by Hazel Flynn
Lock-picking becomes a cat and mouse game between you and the lock. The first time you hear that desired click and the thing pops open is a huge rush.
Shortly afterwards we were invited to perform at a kids’ theatre festival in Geelong. It came to us via the same route as the Warrnambool Children’s Festival, which we’d been doing for a few years: word-of-mouth from the school shows. Afterwards Adam was speaking to one of the organisers, who turned out to be a woman with a lot of knowledge of the performing arts market. She told us there were showcases every now and then where potential acts could strut their stuff before the gathered arts centre managers and artistic directors. Only a limited number of spots were available; you had to be judged worthy to showcase. But having seen the act, she thought we’d have a good shot. She was right; we secured a spot.
It was a tricky opportunity: unlike the four hours we’d spent preparing everything at Portland we would have just twenty minutes to set up, perform, and clear all the gear off the stage for the next act, who’d be waiting in the wings. But I just knew it was going to lead to something big. It had to. I was quite hesitant in asking John and Dad if they could help me to get ready for it, but they and the rest of the family pitched in without question.
I badly wanted to redeem myself in their eyes after the cruise ship debacle. They never said or did anything that made me feel that way, because that’s not how they saw things, but I would only be able to rest easy if I felt that I had done them proud.
John, Adam and I got into our costumes before we left home and off we went. While I was doing a brief introduction, telling the arts centre honchos about myself and my experience — including how I had recently triumphed on the international cruise ship circuit (!) — Dad, John and Adam were setting up behind me. I dissected John and twisted Adam’s head and made a handkerchief dance then it was time to get off. I knew it was a great performance — the pressure I’d put on myself had pushed me to another level.
As we took our bows someone stood up in the auditorium. It was Karl Hatton. We hadn’t realised he would be there, but of course it made perfect sense. He addressed the other buyers, saying, ‘I’ve had these boys at Portland and they were fantastic. We had a sell-out with a fantastic cross-section of ages, from children as young as four through to people in their seventies and eighties. They’re really professional and if you want a different act for the family market you should hire them.’ It was a fantastic, sincere testimonial and it worked brilliantly: the show got booked to play at sixteen venues, with the dates scattered sporadically between February and November 2006. It might not have been a traditional tour but it was a huge deal; the whole family was absolutely elated and I was as relieved as I was happy.
It was also another big learning curve in marketing and promotion. We had to give the show a name. I decided on Evolution. We needed to supply the theatres with posters and flyers made to certain specifications. We turned again to our graphic designer cousin Mark, who’d painted backdrops for me when I was still at school. It was quite surreal the first time I unwrapped a professionally printed poster with my face on it, and such a huge thrill. I was so happy and proud. It made me feel I’d reached another level. I was the real thing now — someone whose name and image would go up in a theatre foyer just like the entertainers I had idolised over the years.
James Geer
Adam and I kept up our usual busy work schedule as we prepared for the tour and momentum was growing on that front too. The high-impact shopping centre shows were building a real following. If we had a week-long booking word would start to spread after the first day or two and by the Friday we’d have an audience of three or four hundred (five hundred on one memorable occasion), with people arriving forty minutes before show time to nab a good spot. Centre managements picked up on it and started advertising the show by name. Some brought gifts to give us afterwards — flowers or, from children, teddy bears. People would want autographs and sometimes young women would slip me their numbers, especially single mothers — I seemed to be a big hit with them. I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings so I politely took the numbers then discreetly disposed of them later.
I had a girlfriend at the time and while we stayed together for a number of years she would have been the first to tell the ladies trying their luck that my focus on magic was all-consuming. John and Jilda were loving married life and looking forward to becoming parents, and Adam was in a serious relationship. Friends from school were also settling down, buying houses and having children. It was good to see them all so happy, but I didn’t have even a twinge of wishing it were me. I had too much to achieve before I could turn my full attention to my personal life.
We continued to hand out flyers after every show with details of how people could go on our mailing list for show information and sign up for the Unbelievable fan newsletter we’d started, and the database grew into the thousands. We promoted the upcoming Evolution tour at every school and shopping centre show, but that wasn’t going to be enough. We had to put together a little ad for regional TV, finding a voiceover artist and figuring out how to work with a local production house to get it done inexpensively. And I had to learn how to handle media opportunities so I could promote the show through country radio stations and local newspapers.
I’ve always found it tricky to have to talk myself up. Right from the beginning Adam had told me I needed to be able to do it but I’d always insisted the act could speak for itself. He was right, though, and not just in terms of media. It doesn’t matter how great you are as an artist, if you can’t sell yourself — in the most genuine way possible, if people don’t feel like they can get a handle on the person behind the act and what you can do for them — you won’t get far. It’s definitely an acquired skill and I was a lot better at radio interviews by the end of the tour than I was when we began. The first hurdle was always to convince the producer that I could deliver an entertaining segment in a purely aural medium (this was before studio webcams). The key was to entertain the show’s host and the bigger the reaction I could get out of them, the more entertaining it would be for listeners.
