(I’ve written before about why I love Maestro, which is a good primer if you’re not familiar with it.)

This is it. Much like the Hideout Theatre itself, when I think of the Maestro improv format, I think of my improv career. Maestro is for me what the Harold is for so many improvisers.¹ In the early days of the Hideout, I did a lot of different shows—Gorilla Theater, More or Less, Start Trekkin’—but Maestro was the mainstay, week in and week out, giving me valuable reps toward my 10,000 hours. 

Since this whole project is a trip down memory lane, I should say more about those early days. Sean Hill had built his “coffee shop/improv theater” vision to perfection, but back in the early aughts, actually getting an audience to the Saturday 10pm show could be a challenge. Sometimes we’d bark our own shows, standing on the street and encouraging people to come in and see live comedy. More than once, we’d cancel because nobody bought a ticket. (One time our total ticket sales were two: a couple on a date. We decided to perform the show anyway, the cast greatly outnumbering the audience, who had complete control of the scores for each scene.²)

There was also a dearth of performers. I recall getting phone calls on Saturday afternoon asking if I was available to play that same night. Diversity was a non-issue in those days, in a bad way: invariably the Maestro cast of 12 was mostly—sometimes entirely!—straight white men. Thankfully we’ve evolved. So has the state of the art over time, with heavily structured games (Spoon River, String of Pearls) mostly giving way to looser setups (“You’re two buddies fishing, when the lights come up!”). 

By the 2010s the Hideout had new owners, the Austin improv community was in its glory days, and Maestro was one of its pillars. It was a weekly opportunity for a mishmash of performers to play together and it sold out the Hideout’s downstairs theater as often as not. Maestro even had a group of regulars, a few really nice guys who came to watch most Saturdays for awhile. Casting itself had become a bit competitive, so around that time came the debut of Maestro RAW, a 6pm show for Hideout students to get valuable stage time. 

I’d also begun directing Maestro (both regular and RAW), which became as much a happy place for me as a spot onstage. Even with a co-director it’s an intense job, monitoring the scene in progress for any direction it might need while simultaneously planning the next scene and deciding who should be in it. It was thrilling to feel my skills growing over time. 

Onstage or off, it’s impossible to summarize my 20 years of Maestro memories. When I think of those dozens of shows, I see ten thousand points of light—sublime pops of laughter, moments of accidental or inspired brilliance, perfectly-timed side support. Scenes with spectacular musical numbers, deep inside jokes, wacky-as-hell setups, or tear-jerking moments. Marathon Maestros with desperately exhausted players. Ten-way ties. Onstage wedding proposals. Themed Maestros. Blue Maestro. Scenes and shows that I just hated. Much more often, just loved. Like improv itself, Maestro formed a part of my identity.

I actually won the Canadian $5 bill rather rarely, although one of the victories played a small role in my eventual move to Amsterdam. Back before COVID, a local Amsterdam group held an annual Maestro performance to raise money for charity; and one year, Kiki happened to win Maestro on the same night I did. I saw her Facebook post, sent her a message congratulating us both as Maestro buddies, and well, one thing led to another—see above.

2020 came, and PIPING HOT TAKE: I really liked Zoom Maestro. Of course it was no replacement for the real thing, but it was an interesting creative challenge, like how to use the edges of the screen or props around the house for comedic effect. “Zoom-stro” was also a weekly chance for improvisers from around the city, country, and world to play together when we needed that connection most. I remember one night in particular when I found myself doing a really funny improv scene with one scene partner in Canada and another in India, and I thought to myself, this is really special. I’m sad it never stuck around as an occasional treat.

In fact, one of my very favorite Maestros was my very last, in December, which Roy let me cast with some true rock-star friends (including Kiki, who woke up at 4 am to perform). Perhaps my single silliest moment in all of lockdown came when Shannon Stott (who happened to be my neighbor) got up from her computer and RAN ACROSS THE STREET to join my scene in person. There was some gag involving pointing our bare feet at the camera? It doesn’t matter, really.

As one might have guessed, I recently ponied up the licensing fee³ and began re-introducing Maestro to Amsterdam with a monthly show, sourcing Canadian $5 bills from the local currency exchange. So my love for the format continues unabated, like my love for improv. The Hideout Theatre was what sparked it.

1. For some weird reason.
2. If that guy had a lick of sense, he told his girlfriend that he’d bought out the theater for the night.
3. Yes, improv formats have licensing fees. Keith Johnstone’s ghost needs to eat, apparently.