Anything is Possible

by Hazel Flynn

  With no audience, viewers are tempted to think the only real trick is clever editing. You can eliminate that suspicion by using only unedited takes but something is still missing — the electric excitement generated when you amaze people in person; without that even the best trick falls a bit flat. (Whoever was working with David Blaine in his early street magic TV specials was clued into this — the specials were striking for showing almost more of the audience than of him.) Adam and I learned from experience and never again shot the act without including people reacting.

  We’d picked up as much as we could from the pros we met doing the showreel but we both knew there was so much more that we needed to learn. Adam decided to enrol in a Diploma of Stage Management, adding it to his existing third year uni study load. It was an intensive, hands-on course and he learned a huge amount from it. Because our bookings were still largely school shows we couldn’t yet put much of it into practice but knowledge is never wasted — we both had our eye on the future and knew there would come a time for it. He also made great contacts we’d be able to call on when the time was right.

  We’d originally intended to hire Karen just for the showreel performance but losing her seemed like a backward step, even though we didn’t have any specific work lined up that we could do as a three-person act (the school shows didn’t pay enough to include her; even two shows a day, five days a week paid barely enough for Adam and me to scrape by). But we paid her to come and rehearse with us on Sundays so we’d be ready when the right opportunity arose. We figured that wouldn’t take too long. The showreel looked good and together with the impressive flyers we made up, it formed a slick PR package that was bound to interest an agent.

  We sent out the material and waited for the agencies to call. And waited. And waited. When no calls came Adam rang the agencies. We’d put so much effort, time and money into it we thought they’d be wowed. Instead he hit the receptionist gatekeepers who said they had no record of receiving our material, or else they vaguely remembered it coming in but it seemed to have been misplaced, or they’d passed it on to the appropriate person and if the agent was interested we’d be hearing from them. Through dogged persistence Adam did eventually get the tape seen by various agents who all gave us essentially the same response: ‘Great showreel but it’s a magic act and I don’t know what to do with that.’

  It was so frustrating. We weren’t willing to leave it at that but we just didn’t know how to break through. While we were trying to figure it out, the schools show agency offered us a tour of Tasmania: two shows a day for four weeks at primary and high schools right across the island. As always it would be up to us to organise and pay for our own transport, accommodation and incidentals. We said yes immediately, leaping at the chance for the adventure.

  The agency (who, by the way, had never actually seen the act) sent us the list of schools. Dad, ever the meticulous planner, prepared day-by-day instructions. He photocopied maps with the location of each school and paired it with handwritten directions telling us what time the show was set for, what time we needed to leave our previous stop and the precise route to take: ‘go straight along the Bass Highway for twenty-three kilometres until you reach the B13 turn-off for Railton Rd etc. He compiled it all into a folder in chronological order so all we needed to do was open the folder up each morning, follow the steps on that day’s sheets, remove the pages in the evening and go through the same steps the following day. It was like a military operation.

  We wanted to take the doves and Snuggles the rabbit, despite the logistical challenges. Adam took care of the necessary paperwork: RSPCA approval and a quarantine permit. We packed the blue van (following the plan Dad and I had drawn up for ease of access and optimal spatial use, naturally) and Adam and I took the car ferry across to Devonport in high spirits. We’d brought $500 to pay for our food for the month. That meant an average of $16 a day, which seemed reasonable, but within a couple of hours of our arrival we’d spotted a nice café and stopped for a delicious, leisurely lunch. Then we got the bill. Adam picked it up and I saw the blood drain from his face: $80! We’d blown five days’ food allowance on a single meal. How we’d failed to add everything up when we ordering I don’t know. The whole rest of the trip we scrounged and saved, collected discount pizza-chain coupons and shopper-docket 2-for-1 offers wherever we could find them, and stocked up on the ingredients to make cheese and salami sandwiches for lunch each day.

  Driving didn’t quite work out the way we’d imagined either. I had my P-plates and the idea had been that Adam and I would share the task. But it quickly became clear that while I was fine on the highways I was too inexperienced to comfortably deal with Tasmania’s winding backroads. Adam took over most of the time behind the wheel and I became an excellent navigator.

  Cosentino family collection

  That trip was a huge education. I was not yet twenty and Adam was twenty-one and while other guys our age were going to clubs, hanging out and having fun we were doing the equivalent of a twelve-month apprenticeship crammed into four weeks. There are times in your life when you feel like you’re learning something new every day, and this was one of them. Logistics, performance, the business side, life skills: we were soaking up knowledge in every possible area and putting it to immediate use.

  If you want to hone your stage presence, doing two shows a day for school kids is a great way to go about it. We went to all kinds of schools and performed for all kinds of audiences. We played in towns so small that they didn’t even have a hall and we had to put on the show for little kids in the back room of the local pub, and in draughty suburban high-school basketball courts in front of Year 12s just two years younger than me.

