Get Off The Stage, Cash
After they first met in 1993, the musician Johnny Cash and the music producer Rick Rubin began spending a lot of time together. “We didn’t speak very much,” Rubin said. “We must have said a few words to each other, I can’t remember.” Mostly, in Rubin’s living room, “Johnny would sit on the couch and he’d play songs on his guitar. He knew so many songs. He would sing these beautiful songs I’d never heard before. I began to record him, not with the idea that anyone would ever hear it or anything, but purely to document the experience for us. And we did this over time, over and over again.” At some point, they decided to record these living room sessions with the idea of making an album. Though nothing else had changed, Rubin said, “I noticed a change in him. Before, he had been relaxed and singing in a very personal, intimate way. But suddenly he changed. He began performing the songs for an album, and it wasn’t the same…What I was looking for was a direct transmission from his heart. I wanted his presence to fill the record. I made a comment—and we have it on tape—‘Can we try to do it a little more personal instead of presenting it?’ He understood, because he said to himself, ‘Get off the stage, Cash. Get off the stage.’ And then it changed.” Doing it a little more personal, filling things with you, getting off the stage—that’s the theme of this SIX at 6…
It’s Me. I’m The Audience
When he was 17, in 1981, Quentin Tarantino dropped out of school and moved to Hollywood. He got a job making minimum wage at a video store so he could watch movies for free. He made scrap books for each of his favorite filmmakers: Brian De Palma, Howard Hawks, Douglas Sirk, and Martin Scorsese. “I was like a film historian,” Tarantino said. “I was obsessed with studying how they did it, the evolution of their careers.” Just about everyone who has spent any time with him says some version of, “I think he’s watched about every movie in the history of movies,” and/or, “Many people are in this business for the wrong reasons—fame, fortune, attention. Quentin is in it purely because he loves movies. For all those who don’t make it because they’re in for the wrong reasons, Quentin made it because he’s pure.” He’s not performing. He’s not on the stage. After he made it, Tarantino was asked, What do you think your success can teach other people? “Well,” Tarantino replied, “you know, people ask me from time to time, Do you make movies with an audience in mind? And my answer is, Yes I do. But the audience I have in mind isn’t some faceless blob somewhere out there that I’m trying to second-guess. It’s me. I’m the audience. I’m the guy that goes to a theater and pays to see a movie on opening day. I am the audience. And I know what I like to see. Now, true, I make specific films, and if you make a specific film, that means it’s not going to be for everybody. So you’re going to turn some people off. But you’re going to turn some people on too. I was betting that there were other people like me out there. I was a little surprised at how many there were.”
The Marriage of Imagination and Interests
When once asked about the idea to set A Gentleman In Moscow in Russia during the 1920s, Amor Towles replied with a thorough and fascinating history of Russia. “By the way,” he says about twenty minutes in, “if you have not read the book, you should know that most of what I just said is not in the book.” “But I tell you that because I think it’s a good window on the creative process for me.” In A Gentleman In Moscow, “There’s food, there’s wine, there’s music, there are some of my favorite philosophers and historians mentioned throughout the book. And these things are brought into my longstanding fascination with Russian literature, culture, and history, which I had been reading, studying, and thinking about for decades. The novel springs from the marriage of my imagination with those interests.” And then, his bet is that there are other people with similar interests out there. “I don’t try to guess about topics that might be appealing to others, then research one of them, then write a book. Instead I pick a topic that is grounded in things I’ve been very interested in for a long period of time and then I use that as a foundation to write a book. Because if the book isn’t jam-packed with things that I think are great, what do I care if anyone else thinks it’s great?”
Oh, I Completely Forgot To Be In A Panic Attack
Usually, Judd Apatow is a mess at social events. “Usually, I’m really nervous,” he said. “I’m anxious. I’m awkward in conversations. I’m bad with names. I’m worrying all night if people think I’m funny.” A few weeks before a party he was dreading, Judd was watching an interview where one person suggested to the other that they close their eyes for a few seconds to make the conscious decision to be present for the length of their conversation. When he saw that, Judd figured it couldn’t hurt to try something similar before that event he was dreading. Before he walked into the party, he closed his eyes, “and it’s corny but I thought, I’m just going to think that I’m so lucky to be here.’ … And it actually worked. It really worked. It really affected me the whole night. As the night was almost ending, I thought, ‘Oh, I completely forgot to be in a panic attack about whether or not people like me or think I’m funny.’ It was the least anxious I’ve been at a social event.”
You Got Something Else You Would Rather Have Been Doing?
Ten years into trying to “make it” as a comedian, that comedian was beginning to doubt his life choices. “I feel like I’ve sacrificed so much of my life,” he told Jerry Seinfeld. “You got something else you would rather have been doing?” Seinfeld asks. Not necessarily, the comedian replies. “No, not necessarily,” Seinfeld says. “But did you ever stop and compare your life?” the struggling comedian says. “I see my friends, and they’re making a lot of money. They’re moving up. They’re all married. They’re all having kids. They have houses. They have a sense of normality.” Seinfeld makes a disgusted face and then says, “Let me tell you a story. This is my favorite story about show business.” “Glenn Miller’s orchestra is doing a gig somewhere. They can’t land the plane where they’re supposed to land because it’s a snowy night. They have to land in this field and walk to the gig. They’re dressed in their suits. They’re carrying their instruments. They’re walking through the snow—it’s wet and slushy. And in the distance they see this little house…They go up to the house and look in the window. Inside, they see this family. There’s a guy and his wife—she’s beautiful. There’s two kids, and they’re all sitting around the table. They’re smiling. They’re laughing. They’re eating. There’s a fire in the fireplace…These guys are standing there in their suits. They’re wet and shivering. They’re holding their instruments. They’re watching this incredible Norman Rockwell scene. And one guy turns to another guy and goes, ‘How do people live like that?’”
Listen Closely
In 1974, the novelist John Fante showed his son Dan a novel he was nearly finished writing. “The Last Supper…That’s what I’m calling it,” Fante said. Dan read it then gave his dad some feedback: “It reads very well but I’m not sure about the commercial possibility of this kind of book.” Fante leaned forward. “Listen closely,” he said. “There’s a remote possibility you might learn something. I don’t give a damn if my work is commercial or not. An author puts his heart and his guts on the page. Keep that in mind before you attempt to sit down at a typewriter.” At a typewriter, writing a book, making a movie, recording an album, pursuing a comedy career, going to a social event—fill it with your interests and fascinations and obsessions and heart and guts. Instead of presenting and comparing and guessing and worrying and performing—get off the stage.