When nothing happened on stage
A story about timing, assumptions, and the moments you can’t rehearse
I was stage managing a benefit event for St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital.
It was a celebrity fashion show. Very glitzy, very glamorous. Hosted at the Beverly Hilton, in the same ballroom where the Golden Globes take place.
This was fancy.
Celebrities. Stupidly wealthy people. A live auction. Musical performances. All in support of an incredible cause.
Our run of show was tight. Or at least, we thought it was.
Dinner. Then a live auction to get the room warmed up. A few musical interludes throughout the night. And the centerpiece: a big, glamorous fashion show with celebrity models.
Jennifer Aniston. Cindy Crawford. Beautiful people.
We’d built 20 minutes into the run of show for the auction. It wasn’t something you could really rehearse, but we’d talked it through with the auctioneer. Based on his experience, 20 minutes felt safe.
It was not.
The auction lasted seven minutes.
Seven.
Which meant we were suddenly thirteen minutes ahead of schedule. And immediately after the auction, we had a live performance. Aerialists. Silks and rings. Center stage. Very dramatic.
Here’s the problem:
I hadn’t called them to places yet.
Before I could course-correct, the dominos started falling. The show caller moved us forward. The house went dark. The stage lit up with a big, cinematic lighting sequence. The score swelled.
The audience leaned in.
And then… nothing.
Silks hung in the air. Rings floated above the stage. Completely still. Occasionally moving just enough when the HVAC kicked on to feel… intentional(ish).
From the audience’s perspective, they were watching dramatic lighting, a rhythmic score, and a stage full of absolutely no performers.
From my perspective, I was backstage freaking out.
I was sprinting. Whisper-yelling. Apologizing to anyone in my path. Doing the mental math of how long this had already been happening, while praying it had been less time than it felt.
It had been about three minutes.
It felt like thirty.
I remember wondering what the audience thought.
Maybe they assumed it was avant-garde performance art. A bold statement on absence. The tension of anticipation. The silence before beauty.
Or maybe they thought something had gone very wrong and they were politely sitting through three full minutes of nothing happening on stage.
Both are possible.
Eventually, we moved on. Straight into the celebrity fashion show. Hopefully enough glamour to erase whatever that was.
The rest of the night went great. Tons of money was raised, and the cause was very well supported.
But obviously that moment stuck with me.
You can rehearse cues. You can estimate durations. You can build buffers. But live events have a way of reminding you that timing is not a promise. It’s a suggestion.
Especially when people are involved. Especially when big money is involved. Especially when adrenaline is involved.
Since then, I’ve been a lot more careful about what sits in the run of show immediately after anything unpredictable. I’m faster to get performers to places. I assume things will run short just as often as they’ll run long.
Some things you simply can’t rehearse.
And sometimes, the most important thing happening on stage is making sure someone is actually… you know, there.
Hey - thanks for reading! I’m now a few issues into this Substack, and I hope you’ve been enjoying it. But honestly - I have no idea.
I would love you forever and always if you could answer a quick, 4 question survey for me right here.
Shouldn’t take you longer than 20 seconds unless answering yes/no questions is super difficult for you. Appreciate it! 🙏
Oh - and next time I’ll be telling you about the time I ended up delivering room service to Danny DeVito.
— Rob