I would generally do a card trick, starting it by telling the host, ‘Pick a card. Very good, now sign it and put it back in the deck.’ I learned that it worked best when there was a running commentary about what was happening. But often the presenter would get so involved in the trick they would forget this so in the absence of a co-host I’d learned to do that bit too: ‘Can you check that all the cards are different. Yes? So, you’ve chosen the card you want and you’ve signed it. Oh, you’ve drawn a smiley face, that’s nice,’ and so on. To avoid feeling self-conscious I used the same trick I had doing school presentations, secretly adopting a character who, unlike me, was perfectly comfortable talking about himself.
The injection of funds that came from the bookings meant I’d been able to acquire some new illusions for the show. Some Dad and I built and some I commissioned from the Vegas builders, including an illusion called 'The Man in the Puzzle’ where Adam would get into a box and jigsaw puzzle-shaped pieces would be removed from it one by one, making him disappear. I made a computer and a stereo vanish and I made doves and a rabbit appear. Most exciting of all, I got to perform Water Trap for the first time. It was the finale piece, both for practical reasons (the stage and I were both wet at the end of it) and because it got such a big response. Later on I would make the impact even greater by having the drum hoisted off the stage on chains, so that it swung and made water splash out as I worked my way out of the restraints. But even planted firmly on the stage in that first incarnation, it was a big hit.
Wilson Du
I’d put a lot of effort into the look of the show as well as the feel. I still began in top hat and tails, and wore masks, but I introduced new costumes that expressed my individual aesthetic, bringing together elements of new romanticism given an edgy twist and steampunk (although that term would take a few years to make it into the mainstream). I bought a suit and h
ad it lined in yellow satin. I wore it with white Chucks (Converse sneakers) and white fingerless gloves, suspenders hanging down from my belt, a watch-chain on my waistcoat. I also had a cool-looking gas-mask. There was another costume with a Roman-style leather chest-plate and spiky leather armbands.
After the show we’d have a table set up in the foyer and I would do a signing session. Sometimes fewer than twenty people would stay, but other times there were so many that Adam would have to gently move people along. Little kids, especially boys, often came up to say they, too, wanted to become magicians and to show me a trick they had been working on. And sometimes the slightly older versions of those boys would come up: a teenage or early twenties couple where he was visibly much more excited to meet me than she was. There were people who saw me on that first tour who are among my most loyal fans and have seen every tour since. I treasure those fans — they make it all worthwhile.
I started getting some extraordinary emails from young people in the towns we played: heartfelt and heart-rending messages from teenagers who felt an intense connection with me through the show. They would write and say they were lonely and isolated and depressed but seeing my show had given them reason to go on living. The first couple of times it happened I really didn’t know what to make of it, but they kept coming in such numbers that Adam and I knew we had to get some expert help. We turned to the respected mental health organisation beyond blue, who told us that kids in these places were often doing it very, very tough. They gave us contact details we could pass on for their counsellors and emergency help services such as Lifeline. I answered each of these emails as a top priority, as soon as they came through, offering my gratitude for the fact that the show had meant so much to someone so vulnerable and making sure they had the relevant contact details of those who could provide further care. I still think of those teens, reaching out in their time of need, and hope they all made it through.
Wilson Du
To my pleasure Mr Smith and his wife came to one of the shows. His opinion meant a lot and fortunately he loved the show. He made a couple of astute suggestions about small things I could finesse to make the impact even greater and I happily accepted them. His genuine appreciation for what I was doing meant a huge amount, as did the reactions of the guys in Vegas — Garry Carson and some of the builders — to whom I sent homemade DVDs of the show. They also gave me great feedback that let me know my instincts about what worked were good and I had the skills and stage presence to eventually reach the heights I dreamed of. It all provided a boost that I still needed after the crushing cruise ship experience.
Having my own headlining show in Vegas was still my most cherished ambition but I had other things I wanted to achieve along the way. At one point we drove past the 2000-seater Arena in Geelong and saw an upcoming show by music act The Veronicas being advertised. I thought how incredibly cool that was. They were young, like me — in fact they were two years younger — and they were already playing arenas. I’d look at other musicians or comedians on prime-time TV and think how much I’d like to be on there one day. I was truly on my way now. I’d had what had proved to be a couple of false starts but this time it was different, I just knew it.
State Library of Victoria Bk.17/No.708
Like most Australian kids I spent a lot of time in the water when I was growing up. Both my brother John and I swam competitively and, along with Adam, we passed endless hours in our home pool. Underwater games were often part of the fun both at home and at school, where during our sports swimming sessions we would dive for weighted discs on the bottom of the pool: whoever could stay down the longest and collect the most won, and often it was me. None of us — including, I think, our teachers and coaches — had heard of the dangers of shallow water blackout (SWB). But I know about potentially fatal SWB now, and so should you.
