An artist’s perspective on performing outdoors, competing for an audience’s attention, and discovering that not every stage creates the same experience.
There is a significant difference between playing music for an audience and playing music in a place where an audience happens to be. That distinction became particularly clear during a recent conversation about a performance at Schnepf Farms in Queen Creek, Arizona.
I learned about the experience while sitting with my friend, who I will call "Sam" for this discussion. Sam, an experienced musician who performs at a variety of venues, had recently played at Schnepf Farms. As he described the afternoon, I realized that his experience offered another interesting perspective on something I have been exploring in my writing: how the venue itself changes the relationship between the performer and the audience. It was a revealing example of how much more goes into a performance than the time spent onstage.
A Farm Is Not a Concert Hall
Schnepf Farms is a destination where visitors come to enjoy the atmosphere, food, seasonal activities, and family entertainment. Music is one part of that experience, but it isn’t necessarily the reason people are there. And that makes an enormous difference to the performer.
Sam described an outdoor stage positioned near picnic tables, with families moving between activities, children running around, and people enjoying corn, chili, hot dogs, and other refreshments. Some visitors were seated. Others were walking through. Many were focused on eating, talking, or keeping track of their children. The musicians were providing entertainment, but they were competing with everything else happening around them.
I found myself thinking about how different that is from performing in a theater, where the audience has purchased a ticket, taken a seat, and made a conscious decision to listen. At Schnepf Farms, the audience hadn’t necessarily made that commitment. The performer had to earn their attention, often repeatedly.
When the Sound System Works Against You
One of Sam's greatest frustrations was the sound system. He described speakers positioned on either side of the stage, with picnic tables extending back beneath an overhead covering. The problem was simple: there wasn’t enough sound reinforcement to reach the entire audience effectively. Even with the controls turned all the way up, the system couldn’t deliver the volume or clarity he needed.
For a musician, this isn’t merely an inconvenience. Sound affects everything. If the performer can’t hear the proper balance of voice and instrument, it becomes more difficult to judge the performance. If the audience can’t hear clearly, even the most carefully selected song may fail to connect.
Sam compared his approach to adjusting a photograph. A photographer looks at an image and notices whether the lighting is too strong, the colors are unbalanced, or a particular element needs correction. A musician does something similar with sound. Sam often begins with a familiar song, such as “Kansas City,” because he knows how it should sound. That gives him a reference point for evaluating the acoustics and making adjustments.
I particularly appreciated that analogy because it connects two artistic disciplines. Whether working with sound or imagery, the artist is constantly interpreting feedback and making corrections. But there is a limit to what technique can accomplish. A photographer cannot always overcome terrible lighting without additional equipment. A musician cannot make an underpowered sound system deliver more than it is capable of producing. Sometimes the environment establishes limitations that skill alone cannot overcome.
The Audience That Isn’t Really Listening
Perhaps the most revealing part of Sam's experience was his description of the audience. It wasn’t necessarily an unfriendly audience. It was a distracted one.
Families had been walking around the farm, waiting in food lines, and managing children. When they finally found a picnic table, they were ready to sit, eat, and relax. Music was happening nearby, but listening wasn’t necessarily their priority. From the audience’s perspective, that may have been perfectly reasonable. From the performer’s perspective, it was exhausting.
A musician depends on feedback. Applause, eye contact, laughter, singing along, or even a quiet but attentive expression can communicate that a connection is happening. When those signals are missing, the performer has to work harder to maintain energy and confidence.
Sam described the experience as a difficult crowd to engage. And I wondered whether the real problem was the audience at all. Perhaps the setting had simply created different expectations. The visitors were there for a day at the farm. The musicians were there to perform. Those two purposes don’t always align.
Improvisation Becomes a Survival Skill
One of the things I enjoy about watching experienced performers is their ability to respond to unexpected situations. Sam described a moment when a train passed behind the stage while he was singing. Rather than ignoring the interruption, he incorporated it into the song, improvising lyrics about the train. A nearby listener noticed, and the moment became part of the entertainment.
That is something a recording cannot easily reproduce. A live performer can react to the environment, acknowledge the unexpected, and turn an interruption into a connection. But improvisation requires energy and concentration.