  The act began with me emerging from behind the backdrop wearing my white mask, top hat, tails and gloves, holding a cane on my shoulder. The old-fashioned outfit might have drawn a few scattered jeers from the older kids but that stopped within seconds as my gloves turned into a silk and the silk in turn revealed a dove. Then the top hat and tails came off with a flourish, revealing my funky bright yellow shirt underneath and I went straight into a breakdance number. By demolishing the expectations set up by my opening costume I also broke down any resistance — I was in their zone and they were hooked. I found I could fine-tune my communication with the audience through changes to my physical presence. For older kids the breakdance moves became more aggressive and slightly more complex; for younger kids the body language was bigger and gentler. With these relatively small adjustments the same act could work just as well for seventeen-year-olds as it did for five-year-olds.

  As demanding as the show was, it was actually the easiest part of the day. There was no glamour in this branch of showbiz. We’d be up early every morning ready for an 8 a.m. arrival at the day’s first venue in order to do the hour-long set-up so we’d be ready to go on not long after 9 a.m. as scheduled. But all too often the school was still locked when we got there, or it was open but the teacher who had booked the show wasn’t there yet and no-one else knew what to do, or they’d forgotten to set up, or there was some other delay that cut into our set-up time. Performing in a hall that had van access where we could back up and unload was a major win. Very often the chosen space would be a double classroom on the second floor across the playground from where we had to park so we’d spend twenty minutes pushing and hefting wheeled equipment around. We’d be left rushing through the sound-check and hustling to put everything together.

  It was Tasmania in mid-winter and sometimes the school halls were just tin sheds. Even when they were more substantial they were freezing. The ingeniously designed 6 by 1.8 metre backdrop we’d built with Dad also formed our backstage area. It was erected using interconnecting bars and the metal was almost unbearable to touch after it had been in the parked van overnight. We’d still be getting changed into our costumes as the kids were filing in to the hall. If you needed to go to the toilet it was just bad luck, you’d have to hang on until after the show. Pushing back the start didn�
��t work because we generally had no time to spare if we were to get to the next school for the afternoon gig. In fact often we were so rushed we didn’t even have time to eat the prepared sandwiches on the way. Through all of it we had to remain courteous and uncomplaining.

  After the second performance we would drive to the location of the following day’s shows and check in to the accommodation we’d booked. There was never any question of separate rooms — we just couldn’t afford it. There were still a couple of hours of work ahead for us. We each had two pairs of pants and two t-shirts as costumes. Pants could be worn for three or four days’ worth of shows but the t-shirts had to be cleaned after every wear; by the end of each performance I’d be dripping with sweat and Adam wasn’t much better. So we had to wash out our t-shirts and get them dry inside a hotel room. We bought rope that we could string up above our heads to dry the laundry on, arranging it in the small rooms so there was just enough of a gap for each of us, on our single beds, to see the TV. Coming in from the hallway it looked like something out of a prison sitcom.

  I guess it would have made some people crazy to be crammed in together twenty-four hours a day for weeks on end like that but Adam and I managed surprisingly well. We definitely had tense times but they were always about the show. If we did yell at each other in the van it would be because one was criticising the other for missing a music cue or not having packed the equipment up quickly enough. We never carried grudges. We just got it out of our systems and moved on, otherwise it would have been impossible to work together.

  We minimised the opportunities for conflict by allocating tasks and sticking to our agreed roles. We each had set equipment to pack and we loaded the van after the show in a specific order. When it was three-quarters done Adam would head up to the school office to give them the invoice and the form for them to send feedback to the agency while I packed the last of the gear and the animals. Back at the hotel Adam would wash the clothes and I would iron them. When we were on the road whoever was navigating couldn’t take a nap until they had ensured the driver was confident about the route, and so on. The structure and habits we established on that tour became so ingrained over the following years that to this day I can’t relax and go to bed unless my clothes are out on a chair ready for the next day — the entire outfit right down to socks. What can I say? I am my father’s son.

  The routines Adam and I set up extended to the animals, which posed their own challenges. You’ll spend a lot of time searching hotel and motel listings before you find one that’s happy to have doves and rabbits along with the paying guests. In theory the animals would have been all right in the van if we’d insulated their cases with blankets. But we cared about them so much, that wouldn’t have felt right on any level. Apart from the temperatures it would have meant them spending twenty-two or more hours a day locked up. So we needed to get them into the hotel room, which meant sneaking them in and concealing their presence as much as possible.

  We got really good at it. The cases were always draped with their black covers before we opened the van doors. If it was a motel with a parking spot out front we would back the van in to minimise the trip to the room. Often, though, it was a hotel where you had to pass the little reception desk to get upstairs to the rooms. We’d do a recce first and if it was particularly busy we’d leave the animals in the van until things quietened down. If we thought we could risk it Adam and I would arrange it so we were carrying a regular piece of luggage in the hand most visible from the desk and one of the animal cases in the other hand. If possible we’d take the stairs. If they weren’t an option we’d often make a start for the lift only to find some compelling reason to turn back if someone else got in ahead of us. Rabbits don’t really make much sound but you’d be surprised how loud a dove’s coo sounds in a quiet corridor. There were hotel guests throughout Tasmania who must have thought they were at risk of contracting tuberculosis from the coughs we produced to cover the noise.

