Last night I attended Fusebox’s 60 in Sixty for the second time. That makes two years in a row, and I’m wondering how I’ve gone 30+ years without ever having been to one of these events.
Before the actual 60 in Sixty performance, we attended the VIP culinary pre-performance at HOPE Market Gallery. Fusebox asked local chefs from SOURCE, Chris Crowley from Kiss My Grits and Lucy’s Fried Chicken, and Fiore Tedescoe from Franklin BBQ to create 60 unique appetizers. The indomitable Hank Cathey was on hand as mixologist, and he had created, with the assistance of Michelle Keffer, 60 of the loveliest drinks imaginable.
After eating and imbibing to our hearts’ content at the pre-performance, we walked the short distance down 5th street to the ND for the primary 60 in Sixty event.
What the hell is 60 in Sixty, I hear you asking. Here’s the recipe:
60 in Sixty:
(recipe courtesy of Ron Barry and Brad Carlin)
60 Austin Artists (various disciplines: musicians, theater folk, poets, performance artists)
1 Watch (preferably digital; analog is hard)
Variety of booze and spirits
Dispense booze and spirits to the audience. Make sure the collective inhibitions of the audience members are lowered sufficiently before proceeding.
Place the artists in a queue next to the stage. Set the digital watch for sixty seconds. Tell the first artist to get on stage and do something interesting and worth watching. When sixty seconds elapses, kick that artist off the stage immediately, bring up the next artist, and set the watch to count down another sixty seconds.
Repeat this process sixty times until awesomeness overloads the audience and the artists collapse from exhaustion.
Recipe serves one. Refrigerate artists after use.
In the article I wrote for the Fusebox Blog last year, I called 60 in Sixty a maelstrom of chaotic order. Or was it a tsunami of ordered chaos? I wasn’t sure. I’m still not, really.
But here’s what I experienced last night:
Pink elephant on stage throwing water balloons. Fiji water is bold and clean but Daisani deserves BOOOOOOOOing. Monotone alphabet recitation. Stop. Stop. Stop. Standing on your head will make the rest bearable. Brassiere wearing lycanthrope. Rebound on stage. A late in life surprise-puppy singing about empty nest syndrome. Oh. Hey. Bloggery comrade. Aaron. AARON! In your eyes, Aaron. Sultan staying alive. Lyrical douches on your bushes. Believe me sweetie, I’ve got enough to feed the needy. Foul-mouthed worm from Labrynith. When my life doth end they’ll say my friend he lost it down a hole. Governor Perry’s Women’s Healthcare in a Box. The box to protect your box. Ooooo. A dancing banana. Giant space lemon. Graham Reynolds and urban percussion. Snake Headband FTW.
And then it’s over.
After the event, I felt overwhelmed, emotionally drained, and a little confused. But definitely in a good way. You know what? In hindsight, it’s pretty much the same feeling I had after having sex for the first time.
Okay, there was far less crying on my part at 60 in Sixty, but you get the idea.