We recently connected with CBD (aka Chris Brent Davis) and have shared our conversation below.
CBD, thanks for joining us, excited to have you contributing your stories and insights. Are you happier as a creative? Do you sometimes think about what it would be like to just have a regular job? Can you talk to us about how you think through these emotions?
About once a week I ask myself, “Would I be happier working at McDonalds and performing as a drag queen on the weekends?” And as dramatic as that sounds, it’s been a serious consideration of mine over the past two years, give or take. For those that don’t know, I left a four year stint as Resident Music Director for Serenbe Playhouse the summer of 2019, at the 6-month mark of a nearly 9-month contract (which is almost unheard of in the regional theatre scene). Without going into detail, I’ll summarize my exit from Serenbe in two words: chaotic and traumatizing. In the nine months after I left Serenbe before Covid shut the world down, I found myself questioning my motives for choosing theatre as a career. But the reality is: theatre chose me, not the other way around.
When I was five years old, I watched my grandfather sit at the upright piano that lived in our dining room, in my childhood home in Jonesboro, GA, as he taught himself how to play some Scott Joplin piece by ear. My mom didn’t have the sheet music for it in her tiny collection of pieces that she’d accrued as a little girl, so he’d developed his own method for learning the piece himself. He’d play a section of the song, pause the tape (yes, tape!), attempt to play that section, making some mistakes, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, until at the end of the day when he could play the entire thing. It was like watching a magician pull a rabbit out of their hat over and over again. I’d just sit and watch in awe whenever he did this. Now, I hope you’re sitting down, because I have a confession to make on behalf of my Poppy. He never took a piano lesson a day in his life. Nope! Poppy just had music in his soul. He and my Nana were the biggest fans of music. Thankfully they passed this love of music along to all ten of their grand children, all with tone deaf parents, who became proficient in at least two or three instruments. (Ask me later about how I could (and would) sing both the Phantoms and Christines part in the title song “The Phantom of the Opera” whenever my grandfather would pick me up from school. Yes, including the insanely shrill high E at the end of the number. This was customary and my grandfather was a proud supporter of it.)
And in the Lifetime biopic of my life, starring Ben Savage, this next story would take place a few days or weeks following the Scott Joplin story. While most of my early childhood memories have evaporated into thin air, I have this one vivid memory of five-year-old me, walking around the house belting out “Tomorrow” from Annie on an endless loop as I prepared for my very first audition, for the role of Michael in a community theatre production of Peter Pan. Picture it: sassy CBD at five years old, curly hair rivaling Aileen Quinn’s, and the pingiest belt (see: bright, nasally, Sutton Foster-y, etc.), nailing those stratospheric E-flats in that final chorus. My older brother groaned, “Ugh! Mom, you’re not going to let Nana take him to the Fox to see Annie are you?” And I, at five years old, remember envisioning a little girl perched on the roof of a green dog house, singing to her pet fox instead of a dog, because, “He said fox, right?” Truly, I had no clue what a theatre even was, I just knew I was destined for it. In case you were wondering, no I did not go see Annie at the Fox Theatre. My first trip to the Fox Theatre would be to see Beauty and the Beast. And I might be wrong about this, but if Atlanta treasure Glenn Rainey had joined the tour by the time it played the Fox Theatre in [redacted, by CBD not CanvasRebel], I most certainly saw him. And no, I did not get cast in Peter Pan either. My five year old self wasn’t even phased by what could’ve been an emotional setback. However, I’d forgotten there was even a role to be had, just living on the high of standing in front of a room filled with people, singing at the top of my lungs with repercussion.
