The Venue, The Stories

There were some very memorable moments in the preparation for the performance of "Voices of the Homeless."  First I lost my venue.  A man whose name I will not mention, who positioned himself as the head huncho at the venue, told me I'd have to make certain "donations" in order to have my performance there.  The venue had been promised to me for free because of the content so this was news to me.  Suffice it to say, I panicked.  For the next four months I looked for alternate venues, while trying to mount the performance at the same time.

Luckily it all got resolved with a few well placed phone calls and, as suddenly as I lost my venue, I had it back again.  "Voices of the Homeless" was performanced on August 21, 2010, at the WAV (Working Artists Ventura) in downtown Ventura.

The most important element of this performance, though, more than where it would be presented, were the homeless themselves.  I was asking each one of them to expose themselves in front of up to 100 people about the most painful times of their lives.  If someone had asked me to do the same thing, I'd have told them to go to hell.

But five people stepped up to the plate because, in their words, they felt they had something to say.  (And I say, Bravo.)  There was also a sixth woman, but she would not expose herself.  Her situation concerned me so much, though, that I asked her for her permission to tell her story for her.  This is why the sixth story is from The Woman Who Will Remain Nameless.

I asked each person to tell the audience what they believed the audience did not know about the experience of being homeless.  They didn't have to specifically tell their story.  I said to them:  "Nobody knows who you are.  Nobody knows how it feels or what it's like.  What do you want them to know?"  So they shared what they thought was important.  This is how I felt I could get to the meat of the matter.  It's not about a sob story.  It's about Information, and all we do Not know about being homeless.

One man told his story in order to get over his fears.  You see, he has no teeth.  One woman wrote a poem.  One man played his guitar.  One man talked off the cuff no matter how much I pleaded with him to Write It Down!  And for each "story" there was a quartet of musicians improvising behind them, sometimes soloing, sometimes playing all together.

The storytellers rocked.  They had such courage.  The musicians held them in their arms.  You could feel it.  I want this kind of performance to happen again and again all over the country, teaching us about each other and putting more jazz musicians to work.

This is why I'm making a a documentary.

Thanks for reading.