  Once we got the animals in the room I would lay a towel I’d brought for the purpose on the bathroom floor, then stack the cages. With the door closed, I’d open the cages. Snuggles would hop around the room and the doves would have an exploratory flap then perch on the sink. I’d have food, straw and hay for them in separate bags so I’d feed them, give them a few hours out of the cages, put them back in, then clean up the spilled hay and rabbit and bird droppings. It would all go into another bag to be removed when we checked out. In the morning I’d take care of the animals’ food and water again and clean up the droppings in the cages. Then the covers went back on and we sneaked them out again along with all evidence of their presence.

  We never got busted by the hotels and motels for our unauthorised guests, although I did have to take one for the team the time I brought Snuggles out to play with on the bed while I was sitting watching TV without the precaution of a thick towel under him. Big mistake! The real problem was that this happened to be one of the times when we had several days’ worth of shows in close proximity, so we were staying in this particular motel for two nights. Normally the cleaners would just straighten the bed, not change the linen, for only two nights but I couldn’t sleep on that. There was nothing for it but to pull the blankets back when we went out, leaving the pee stain clearly visible and hoping they’d take the hint. Coming back that afternoon there was a distinct note of frost in the greeting we got from the motel owner. What could I say, ‘My rabbit did it’? Nope, there are times when a man just has to take the rap for his bunny.

  You can only split life up into a series of stages in hindsight. When the Grind started we didn’t think of it that way and we didn’t know how many years it would last. It was tough, but it taught me so much: I simply would not be where I am today if I hadn’t done those hard yards. I already knew how to please an audience, but during that period I gradually learned the more subtle skills of how to settle them, how to win them over and how to make them follow my lead the way musicians follow a conductor (although an audience shouldn’t even realise they’re being steered).

  While it is possible to be a successful performer without being a student of human psychology, it’s not possible to be a successful magician if you can’t read people — it’s an essential tool of the trade. A singer can get good on their own. They can practise in the shower and when they’re good enough they can record themselves on a smartphone, upload it to YouTube and become wildly popular, maybe. Magicians can’t do that. Without an audience there is no act. You can learn a trick and practise it in front of a mirror a hundred times, but the moment you get out in front of an audience everything changes. There’s no such thing as fast-tracking for magicians. It’s like being a pilot: do all the simulations you want but it will never substitute for flight time.

  My ‘flight time’ happened in school halls beyond counting. As well as everything they taught me about performing and audiences, those hundreds and hundreds of shows served as an unbeatable education in the business side of the arts. Adam and I learned that the only way we would be treated as professionals was if we insisted on it. This shift in our approach was about moving from feeling we were lucky to be allowed to perform to recognising that what we did had value. The people who are booking you know when you’re serious and they change their behaviour accordingly.

  It’s not possible to be a successful magician if you can’t read people — it’s an essential tool of the trade.

  By necessity we also got smarter about life on the road. We started to stay in small serviced apartments rather than hotels or motels, which meant we no longer had to sneak the animals in and out and could save money by preparing all our own food. We invested in a small car fridge that plugged into the cigarette-lighter socket and used it to store our packed lunches.

  Some of the towns were so small the only accommodation was run by the parents of one set of children we’d performed for and the only grocery store was run by the parents of another. We were instantly identifiable as the blow-in travelling magic act. Yo
ung female teachers or other single women about town would see us as a potential diversion from what were their often very isolated lives. Flattering as it was, we declined their attentions. Somehow we knew without being told that those sorts of dalliances would be a mistake.

  I started to build a grassroots following. It was really surprising, given my lack of a public profile, how many kids gathered for autographs after a show (this was the pre-selfie era). But my young age and the approach I took seemed to really hit a chord with them. Their reaction meant so much to me. It showed me I was on the right track and encouraged me to keep on going, working even harder. Poor Adam would be anxiously watching the clock as our carefully planned travel time to get to the next show ticked away, but if people were sweet enough to want me to sign something, I didn’t like to disappoint them. We dubbed those early fans the Believers: that was the very beginning of the incredible, devoted group of supporters I have today. They are so important to me and I am forever grateful and appreciative.

  While doing those school shows was a privilege and an education, it was perhaps lucky that back in 2002 I could never have guessed how long it would take to break through. We continued to make contact with theatrical agencies during that time but we consistently got the same frustrating response: you’re good, but it’s not the kind of act we handle. Singers, actors, dancers — that’s the kind of talent they had on their books and they wanted more of the same. If you ticked one of those boxes your challenge was that you were in continual competition with lots of other similarly talented people. I had the opposite problem: there were so few professional magicians that agents couldn’t picture a market for it. But I knew it was there. My visit to Las Vegas had shown me that magic could easily stand alone as an entertainment. For me the fact that we had no headliner Australian magician meant the opportunity was wide open, but those short-sighted agents took it as proof there was no substantial audience for magic.