The delightful Miss Dornacker and Miss Goldberg, with hats.
Some years ago one of my photographs was included in a feature on SFGate.com's blog. There is plenty of nostalgia for those days in the Bay area and many die-hard fans –gods bless them! Enterprising journalist, Peter Hartlaub, haunted the SF Chronicle's photo morgue to unearth some gems. The dream-come-true: receiving a proper photo credit for this photograph of yore. Even more amazing that it survived along with this timeless image. Seems just like yesterday…
Whoopi arrived for the session early, so we perched in my front window-seat and talked 'comedy' while we waited for Jane. At the time, she was working with Berkeley's Blake Street Hawkeyes and already honing her characters—the junkie Fontaine, the Surfer Chick, the Crippled Lady and the Jamaican Woman—that would become part of The Spook Show. These staples were likely part of her show at the upcoming Great American Music Hall with Jane.
At that time, many comediennes chose the stand-up joke telling model which assured them booking in nightclubs and bars, where the short attention span of drinking patrons was rewarded with quick get-to-the-point punchlines. The tougher road to forge was character sketches, which seemed an inherent female talent and the province of theatrically trained actresses. Those that ventured into character work were a tougher sell to the club bookers and their audiences. Conversely, as a showcase for television or films, it was ideal to show ingenuity, range and versatility to possible casting agents in the crowd… if you could book yourself on the club circuit to pay the bills while waiting for your big break.
The most memorable part of our conversation, was her certitude of success and fame. She knew she was going to be a big star, and said so, out loud, in so many words, with conviction. Impressed with her confidence and long a believer in 'naming your intent', I had no argument with her sharing her mantra and plans for destiny. I understood the ego required for performing, so it was familiar in my world, not arrogant, rather matter-of-fact. She knew fame —big fame— was coming, maybe not knowing how it would transpire, but assured it was within her grasp. This was nearly a year before her off-broadway debut, Mike Nichols's 'discovery' of her talents, and 'the rest is history' inevitability…
Jane finally arrived in true glamazon style, costume changes, props and make-up bag in tow. The style contrast between the two was apparent, unimportant, so unmentioned. We got down to the business/fun of capturing the right image for what would become a flyer for the show. As an improviser, I was ready to play with their ideas and add mine to the mix, on-the-fly. Good photographic practices call for a variety of poses to yield surprises during the session and a range of choices afterwards. A bit like bracketing for exposure, it's a way of covering the bases while the talent is in the studio. During the shoot, despite encouragement from Jane, then me, Whoopi was reluctant to remove her hat for some alternate looks. It may have been the vanity of a bad hair day, but she was not having it, demurring our requests with a child-like reticence. After the bravado of her future trajectory talk, it seemed like a contradiction to her fearlessness and self-assurance. To this day her reaction still puzzles, and while we did convince her to de-hat for a dozen shots, I will honor her mysterious reasons and keep those in the vault for a while longer.
By the way, I believe Whoopi's dreams came true, as well.
Re-animated fun from that shoot… an ill-advised and out-of-character idea from Jane's prop bag.
Robin and me, Comedy Day, San Francisco c.1984 Photo Credit: Sue Murphy
Everyone that survived the 80's comedy boom in San Francisco has at least one story that includes Robin as the main attraction. We all wanted to share the stage with one of the best and brightest, hoping to up our own personal game or just bathe in the same spotlight while hoping a little of the fairy dust rubbed off on our otherwise meager talents. As is the nature of ego, others may have hoped to hold their own with his rapid-fire brilliance, or even best the genius of his rolodex mind. I often witnessed the self-satisfaction of lesser talents basking in landing a personal bon mot in front of his adoring audience. The crown jewel of achievement was catching him off guard and actually hearing his surprised chortle of amused recognition of your bit of funny. I often thought his gracious appraisal was at once congratulatory and encouragement to fly further with him to the rarefied air of his orbit. Few did; all tried.
Certainly a recounting of that moment was shared and re-shared in pissing contests with others lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time, a battle of "Oh yeah, well once he joined me after my set and..." those encounters became legend in each of our minds and were told as proof that the possession of genius was ripe for the picking, and not the sole proprietorship of one freakishly talented individual. Those treasured moments were likely looped in memory to revisit the thrill, perhaps elaborated and enhanced, and likely called in to service as self-soothing on nights when the gig was less than stellar, singular and truly lonely on similar stages with hacks and wannabes. Our minds, when left to our own devices, yearn to be special, unique and above the pedestrian. The brutally honest part of a performer's brain, or maybe the built-in insecurity and doubt, knows better. That moment was certainly hard evidence of our untapped abilities and the destiny of greatness in the pursuit of stardom; the type of stardom that Robin was scouting ahead and dancing with before our eyes. It seemed wonderful and magical and within our grasp, at least in that glimpse of a moment. At least, at that time within San Francisco's comedy enclave.
