I once arrived at a venue in Linz thirty minutes before showtime. I considered this early. The event coordinator had told me the doors opened at seven, the performance was at eight, and I figured an hour would be plenty of time to set up. Traffic disagreed. A detour on the A1 ate twenty minutes. I pulled into the parking garage at seven-thirty, grabbed my case, and walked into the ballroom at seven-thirty-five.
The room was wrong. Not catastrophically wrong — the tables were in roughly the right places, the chairs were facing roughly the right direction. But the lectern was positioned directly in front of the area where I needed to perform. The overhead lights were set to full fluorescent brightness, washing everything in the kind of cold, flat light that makes any room feel like a dentist’s office. And the sound system — a pair of speakers on stands — was positioned behind where I would be standing, meaning the audience would hear me through the PA a half-second after they heard my natural voice, creating a disorienting echo.
I had twenty-five minutes to fix all of it. The event coordinator was in the middle of welcoming guests. The AV technician had left for the day after completing his setup an hour earlier. The hotel staff were busy laying out the dessert course. I was alone, out of breath, and scrambling.
The show went fine. I moved the lectern myself. I dimmed the overheads by finding the panel behind a curtain. I could not fix the speakers. The echo was there all night, a constant low-grade distraction that I managed but never eliminated.
That was the last time I arrived thirty minutes before a show.
Weber’s Rule, My Religion
Ken Weber is unambiguous about this in Maximum Entertainment: arrive early, while the room is being set up. Not while the room is set up and the guests are already milling around. Not while the event coordinator is doing final checks. While the room is being set up. While the tables are being positioned, while the AV equipment is being tested, while the staff are still in work mode rather than event mode.
I read that advice early in my performing journey, and I understood it intellectually. But I did not truly internalize it until that evening in Linz. Now it is non-negotiable. For any show, I arrive a minimum of ninety minutes before the performance. For important events — large corporate functions, keynote appearances, unfamiliar venues — I aim for two hours or more. I have arrived at venues before the staff themselves, standing in a parking lot waiting for someone to open the doors. I would rather wait in my car for thirty minutes than walk into a room that has been set up wrong with no time to fix it.
The Setup Window
Those ninety minutes are not idle time. They are the most productive ninety minutes of the entire engagement.
The first thing I do is a physical survey of the room. I walk the entire space, from the entrance the audience will use to the area where I will perform. I check sightlines — can every seat see me? Is there a column, a floral arrangement, a projection screen partially blocking the view from certain angles? I check the floor — is there a step, a cable, a carpet edge that I or a volunteer might trip over? I check the ceiling — are there chandeliers or light fixtures at a height that might interfere with any props I plan to raise overhead?
Then I check the technical environment. Where are the power outlets? Where are the speakers positioned? Is there a sound system, and if so, what kind? Is there a microphone available, and what type? Is there a lighting control panel, and where is it? Can the overhead lights be dimmed, or are they on a single switch — all on or all off? Is there ambient noise from the kitchen, the bar, an adjacent room, a hallway?
All of this happens in the first fifteen minutes. And all of it happens before I unpack a single prop.
The People Who Actually Run the Venue
Here is the part that took me longer to learn, because it is less about logistics and more about human relationships. The most important people at any venue are not the event organizer, not the CEO, not the guest of honor. The most important people are the staff.
The AV technician who controls the sound board. The lighting operator who decides which dimmers are accessible. The banquet manager who determines when the dessert course is served and whether the kitchen doors will be opening and closing behind you during your performance. The waitstaff who will be clearing plates — or not clearing plates — while you are trying to hold an audience’s attention. The security person who controls the doors. The hotel manager who can authorize moving furniture.
Weber says it plainly: get to know the staff. Acknowledge their worth. Create allies. I have made this one of the cornerstones of my pre-show process, and it has paid dividends that are almost impossible to overstate.
How I Befriend the Staff
The word “befriend” might sound calculated, and I want to be clear that it is not. Or rather, it started as calculated and became genuine over time. When I first began making a deliberate effort to connect with venue staff, it was purely strategic — I wanted them to help me get what I needed for the show. But what I discovered is that these are people who are almost never acknowledged by the performers who use their spaces.
The typical performer arrives, makes demands, and treats the staff as invisible. The AV technician is a button-pusher. The banquet manager is an obstacle. The waitstaff are background noise. I know this because multiple staff members at different venues have told me so, usually with a mixture of surprise and relief when I introduce myself and ask their name.
My approach is simple. When I arrive — early, always early — I find the staff members who will be relevant to my performance. I introduce myself by first name. I ask their name. I explain briefly what I will be doing that evening, and I ask for their help. Not in a demanding way. In a collaborative way.
“I am performing after the dinner service. Is there a way we can time the plate clearing so it finishes before I start? I know that is a lot to coordinate, and I really appreciate any flexibility you can offer.”
