Hard Truths About My Saxophone Playing
/Guys, can you help me out with something? Every time I play my saxophone for my friend, he tells me I screwed up the song—even when I know I didn’t. Or he says it wasn’t as good as the original. Do you know a saxophone tune I could play that would shut him up with how good it is, how cool it sounds?
Now… that’s a dumb fucking question, right?
And yet magicians ask versions of it all the time. “What’s a trick I can do that will shut up a heckler?” “What’s a trick I can do for my friend Todd? He always has some criticism or tries to expose me.” “What’s a trick I can do that will really wow my friends? I’ve shown them some stuff, but they don’t always seem interested.”
It’s time for some hard truths.
If your friends are paying attention to your magic and honest enough to tell you when they think they’ve caught the method—that’s a gift. That’s the quickest way you’ll ever improve.
But… if the only reason they engage is to try and bust you, then your friend is corny. Stop performing for them. They don’t want to share the experience; they just want to make you look stupid.
But, Andy, all my friends are like that. If I don’t perform for people like that, I wouldn’t perform for anyone.
Okay—let’s go back to the saxophone for a second.
If I said, “Everyone I know talks shit about my saxophone playing,” there are only two possible explanations:
Everyone I know is trash.
I’m terrible at playing the saxophone.
(Or, possibly, both.)
And here’s the point: neither of those problems gets solved by me hunting down a “better” song. Just like your issue isn’t fixed by finding a “better” trick.
Now, if you find yourself in this situation, it’s tempting to pin the blame on your audience. “Yes, everyone I know is just some unsupportive piece of shit who can’t stand me bringing joy into their lives with magic. That’s the problem!”
Sorry, that doesn’t let you off the hook. Sure, it stings to realize you might just be bad at magic. But telling yourself “I only attract jerks into my life” should actually feel worse, given what it says about you.
So now it’s time for an honest assessment.
If the people in your life suck, it’s time to douche out your contact list and get some new friends.
I’ve written about that here.
If you know your friends are good people, and it’s more likely that you’re just bad at magic, then this is what I would do…
Take some time off. Maybe a year. If people aren’t reacting, something in your approach is broken. Do you lack confidence? Are you making it too much about yourself? Are you pouring all your energy into fussy sleight-of-hand while never actually connecting with your audience? Are all your tricks obvious little trinkets and unexaminable gaffed items that the audience just dismisses as your little magic toys?
During this break, don’t buy new magic. Instead, pick up Scarne on Card Tricks for a few dollars. Work through every trick on your own. Identify your five favorites. Master them. Build presentations you genuinely find compelling.
After your hiatus, go up to someone you used to perform for a lot and say, “You’ve probably noticed I haven’t been doing magic for a while. I just sort of lost interest in it. But the other day I learned something genuinely fascinating. It’s not magic exactly. It’s… I’m not sure what you’d call it. Here, can I show you?”
Try this out a few times. Are you getting better reactions? If not—and you’re sure your friends aren’t dicks—then you just might not have the instincts to perform magic. It’s okay. Not everyone is good at the things they’d like to be good at.
Does that mean you should stop performing?
No. Not in my opinion. Keep going. You suck. Your audiences aren’t happy. You’re unfulfilled. But it’s just magic.
A lot of people think bad magic is bad for magic. I disagree. Your shitty magic helps set a low bar for what audiences expect. That’s actually a service to anyone who’s figured out how to get good reactions. You’re not “harming the art.” I mean that sincerely. It’s fine to be bad at something you enjoy—so long as it’s not something that eats you alive.
“I enjoy this. I’m not great at it. My friends mostly don’t care. But certainly they’d rather sit through 45 seconds of bad magic than three minutes of me singing poorly. So all in all, they’re making out okay.”
If that’s where you land, that’s fine. Just don’t spend a fortune chasing the trick that’s going to turn it all around. It doesn’t exist.
It’s okay if your hobby doesn’t fill your soul. Just don’t let it drain your bank account at the same time.