Sam also described having a planned list of songs, only to find himself changing his selections as the performance progressed. Between the distractions, the sound problems, and the heat, it became increasingly difficult to maintain the original plan. He had to keep making decisions. Which song would work next? What would capture attention? Should he change the tempo? Would something familiar work better than something more complicated?
The audience sees a musician playing. The musician is simultaneously evaluating dozens of variables.
The Physical Cost of an Outdoor Performance
There is another aspect of outdoor performance that audiences may not appreciate: the physical demands. Sam described a cloudy beginning to the afternoon, followed by the sun emerging partway through his set. The temperature seemed to rise immediately, and performing became considerably more uncomfortable.
There was the heat, the need to stay hydrated, the effort of playing and singing, and the challenge of remaining entertaining despite the conditions. Then there was the time involved. Sam estimated that the actual performance lasted somewhere around forty minutes to an hour, but the commitment extended far beyond that. There was the preparation, the equipment, the drive, the arrival, the performance itself, and the journey home.
And the journey home presented another challenge. As rain approached, Sam found himself searching for his car in a parking area that consisted largely of open fields. He had tried to remember where he parked by using a line of trees as a landmark, but navigating the fields after a tiring performance wasn’t easy.
By the time he finally arrived home, he was exhausted. It was a reminder that a relatively short performance can represent an entire day of physical and mental effort.
Not Every Stage at Schnepf Farms Is the Same
One of the more interesting distinctions in Sam's account was that he had enjoyed performing at Schnepf Farms in a different setting. He described a smaller patio area near the gift shop and food service, where open-mic performances have been held. That environment felt more intimate and comfortable. People could order food, sit nearby, and listen. The physical space made the relationship between performer and audience more natural.
The larger outdoor stage, by contrast, placed the musicians within a much broader recreational environment. The audience was dispersed, the distractions were numerous, and the sound system struggled to bridge the distance.
Same destination, but a different performance environment and a different artistic experience.
That distinction is important because it would be unfair to evaluate the entire venue based on a single stage or event. A space that works beautifully for one type of entertainment may be much less effective for another. A full band might create the energy and sound needed to engage a large outdoor crowd, while a smaller acoustic performance might be better suited to a more intimate setting. The design of the performance space matters just as much as the talent onstage.
What Does a Successful Performance Really Mean?
As Sam talked, I kept returning to a question that interests me across different art forms. How do we measure artistic success? Is a musical performance successful because the musician played well, because the audience applauded, because people stopped to listen, or because the venue provided an enjoyable atmosphere? Or is success measured by the performer’s ability to adapt, improvise, and deliver the best possible experience under difficult circumstances?
I don’t think those questions have identical answers. A musician may perform exceptionally well in an environment that makes meaningful audience engagement almost impossible. Conversely, an enthusiastic audience can transform an imperfect performance into a memorable experience. The relationship between performer, audience, and environment is far more complicated than it appears.
And perhaps that’s what makes live performance so interesting. Unlike a painting hanging on a wall or a recording played through headphones, live music exists in a particular place at a particular moment. The weather matters. The acoustics matter. The audience matters. Even a passing train can become part of the artwork.
Next Time, I’ll Be on the Other Side
I haven’t finished exploring Schnepf Farms. In fact, Sam's experience has made me more curious about it. I plan to attend a performance there as an audience member and observe the experience from the other side.
Will I notice the same sound limitations? Will the music feel like background entertainment, or will it draw me into the performance? Will the setting encourage me to sit and listen, or will I find myself enjoying the larger atmosphere of the farm? And how much will the type of music, the size of the audience, and the particular performance space influence my impression?
Those questions deserve their own article. For now, Sam's account has given me a renewed appreciation for the work that happens beyond the microphone: the adjustments, improvisation, persistence, and professionalism required to keep performing when the environment isn’t cooperating.
A stage provides a place to perform, but it doesn’t necessarily provide an audience that is ready to listen. And sometimes, the greatest artistry lies in finding a way to connect anyway.
Note: artwork by me for a 2026 exhibition at ASU Gammage. See here.