“The sound is set up behind where I will be standing — is there any possibility of repositioning the speakers to the sides? If not, no problem at all, I will work with what we have.”
“Would it be possible to dim the overhead lights by about half during my set? If the dimmer is not accessible, I completely understand.”
Three things happen when you approach venue staff this way. First, they almost always say yes. People who are treated with respect and given agency tend to be remarkably accommodating. Second, they often go above and beyond what you asked for, because you have made them feel like collaborators rather than servants. Third, they become your allies during the show. The waiter who knows you by name will hold the kitchen door rather than letting it swing open during your closer. The AV tech who understands what you are doing will adjust the sound levels in real time if something drifts. The banquet manager will keep the dessert course quiet during your final routine.
The Sound Check Is Not Optional
Of all the technical elements, sound is the one I have learned to be most obsessive about. A bad sound experience is not something the audience evaluates analytically — it is something they feel in their body as discomfort, distraction, and fatigue. And unlike a lighting issue, which the audience may notice but can work around, a sound issue directly interferes with their ability to hear and understand what you are saying.
Dan Harlan makes a critical point in his Tarbell lecture: what you hear on stage is not what the audience hears in their seats. The acoustics are different. The distance changes everything. Reverb, echo, dead spots — all of these exist in the audience’s experience and may not exist in yours.
My sound check process has become ritualistic. I put on the microphone — usually a lavalier — and I have someone sit in the audience seating area while I speak at my normal performance volume. Not my warm-up volume. Not my testing-one-two-three volume. My actual performance volume, with the actual energy and projection I will use during the show. I ask them to move around — front rows, back rows, sides. Is the volume consistent? Can they hear me clearly? Is there any echo or feedback?
If there is no one available to sit in the audience, I prop my phone against a chair in the back row, hit record, and speak for two minutes from the performance area. Then I walk back and listen. It is not a perfect substitute for a live listener, but it catches the worst problems.
Harlan suggests that if you disagree with the sound technician about levels, the solution is to have someone else stand on stage while you sit in the audience yourself. This is excellent advice that I have used more than once. The sound technician is listening through monitors and mixing boards. You need to hear what the audience will hear, from where the audience will be sitting.
The Venue Walkthrough as Rehearsal
Once the technical elements are sorted, I do something that probably looks strange to anyone watching. I stand in the performance area, in an empty room, and I run through the first two minutes of my set. Not the whole set — just the opening. I speak the words out loud, at performance volume, looking at the empty chairs where the audience will be sitting.
This is not practice. My material is already practiced. This is spatial rehearsal — the act of physically inhabiting the performance space before the audience arrives. I need to know how the room feels when I am standing in it. How far it is to the front row. How the acoustics affect my voice. Where the exits are, because my eyes will naturally drift to movement at the exits and I need to train myself to ignore it. Where the worst sightline is, so I can make a point of turning toward it during the show.
Scott Alexander talks about production value coming from simple ideas — standing up straight, projecting to the back row, color-coordinating your costume. But production value also comes from spatial confidence. When you have already inhabited the space before the audience arrives, you move differently. You are not discovering the room in real time. You already know it. And that knowledge radiates as confidence.
My Pre-Show Checklist
For the sake of specificity, here is what my pre-show ritual looks like today, distilled from years of iteration.
Ninety minutes before: Arrive. Walk the room. Note any issues with the physical layout. Introduce myself to the AV technician and the venue manager. Discuss the basic technical requirements.
Seventy-five minutes before: Begin addressing any layout issues — repositioning furniture, adjusting sightlines, clearing obstacles. This is when having staff allies is invaluable, because moving a table or repositioning a speaker is rarely a one-person job.
Sixty minutes before: Sound check. Microphone test. Speaker positioning confirmed. Volume levels set. Feedback checked.
Forty-five minutes before: Lighting. Test the dimmer options. Confirm with the lighting operator (or the wall panel) what the lighting will be during my set. Check for hot spots, shadows, and back-lighting.
Thirty minutes before: Props set up and checked. Every item in its place. Every element tested. Nothing left to chance.
Fifteen minutes before: The performance area is ready. I step away from it. I change into my performance clothes if I have not already. I get a glass of water. I stand against a wall — Weber’s posture trick — press my shoulders and head against a flat surface for thirty seconds to align my spine. I stretch my neck. I take three deep breaths.
Five minutes before: I find someone — anyone, a staff member, the event coordinator, a friendly face — and I say something that makes them smile. Weber’s advice: say something funny backstage just before walking out, so the first face the audience sees is one that is genuinely smiling.
And then I walk out. Into a room I already know. Into a technical environment I have already tested. Into a relationship with the venue staff that is already established. The only thing left to discover is the audience themselves.
That is the whole point. By handling everything else in advance, the audience gets one hundred percent of my attention. And they deserve nothing less.