One of his kindest contributions was graciously sharing and collaborating, even as his circle was widening beyond the hothouse environment of SF. He allowed us a peek behind the grander curtain, what it was actually like... each bringing our own hopes and dreams of belonging and being included in the exclusive club. I suspect that he also loved to play and required playmates who understood the shorthand and lingo. Maybe just a stretch to keep the comedy muscle tuned and limber, but he was likely seeking the joy of collaboration or making something out of nothing, disengaging the calculating brain and leaving the imagination to its own devices. Nothing is better than being surprised by your own mind and the wonders below the surface waiting to be tapped and un-trapped. It has its own addictive qualities, to recreate that high of the high-wire, to be blameless and shameless for a shortcoming, failure or transgression and move on through the glorious pell-mell of creativity unleashed.
For many he was the reason that comedy as a vocation became a way of life. I watched him burst forth from my small TV on a local comedy show filmed at the Great American Music Hall, on a bill with other rising stars in the comedy scene. He smoked every one of them; that’s not to say they weren't entertaining and garnered laughs, but Robin erased their triumphs with a new kind of authenticity. No one was like him, as his methods were madness and otherworldly; almost foreign and incomprehensible to translate what was happening in real time in this new way of funny. He was the undeniable star of the evening and soon to be for his generation/the ages. I was left speechless, gasping and sputtering with incredulity and vaguely grokking my new aspiration, perhaps similar to mortals gazing on the gods when they deigned to appear before them. That night his talent soared from the stage through the audience and into the stratosphere, transmitted by way of a 13" television. My subsequent journey began to steep myself in countless improv workshops, learning the way of those before me to honor the ancient craft, then performing, and hanging out in comedy clubs for further research or as an insatiable sponge for all things funny. My fellow travelers were possessed with the same compulsive desire and the City's fertile ground nourished and sprouted all sorts and stripes of humor.
Robin stops by to play with Femprov at Cobb's Pub in the Marina Terry Sand joins the trio in a Madrigal. Photo Credit: Mark Pitta
Of course, my path crossed again with Robin. When he was in town as a respite from his burgeoning career, he also turned up in the small clubs we frequented to grab a bit of stage time. His presence was always met with a murmur of excitement and anticipation among the comics. We knew the night had already become special and we were about to become audience members held in his thrall. The scarcity of patrons in the club magically transformed into SRO. Somehow ‘word on the street’ spread like wildfire and a literal stampede engulfed the room. The subsequent roar of the crowd when he took the stage upped the ante and the energy became electric and immeasurable by standard comedy gauges of entertainment. Everyone sensed, no, knew, they were in the presence of a remarkable entity and it was now our job to witness this shooting-from-the-hip superstar.
Among the working comics, ambition and competition were temporarily put on hold... it was time to be entertained and schooled. Heads up, the Rosetta stone has taken the stage and we had yet another front row seat and chance to decipher the method to his hilarious madness. The clues had to be there, it was just a matter of paying close attention. Doing justice to these performances is feebly captured with mere words. Take yourself back to the first time he flabbergasted you; re-conjure that for yourself and attempt a description. Mind-blowing and boggling all at once, preternatural and spellbinding, and oh-so-very funny only begin to scratch the surface of that singular experience. I’m guessing you’re smiling, but words fail.
Afterwards and off stage, he was friendly and extremely gracious, even as he was inevitably accosted or ogled by a spent and grateful crowd grasping at the hem of his garments. After hours, backstage when the club closed to the public and the ballyhoo had died down, he was one of the gang, all of us still amped from performing or just watching him weave his stream of consciousness.
Was this a form of recharging and a touch of normal he welcomed from the juggernaut of his meteoric rise into the Show Biz firmament? I like to think we offered him a small remembrance of familiar things long since passed by (recently lost) in his life that had suddenly and deservedly leapfrogged over our earthly struggles. There was no turning back from his inevitable path now, but one often yearns for simpler times with mundane surprises. Who hasn't revisited their grade school or attended a HS reunion to take stock and gain perspective on a life's passage? He was shy, respectful and humble beyond the talents he obviously possessed... or maybe just observed our foibles while some were searching for any small acceptance in his eyes. Still, most welcomed his down to earth attitude, and the grace with which he tolerated our embryonic state, as an example and proof that fame and fortune did not necessarily have to expose the inner asshole we all harbor and hopefully keep at bay.
Linda Hill and I create a Robin sandwich, backstage at Cobb's
He gave, but boy did he get. I had a small taste of the thunder and lightning he absorbed from a crowd.
Traditionally, Comedy Day in Golden Gate Park was headlined with an appearance by Robin. He followed an amazing roster of local comics who were loved in their own right by an appreciative and knowledgeable comedy crowd gathered for an entire day of back-to-back 5 minute sets in broad daylight in a polo field full of funny-loving folks. In some years the numbers swelled to thousands. Not an easy room, especially for performers used to working small darkened clubs with intimate crowds, half in the bag, focused by a singular spotlight on a small stage. Few of us had arena experience, although it felt like rock star proportions when you took the sun-lit stage.
Obviously, the adoring masses had been hopeful they would be rewarded for their patience with a lengthy set by Robin. If he was in town, he did not disappoint. All kibitzing among the comics backstage came to a halt because it was time to watch him unfurl his brand of magic. The response to his introduction, standard by now, made us all realize the laughs we earned earlier were mere titters by contrast. He was their maestro, orchestrating their now-forgotten exhaustion into a frenzy of joy and laughter. It was mesmerizing to watch the puppet-mastery of it all on the faces of an audience reacting in perfect unison, just as Robin intended. You might think this hyperbole, but I assure you, no exaggeration is required.