Normally if you are underwater and running out of oxygen the level of carbon dioxide in your blood rises to a trigger-point, giving you the urgent sensation that you need to break the surface and take a breath. But if you have been hyperventilating — taking a series of very big breaths, either because you’re going to try to stay underwater longer than usual or because you’re puffed (say, from a race) and trying to catch your breath — something different happens. In this case your carbon dioxide levels are low when you submerge. Your body runs out of oxygen just as it normally would but there is no trigger urging you to breathe. So you just stay down below the surface and then, without warning, pass out. Now that you’re no longer making yourself not breathe your body takes over and, unconscious as you are, you take in a great lungful. But you’re still submerged, so what you take in is water, not air.
BRAIN DAMAGE AND DEATH CAN QUICKLY FOLLOW.
SWB is really, really dangerous because it happens in moments, with no signs of struggle to warn people standing around the pool, and it can take place in a metre of water or less. So please don’t play at underwater escapes. If you really are among the tiny group who wants to learn how to do it, wait until your body has matured and then very carefully follow the guidelines set out by expert freediving organisations. Don’t risk your life with SWB.
HOUDINI’S MILK CAN ESCAPE
Before the advent of tanker trucks milk was transported in specially made cans, the largest of them waist-high. It was one of these Houdini used for this famous escape which he started performing in 1908. It began with the metal can centre stage. Houdini would give it some hefty whacks to show how solid it was, then stagehands filled the can with water. Houdini would then climb into the tank and ask his audience to see how long each of them could hold their breath while he did the same. With the lid open, he would duck under the water. Most of the crowd would be gasping for air before sixty seconds had passed. He had given them a stark demonstration of the slogan he used to promote the act: failure means a drowning death! The fear was all the greater because back then most of the audience could not swim.
Houdini would emerge beaming from the tank. He would step out and, dripping, get locked firmly into handcuffs. Houdini explained that the escape was so dangerous that if he hadn’t reappeared after a certain amount of time an assistant would smash the can open with an axe. He then climbed back into the tank and the lid was forcefully closed over him. The latches around the top were done up and it was further secured with six padlocks. Screens were then placed around the can, blocking the audience’s view. They remained there until Houdini emerged from behind them, wet and panting, two minutes later. For the finale the assistants would remove the screens revealing the can with its lid still locked down.
The amazement this caused was so overwhelming that some witnesses suggested that Houdini was able to dematerialise and reappear in another location. The real explanation was much, much simpler. The trick relied on a classic bit of misdirection. The cans were constructed of three pieces: the large wide base, the narrower neck and the hinged lid. There were rivets up the seam of the base and around the join between the base and the neck. But so much emphasis was put on securing the lid that the can’s construction went unquestioned. Only the most sceptical would have guessed the truth: the neck rivets were fake, allowing the whole top section, locked lid and all, to be easily pushed off from the inside. Great escape, no, but great act? Without doubt.
As 2007 started life was great. Everything was unfolding just the way I’d hoped it WOULD. I’D BEEN RIGHT TO TAKE THE LEAP OF FAITH INTO BECOMING A FULL-TIME PERFORMER AND THE CRUISE SHIP HUMILIATION HADN’T KILLED MY CAREER. I STILL HAD A LONG WAY TO GO BUT I WAS HEADING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION — UPWARDS. AUDIENCES REALLY LIKED WHAT I HAD TO OFFER AND I LOVED THE LOOKS OF DELIGHT AND AMAZEMENT ON THEIR FACES. ALL I HAD TO DO WAS KEEP GOING AND ALL THE PIECES WOULD FALL INTO PLACE, RIGHT?
The success of Evolution in Victoria led to an invitation to go to Queensland and present at a showcase for performing arts centre executives from around the country. The previous showcase had been in a theatre but this was a very different set-up. It was like a conference se
t-up with a small number of performers taking turns to come forward and make a pitch. I flew up with only the gear that I could fit in a small suitcase and some flyers. I felt very exposed standing up there doing a few little tricks and talking about how great my show was, but it seemed to go over well and one of the people who was there and had seen Evolution spoke up, telling his colleagues it was great and they should book us. After looking in detail at our costings and proposals, they did and we landed a 33-show tour through regional venues in Queensland, Western Australia and Victoria.
People in the know suggested Adam look into Arts Council funding to help artists travelling to regional and remote areas cover freight, transport, accommodation and other costs as a way of encouraging performers to reach out to audiences beyond the big cities. The grants are funded by taxpayers, so understandably the application process is very demanding, with a massive amount of documentation required. Adam put many hours into it but despite his efforts we were unsuccessful. The feedback we got was that we were too ‘commercial’. We found that pretty ironic, considering that the few times we’d made approaches to TV shows that featured variety acts we were knocked back because they felt we were too arty for them. But unexpectedly, the venues that wanted us agreed to chip in to cover the equivalent of the grant money we had applied for. That was a fantastic vote of confidence and it gave us a real boost.
While Adam was working on the business side I finessed the act, adding in more illusions, including appearing in a cloud of smoke inside a chamber, levitating . . . and making it snow onstage, just as David Copperfield had done as I watched from the nosebleed seats at my very first magic show.