“Do any of you have asthma?” I realized it was a bit of an odd question, but I looked at our seats, and I thought it needed to be asked.
“Uh, no.”
“Okay, good. Because they’ll do some cool stuff with brooms for the first few minutes and it might get a little bit dusty.”
I couldn’t believe the seats. A few days prior, my friend Dave and I talked about the possibility of getting a small group of people together to go see STOMP. It ended up being four of us, sitting almost center in the second row at Gammage Auditorium.
I’ve seen STOMP several times. First in San Jose with my older brother, a few years later with a friend in San Francisco, and one more time back when I was a student at ASU. I’ve watched the HBO special, seen the clips from their appearance on Sesame Street, and read the news articles about their anti-litter campaign. Yep, I’m a fan, and I was thrilled by the last-second seats. They were, without a doubt, the best seats I’ve ever had for a STOMP performance.
I was the only member of our group who had already seen a production of the show. I tried not to tell too much—well, other than the broom situation. It’s quite a thing to watch as nine or so people bring to life elaborate rhythms, comedy, and connection at times using drum sticks, but definitely not a traditional drum set.
There are two things I absolutely love about the STOMP performance. Two things that just jump out and make me think long after the second or third encore.
First, the performers don’t talk, or rather they really don’t really say any words. They might clear their throat as a part of a bit, or make a quick sound with their mouth, but they don’t cheer. They don’t use words to talk with the audience. They don’t use words to talk with one another. And yet, throughout the entire performance you get what is happening on stage. You get what they are saying to one another. You get when they want you to participate. You get what they thought about that participation. You are part of this wordless conversation, and it makes complete and total sense. It’s a brilliant example of the power of body language and nonverbal communication, and oh yeah, it’s way fun.
I thought I’d end up writing a full blog on that first aspect. On how we can communicate or something, but the second thing I love about STOMP was more much apparent to me this show than in any other one I’ve seen.
I sat on the end of our group of four. My other neighbor was a nine or ten year old boy, sitting next to his friend or brother. My seat shook throughout most of the performance, rocking in response to their seated dancing. Between each “scene,” the boys would talk and comment.
“This is awesome!”
“Did you see that?!”
“Wanna try this at home?!”
Normally, I’m not for talking in the theatre. I’m a big fan of letting the performers “speak” for themselves, but I was actually enjoying it this time. The performers saw the boys and would make a little extra eye contact with them at times, communicating an appreciation of the boys’ obvious enthusiasm for the show. When they did this, the boys would always end up saying something like, “this is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
Just over halfway through the show, several cast members created a hilarious and heart-pumping performance using only newspapers. It’s amazing to listen to the different tones a piece of paper can make, and see the variety of ways that paper can be used to elicit laughter. Just when you think a performer can’t possibly do something else with their particular stack of papers, they do. I’ve seen multiple casts perform this same number, and I’m continually impressed by how each cast makes it their own and constructs something entirely different.
As the applause faded and the lights went out, allowing the cast a quick moment to transition into the next number, I heard one of the boys say, “I’ll never look at a newspaper the same way again.”
And that was it.
It’s what I love most about STOMP. The whole thing is based on every day objects: brooms, books of matches, dishes, newspapers, sand, pails, a discarded fastfood cup, a plastic bag, and a collection of items displayed on stage. Everything is used, and when you walk out you can’t think about any of if the same way.
STOMP really does take the ordinary and makes it extraordinary.
And they invite you to be part of that process.
After watching their show in San Jose, my brother and I happened to stumble into some cast members later that night and visit with them. They were incredibly kind, asking us questions about what they might do in San Jose during their stop there, and humbly accepting our enormous praise of their performance. We ended up chatting for several minutes, most of the time dedicated to them explaining how they trained. STOMP looks for talented percussionists and/or dancers. They undergo an intense training, spending hours a day, relearning their craft on everyday things. As you can imagine, it’s incredibly exhausting and frustrating. The talent is there, but they have to transition the way they think and utilize it. I remember one performer telling me, “I had no idea what I was doing for the first few months and then one day, it just clicked.”
It’s amazing to see what happens when they light goes on (or in the case of a STOMP performance, that zippo lighter). Again, they take the ordinary and make it extraordinary, putting so much of themselves into the performance. With second row seats, I could definitely see the performers. I could see the sweat dripping from their faces and arms after the first number. I could see them when they genuinely made one another laugh. I could see them quickly react and fix any mistake that had been made. Most importantly, I could see how much fun they all were having.
In the process of sharing their joy, the cast incited an exuberant energy in the boys sitting to my right. As my seat rocked and swayed, and the performance commentary continued, I thought about this connection.
“I’ll never look at a newspaper the same way again.”
What if we all did this? I’m not saying we need to slam our kitchen brooms down to the ground or make our evening dish duty into a performance art piece. But what if we took those simple tasks, and breathed new life into them? What if we put that same passion these performers had into our own interactions with others? What if instead of walking through our day in a semi-zombie like fashion, we were deliberate? What if we worked with one another and to create a new “rhythm” in our lives? I know at first it might be a bit exhausting and a little bit frustrating, as we have to relearn the way we deal with the mundane, but what if we did this?
I saw nine performers give it their all Wednesday night. I saw the end result of months–no–really years of work. I saw them breathe life into a show I’ve seen before, allowing it to continue to connect. I saw them express attitude and emotion without uttering a single word. I saw them take an audience and allow them to share the same pulse. It was an amazing experience.
On the way out, I heard the two boys one last time as they said, “we definitely gotta do this at home.”
I completely agree.