When he could finally end his extended set, despite further protestations by the crowd, all comics would join him onstage en masse to take a final bow and thank the audience for being there. Honestly, we all wanted a piece of that goood stuff Robin had whipped up. All of us clambered onstage and I found myself near the front behind Robin. The roar of the crowd was crazy good for the soul and the greedy ego that fuels us all, enough for a lifetime. We were all soaking in this field of people on their feet, clapping, screaming and literally barking with approval. I noted my vantage point behind Robin was pretty special, as most of this adoration was rightfully focused toward him. His sight line was spectacular and this POV allowed me to imagine stepping into his performing shoes.
Comics traditionally returned to the stage to thank the audience… and take one last bow after Robin's closing set on Comedy Day in the Park (1984).
Knowing when to leave the stage is just as important, so you 'leave 'em wanting more' or, realistically, don't wear out your welcome and the goodwill of those applauding. Expertly, Robin took the initiative; he turned around and reflexively hugged the first person in the sea of comics. It happened to be me. Robin was a hugger, so this did not seem out of the ordinary from the regular hugs received over the years. What I wasn't prepared for was the combined energy from performing and the subsequent received love from his crowd. The hug transferred all of it to me in that embrace. Yikes, like nothing I have felt since. Electric and visceral in impact. A sonic boom of quantum force. It would have knocked me on my ass if he had let go. When he did, he met my shocked look with a knowing gaze, as if to say, "That's what the real stuff feels like every time." I had my share of loving and thrilled audiences and the occasional standing O, but I was never able to replicate or receive that feeling on my own. It was an unexpected gift and a sudden realization of how unique Robin's experience must have been.
Though I flatter myself as part of the 80’s comedy inner circle, San Francisco’s up and comers witnessing and cheering on a comrade’s launch from our ranks to the highest of heights, I have no legitimate claim to really knowing Robin. His recent passing and our cumulative clumsy attempts to make sense of how someone who meant so much to so many could exit a world of such adoration is obviously beyond our ken. Abandoning all that… and us, calls into question our own capacity for handling all the varieties of love he received. We flounder in our own shallow and vapid imaginations about the perceived perks of his life…or the incomprehensible and attendant pitfalls.
Perhaps he had sated the adoration-seeking aspect of a performer’s life long ago; maybe that was never his concern. I cannot fathom the depths of his clinical lows or the heights of the joys he experienced, consistently touching countless souls of several generations along the way, each and every one believing, for that moment, he was our closest compatriot in this folly of existence.
By happenstance, I had a sliver of insight into his world one sunny afternoon 30 years ago. Despite this minimal proximity to a kind and generous man, I am comforted by the certainty that he wasted little time in fully living an extraordinary life. Good speed, Robin.
Details of how we got into a large showroom are gone upon waking…although I have flashes of initial dream's location orientation. We are seated stage left near the front of a comic-con type gathering. Before the show starts, we are called away to answer questions, tour and inspect a house across the street with some urgency. Supposedly we have some knowledge of the home (it may be mine or had been). Police are involved, because when we return I look back through the auditorium's entrance portal to see them on balconies and roofs combing the slope-roofed brick abode. I implore Teresa? to witness the goings on behind and over our shoulder, as it appears Frank Kidder and another old-school comedy guy (Cantu) are now part of the police proceedings. I comment: "Thought you would ever see that?…" Upon our return to the audience, we see that our away time has been put to good use by Denise and Joe entertaining the happy crowd with some fireman's carry game with sets of two hapless audience members and have accrued 60 points. Cheering and laughter for these time-fillers, while the original intent of the show/panel is all but forgotten. Later we are all in a van with Charlie Brown among others in the back, on our way to another performance.
I am away from my web duties for a week and in my absence Will has changed up the Front Page of his website to include obituaries/shout outs of RIP to recently departed celebrities. The design is minimally compromised and will be dismissed when fresh stuff happens this week. I have a meeting with him to reconnect after my absence and discuss in a small bistro. There are plenty of people around and I cover my design exasperation to convince him back into the original well-thought out design. He is somewhat oblivious to the ramifications of the changes that rock my little design fiefdom. Later I visit their house and speak to Debi, where it is apparent she is the one that made the changes… and discusses the HTML strategy in unravelling my code. She knows her DIV tags and lobbies for the changes as viable alternatives. (Which they are, I am just stubborn) can't argue with Debi's laizzai-faire approach. Again there are many people around and visiting that I don't know from my longer absence from the comedy scene. There is a sense of shyness and not wanting to intrude in this group of people I 'know' (how to navigate, handle) and relief that I don't have to use my energies and powers to navigate and handle these folk. There are many familiar feelings I recognize within myself that are triggered reflexively to 'come to the rescue' in this social situation and make right. There is also a confusion in not knowing the back stories Debi helpfully offers to include me in their back stories. Other locations are dream forgotten, but they are busy, colorful and filled with people.
