The Wake

It takes some serious courage to get onstage and make a fool of yourself. But that’s what performance is essentially about: having the valor to let it rip in front of perfect strangers. Balls Cabaret, a weekly show inviting performers from “any and all” disciplines and experience levels to spend five to seven minutes onstage is as much a reference to the last name of its creator (Leslie Ball) as it is to the guts it takes to participate. Since 1991, Balls has been a staple of the Minneapolis performing arts scene that is as much about baring it all as it is about enjoying a night out.

It’s midnight on Saturday (well, officially Sunday). Although most theaters have closed their curtains for the night, a group of people are gathered in the lobby of the Southern Theatre, eager for a chance to try out a new monologue, showcase a new piece of choreography, or spout stream-of-consciousness babble about their week—anything goes.

The small room is full of people talking and laughing, sipping hot coffee as they thaw from the cold. Yet the feeling is more like backstage than front lobby, the air tingling with preparation and anxiety, tempered by boundless excitement. The audience chats alongside the actors and technicians, allowing us to see them outside of the distance of the stage, and them to see us outside the darkness of our seats. Initially, I can’t help feeling that our intermingling seems like heresy, if not incest. But we’re closing the gap between performer and audience so flagrantly, so consciously and so energetically, that it’s eventually intoxicating. The artist wants feedback, and we feel loud enough to give it.

The stage at the Southern embraces its past infrastructure. The walls of the warehouse-like space are limestone brick, and the stage itself is open and framed by a magnificent arch that gives it an almost mystic quality, as if you’ve just stumbled upon an ancient Greek temple.

The emcee for the first half of the night, local comedian Ari Hoptman, explains that Leslie Ball is running late and introduces the first performer, Russ C.

Russ nervously stands in front of a microphone and a music stand holding a partially crumpled stack of computer printouts. His voice cracks in a diatribe of pop culture and political satire. It’s full of “fucks,” and its cousins “fucking” and “fucked up,” over the seven-minute limit and absolutely terrible.

Later a troupe called Maximum Verbosity performs a scene from their energetic and humorous musical adaptation of a story from Norse mythology. A highlight included two transgender women who, after taking off their heels to protect the theater’s new, very expensive flooring, performed biting monologues geared toward political progress and cultural understanding—how rebellious and strangely fitting that the voices of America is the warbling tenors of two baby-boom-era women who were formerly men, shoeless and mad at the world.

As the night continues, the courage of first-time spoken word performer Nicole, the storytelling prowess of the quadra-lingual professional actor Paulino and the lyrical wit of musician Larry made the night enjoyable in a more traditional sense.

Leslie Ball eventually arrived and spoke to the audience, her signature calm, welcoming attitude serving to make the experience more like a gathering of friends than strangers. Early into the morning, she encouraged artists and viewers alike to meet in the lobby and discuss what we’ve seen.

Balls Cabaret is a weekly experiment with performance, and Leslie’s gift to the Twin Cities. The acts don’t need to be “good,” but the opportunity needs to be there. “We need live theatre. We need live music,” Leslie tells us, her whole body smiling, “We need to be gathered in rooms together.”

southerntheater.org