Fast forward twenty-five years and we’re in a post-2020 world. Just about every theatre and corporation has released statements in support of Black Lives Matter, making commitments to better diversity, equity, and inclusion. And while some are clearly putting in the work, others are proudly posting photos of their all-white leadership. Cast announcements are released (now in black and white!) with BIPOC cast members making up usually around 25-35% of the cast. Orchestras continue to be predominantly white (and male), even in musicals where the entire cast is non-white. BIPOC designers and creatives are given opportunities to step into roles where they had previously been uninvited to, but they aren’t given the resources to fully succeed, or caught up to speed on things with knowledge their senior colleagues have amassed over a lifetime in that craft. Even worse, a hands-off approach is taken allowing the artist to nearly fail or show so poorly that the likelihood they’ll be invited back is second to none. It might sound like I’m being dramatic, but each one of these examples comes with a story, theatre, and leadership who I don’t need to call out here by name because they know who are they are. We all know. For some, it seems that acknowledging and owning these mistakes with more promises to do better in the future is the procedure. While for others, you’d think they were guards at Buckingham Palace whenever they’re called out for a mistake. Are they…? Is anybody home?
At the same time, there are so many beautiful things happening in Atlanta Theatre right now. For me it came by way of a couple of workshops of new musicals at the Alliance Theatre, one leading to a full production which returns for a weeks of school performances in early September. Add to that a couple more workshops of new musicals written by Atlanta artists, some really killer productions like Matilda at the Atlanta Lyric Theatre, Lizzie at Actors Express, The Rocky Horror Show at Woodstock Arts coming this fall, or you could check out any of the amazing educational institutions presentations of The SpongeBob Squarepants Musical, because A. everyone subconsciously agreed that we all needed something joyous to return with and B. it’s a damn good musical with a clever script and the eight hundred person composing team works flawlessly, anyone who disagrees can fight me.
So having a career in theatre is a constant up and down. We’re on this roller coaster of emotions. At one instant, we are outraged over a theatre’s mishandling of callbacks keeping folks well past their scheduled time slots, and the actors stay because they hope to book the show. Blink and the entire community is showing up at another theater in droves to support one of their own stepping in at the last second, saving the show, as they go on for a leading role with six hours of rehearsal. We see you, Chani Maisonet! At any moment, the winds change and we are swept away on either another adventure or tragedy. More often than not, it’s a combo-platter of both. Adventure as the entree, with a side of tragedy or vice versa.
But the question was, “Are you happier as a creative?” My answer? Yes. Every time I’m able to drown out all of the noise and just allow myself to be at the piano, working with the truly incredible artists we have in Atlanta, I am spoiled. When I let myself do this, I am that little kid watching my Poppy teach himself Scott Joplin or the kid whose audition for Peter Pan is a formality, only serving to give that child a place where they’re set free. That’s what we all want, right? To bottle that adolescent joy that is doing the thing we love more than anything else in this world? Oh no? Just me? Well, that’s my truth.
Also, the storytellers we have in Atlanta are some of the richest, most grounded, and authentic storytellers in the country. You cannot find in New York what you can find in Atlanta. And I am so giddy that I get to be a small part of the legacy of Atlanta Theatre
CBD, before we move on to more of these sorts of questions, can you take some time to bring our readers up to speed on you and what you do?
My mission has refined itself over the past few years, but it has become more and more important to me. I will use my voice to call out the inequities I see in whatever way it makes my thoughts heard and considered, not just screaming into the voice of social media. I will use my position to create opportunities for those who weren’t previously being given opportunities. And using my influence, I will attempt to affect change wherever I can, as often as I can, so that one day the changes we make now are the norm and not just the “marketable,” “interviewable,” moments for social media. I don’t think as a community we can continue to create work that doesn’t reflect the world around us. If it doesn’t look like all of us, how can it aim to reach all of us?
I’m not going to pat myself on the back for any of the things I feel like I’ve done or tried to do where diversity, equity, and inclusion are concerned because I feel like it hasn’t been enough. There is always more work to be done. I have misstepped in trying to be more inclusive. I have alienated a community while trying to include others. I have failed and will continue to fail. But I will keep trying to be better.
