ve had my share of all these experiences, and everything else in between. But one thing that has changed for me post-shutdown is how I approach those messier situations. And learning to survive them and still do my job well has helped me learn an important lesson about letting go of some of my emotional attachment to my work.

This is not to say that I don’t still love what I do! I remain deeply passionate about mixing musicals. There’s almost no place I’d rather be than behind a console in a theatre. However, working in theatre isn’t just a source of joy for me; it is also my job and primary source of income. And one of the biggest discoveries I made over the course of the pandemic shutdown when this huge part of my life and livelihood went away for a while, was that it can be unhealthy to tie my emotional wellbeing to something as fleeting as anyone show. And when I think back on how I approached my work then vs now, I can see that I am in a much better place mentally.

It turns out there is an important distinction between loving your work and being ruled by it. And my success at doing the former without falling into the trap of the latter is key to my current healthier overall psyche. Here are some tips and techniques that I utilize every day at work to stay grounded in calm and stormy seas alike.

Practicing Gratitude

Even within a dumpster fire, there is good. I try to remind myself each day, or even each hour, to take a moment to name one thing I like about my current job or situation. It could be anything from “I am grateful that I’m getting along well with my colleagues” to “I am grateful that tomorrow is payday.” Any small acknowledgment of gratitude that helps you to simplify what’s going through your head can be a great aid in re-centering oneself in moments of chaos. I use this technique when I catch myself falling into bad behavioral habits, such as getting impatient or passive-aggressive about things outside of my control.

Lane departure warnings

 

We may think of this as being a safety feature in fancy new cars, but checking yourself or asking others to check you when you begin to let your emotions rule your actions will help you resist the pull of the drama and tension around you. I have worked hard (with a lot of help from my wonderful therapist) to learn what my emotional defense mechanisms are and to recognize them before they get out of hand. For example, I know that when I’m stressed or low on sleep, I can turn into a bit of a control freak and micromanager. At times earlier in my career, I also tended to accidentally overstep my departmental boundaries when I thought I could help with a problem, even when the issue at hand was totally outside my responsibilities. I’ve learned that this behavior, while well-meaning, is ultimately counterproductive because it can hide flaws or issues that need to be solved by the team organically, and not fixed with slapdash “band-aid” solutions. So, learning to stay in my lane has proven to be both a gift (because it allows me to feel pride and ownership of that which is my job), and a relief (because I can let go of everything that isn’t).

Set good goals

Another way I try to cultivate a feeling of satisfaction at every job is by defining for myself what would constitute “victory” or “success” in this situation. For example, on a recent out-of-town show, my primary goal was to develop a good work relationship with a sound designer I had never mixed for before. On a different show that I supervised back in March, my goal was simply to get paid and save money for a future cycling trip. So, regardless of what happens on any of my shows in the end, I can consider them wins for me because I have met my personal goals. Anything more than that is gravy!

Work-life balance

 

To the left, to the left!

 

I’m generalizing here, but I’ve found that because of our long hours, atypical work schedules, resultingly small social circles, and overly cultivated sense of “family” or “community” among each individual theatre company or show team, we (the denizens of the theatrical workforce) are especially prone to letting the work-life scale tip in the “work” direction. Find things you value off the clock and give them the time, attention, and emotional value they deserve. Some tactics I use to maintain my balance are intermission phone calls with my spouse, taking my cat with me when I travel for out-of-town shows, going out on walks or bike rides on my days off, or cooking a simple meal at home that I can bring in to eat on my dinner break. All those things and more help me to remember what I really care about and what makes me happiest, and as a result, I am not expecting work to provide a sense of completeness (or to fill a void) in my life.

One of the great things about being a stagehand is that most of my work can only be done at work. I can’t exactly EQ a microphone or hang a speaker from home. For this reason, I try to take the act of clocking in and out very literally. When I’m at work, I commit to being there fully, doing my best, and devoting my complete attention to the tasks at hand. When I leave the theatre, I try my best not to take any of that home with me. This applies on breaks too. Of course, the existence of modern technologies like smartphones, email, and push notifications can make that hard, but at the same time, especially if you’re paid hourly, then you don’t owe your employer anything when you’re not on the clock. Try using an app timer or similar feature on your devices to limit the times of day that you can check work email. Leave your show paperwork and mix script at the theatre so you aren’t tempted to look at them after hours. If there isn’t enough time in your scheduled shift to get all the needed work done that day, then it’s ok that it must wait until your next workday. And that’s not on you.

 

Accept reality and measure expectations

 

 

We all know that just existing in a stressful situation is easier said than done. Here I am preaching about detaching emotionally from work, and the next moment I’ll be texting a friend to vent about how frustrating some part of my workday was. Being emotional is an extremely logical human response to stressors. It means your body is working as intended! But acknowledging emotions and then letting them go will allow you to keep a cool head and not get stuck in a state of burnout. As my meditation app put it, “Acceptance doesn’t mean apathy. It means seeing clearly from a place of calm, knowing when to act, knowing when to let go.” Someone might come up to you and say something like, “the show is so behind, we’ll never be ready in time!” And that might in fact be the case. But unless one of you is part of the show’s upper management, then all you can do is acknowledge that yes, the current situation is less than ideal, but it’s still ok. Know it’s not your job to fix everything, just to ask for what you need to do your job well. And if that isn’t available to you, at least you’ve made your issues known in a calm and rational way and can now go back to focusing on the here and now of the situation.

At the end of the day, it’s ok to walk away

This blog was intended to dive a little deeper into tactics for maintaining good mental health and objectivity in stressful work situations. However, I want to emphasize that I am not writing this to condone improper work conditions in any way. Everyone deserves a workplace where the expectations of their job are laid out clearly, where each employee is treated with humanity and compensated fairly, and where issues that arise can be brought forward without fear of repercussions or retaliation. That is a bare minimum of what one deserves when one enters the theatre to work on a show. And if your current employer is not meeting those standards, feel free to go find one that will. While not every job will be ideal in every way, you are not “weak” or “a failure” for deciding that a situation you’re in is not the best for you as an individual and that the appropriate solution for your own mental health is to extract yourself from the project. It is hard to remember at the moment, but it’s always true that the ultimate power you have as a worker is the power to walk away, and no one can take that from you or make you feel bad for using it.

Above all, take care of yourself

Theatre is a job, but theatre is also objectively interesting and fun. That’s part of why I and many others choose to put on plays for money instead of seeking employment in other fields. However, “love of the art” does not mean one has to be married to it, as the saying goes. Any emotions that come up because of work are just emotions, no different than the rest of the time. I hope this blog has highlighted ways that creating an emotional separation from your work can ultimately make you a better worker because you will no longer be counting on a show to make you happy. It may do that anyway, but that’s a perk, not a job requirement. You also won’t feel like you’re carrying so much of its baggage if it makes you sad, angry, or stressed. If you can live by the philosophy that your job is to show up, do your work, get paid, and go home, you’ll hopefully find satisfaction in yourself even in less-than-ideal situations, and feel pride in your work at the end of the day regardless of what else happens.

 

A great tool for making a self-care action plan, courtesy of the Mental Health First Aid Association

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