R. A. Davis, c. 2009 Remembering McCourt
Back in the '80's when I worked at the Zephyr Theatre Complex in San Francisco, I saw a lot of performaces, mostly poor, but occasionally shows so strong & beautiful they moved me, and have stuck with me over the years.
One morning the office manager told me a new show would be coming into Zephyr I. "It's called 'A Couple of Blaggards' and it's about these two Irish brothers and their experiences in America. You'll love them," she said.
So that's how I met Malachi McCourt, and his younger brother Frank.
They were impossible not to love. Mellow, genial, and incredibly funny. Their show went like this: short scenes usually lasting not more than three minutes and always ended by a hilarious line by either Malachi or Frank, followed by a blackout that lasted only long enough for the audience's laughter to dwindle. Then lights up for the next scene. The scenes were in chronological order, beginning with Malachi's emigration to the US, followed later by Frank's, followed by their ensuing adventures here.
Their lighting tech was a guy named Tim. We got along pretty well, and eventually he asked if I wanted to fill in as the guy in the control booth who hit the button that would change the stage lighting, the button being on a computerized lighting control board. I loved the show and always needed a few extra bucks, so I agreed.
After about the first night I ran lights I discovered a problem. Despite having seen it several times, I still found the show funny, especially the last line in each brief scene. So on one particular night I hit the blackout button while laughing my ass off. From somewhere near the floor I heard the opening of the next vignette.
MALACHI: Welcome to America, Frank.
FRANK: Thanks. Sure is dark over here.
MALACHI & FRANK: CAN WE PLEASE HAVE LIGHTS????!!!!!!!!!!!
After the show I went backstage to apologize, and explained to them the way I'm wired up inside is that I can laugh at the same joke I've told or heard a hundred times, that I'd had to get off the floor and onto my knees to give them lights for that 'Welcome To America, Frank' scene. They were having none of it, my apology, just laughed it off.
I did lights for the show maybe a half-dozen more performances. I still laughed my ass off. But I never again missed a lighting cue.
When they closed the show and went back to the Big Apple — Malachi to tend bar at the Bells of Hell, Frank to teach school or whatever — they left a coupla things behind in the dressing room. A pair of well-made leather mocassins that pissed me off because they were too big for me — must have been Malachi's; he was an Irish giant. The light gray felt fedora that Frank wore onstage. Frank was slighter in build and the fedora fit me perfectly.
I never wore the fedora in San Francisco. But later, after I'd bought a motorcycle for a dollar, I used to scrunch the hat into the top of my backpack when I went camping, and straighten it out while building a good fire for a meal. Frank McCourt's fedora became my Smokeshifter, my fanner of embers, and my genial companion when I was alone in the mountains. I had to leave it behind when I got evicted from my last apartment. But I remember it fondly, how it felt on my head. How it waved the smoke away, so that what was left was clear.
One morning the office manager told me a new show would be coming into Zephyr I. "It's called 'A Couple of Blaggards' and it's about these two Irish brothers and their experiences in America. You'll love them," she said.
So that's how I met Malachi McCourt, and his younger brother Frank.
They were impossible not to love. Mellow, genial, and incredibly funny. Their show went like this: short scenes usually lasting not more than three minutes and always ended by a hilarious line by either Malachi or Frank, followed by a blackout that lasted only long enough for the audience's laughter to dwindle. Then lights up for the next scene. The scenes were in chronological order, beginning with Malachi's emigration to the US, followed later by Frank's, followed by their ensuing adventures here.
Their lighting tech was a guy named Tim. We got along pretty well, and eventually he asked if I wanted to fill in as the guy in the control booth who hit the button that would change the stage lighting, the button being on a computerized lighting control board. I loved the show and always needed a few extra bucks, so I agreed.
After about the first night I ran lights I discovered a problem. Despite having seen it several times, I still found the show funny, especially the last line in each brief scene. So on one particular night I hit the blackout button while laughing my ass off. From somewhere near the floor I heard the opening of the next vignette.
MALACHI: Welcome to America, Frank.
FRANK: Thanks. Sure is dark over here.
MALACHI & FRANK: CAN WE PLEASE HAVE LIGHTS????!!!!!!!!!!!
After the show I went backstage to apologize, and explained to them the way I'm wired up inside is that I can laugh at the same joke I've told or heard a hundred times, that I'd had to get off the floor and onto my knees to give them lights for that 'Welcome To America, Frank' scene. They were having none of it, my apology, just laughed it off.
I did lights for the show maybe a half-dozen more performances. I still laughed my ass off. But I never again missed a lighting cue.
When they closed the show and went back to the Big Apple — Malachi to tend bar at the Bells of Hell, Frank to teach school or whatever — they left a coupla things behind in the dressing room. A pair of well-made leather mocassins that pissed me off because they were too big for me — must have been Malachi's; he was an Irish giant. The light gray felt fedora that Frank wore onstage. Frank was slighter in build and the fedora fit me perfectly.
I never wore the fedora in San Francisco. But later, after I'd bought a motorcycle for a dollar, I used to scrunch the hat into the top of my backpack when I went camping, and straighten it out while building a good fire for a meal. Frank McCourt's fedora became my Smokeshifter, my fanner of embers, and my genial companion when I was alone in the mountains. I had to leave it behind when I got evicted from my last apartment. But I remember it fondly, how it felt on my head. How it waved the smoke away, so that what was left was clear.
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Comments (4)
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An admirer who can spin an amiable ramble of a good Irish tale himself, begorrah!
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August 09, 2009
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