But I will keep trying to be better, every day. I will continue to surround myself with others who have the same goals as me. My DM’s are always open for criticism and critique and I promise that’s not just a line. You can ask Lilliangina Quiñones, I put my foot in my mouth often and have to be called out on it. It never feels good, but how can we grow if we can’t be called out?
Are there any resources you wish you knew about earlier in your creative journey?
Vulnerability. Earlier in my career, I thought my ability to problem solve without asking for help was a hallmark of my reputation. Little did I know, this characteristic gave me a reputation for being a know-it-all and it led producers to believe they were getting a steal on my talents and it has made negotiating for appropriate pay/additional team members more difficult to navigate the older I’ve gotten.
There is no shame in saying, “I’m not sure I know how to do this,” or “I can do this aspect of the job, but I think the workload here calls for a second artist.” The worst thing we can do as artists is continue to take on jobs that don’t pay proportionately to all of the job responsibilities, not just the ones that folks see us doing in the rehearsal hall. That score for Mary Poppins doesn’t learn itself in the room. Those props for Love to Eat didn’t magically source themselves ten minutes before rehearsal started. And those wigs for every single musical on an Atlanta stage most certainly don’t style themselves! Not acknowledging that the work we do starts well before “Day One” of a rehearsal calendar only serves to cut down on budget for the producers. We deserve to be paid accordingly.
Is there something you think non-creatives will struggle to understand about your journey as a creative? Maybe you can provide some insight – you never know who might benefit from the enlightenment.
I’m sure this will seem extreme to many, and maybe it only rings true to me, but I’ve recently realized that my relationship to my craft is a little like having a baby or child. Go with me on this journey.
Producing theatre is like making a baby in the following ways: first, you assemble the team with which you will make your baby. Suss out the artists who you think fit bet as co-parents of your precious angel. “Do they have similar goals as me?” “Is our communication clear and effective, free of passive aggression and talking behind each others back?” Etc. Once you birth the baby (see: your play is cast), then you spend time teaching your baby how to walk, “A step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch — again!!” You teach them how to talk, “The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.” You help your baby pick out the clothes they’re going to wear to school. “No, Charlene! We cannot costume The Last Five Years as a turn-of-the-century period piece, it is clearly begging to be dressed like a vintage ad for McCarthyism!” Thoughts of your baby, both before their birth and after they’ve left the womb keep you up at night, tossing and turning. You worry about them: “What will people say?” “Will they be understood?” “Am I make the right choices?” And like raising a child, there’s no one manual or textbook that is considered “the Bible” telling you how to best produce a play.
Before you roll your eyes and chalk this up to a really crappy metaphor (which… rude!), stay with me. For a lot of us, theatre isn’t something we just decided to do as a last resort. It’s something we likely spent many nights (and days) dreaming about. We dreamt of that moment where we felt like we had “made it.” We know we can’t live without it. And we know that if we lose it, we won’t be okay. And when a production closes, our baby goes off and lives their life as an adult, and if we’re lucky we get to see them (members of the production) every so often, catching up and hearing about their lives, reminiscing on cherished memories.
Luckily, the responsibility of parenting this “child” doesn’t come with the same consequences as raising a living, breathing human being. But it doesn’t mean we care any less. For some of us, we might not ever have children. Our only way to leave our mark on this world is to create art that lasts long after the final curtain. We leave our legacies by giving ourselves over to a role entirely, leaving egos in our dressing rooms so that the role we are portraying can ascend to the heights meant for them. We share our rituals and insights with our colleagues and students as they cross our paths so they can then pass them along to the next generation of theatre makers for years to come.
Do you see it? Do you get how raising a child is like producing a play? Squint your eyes, and you’ll see it. Okay… tilt your head too, if the squinting isn’t helping! That’s not working? Have you ever seen a child?
Contact Info:
- Instagram: @cbd.the.real
Image Credits
Casey Gardner, Indy Tanner