Last night, I had the chance to perform at my favorite venue—The House of Cards in Nashville, TN. It’s one of those rare places that feels like home: dark wood, velvet curtains, mystery in the air, and—most importantly—a crowd that could be made up of literally anyone. From die-hard magic lovers to those dragged in by friends who promised it would be “worth it,” the audience is always a mystery.

Last night’s mystery came in the form of a divided crowd. Half the group was enchanted and eager. The other half… let’s just say they’d rather be getting a root canal than watching someone find their card. These weren’t your average skeptics. They were combative observers. You know the type—talking over effects, loudly guessing how it’s done, throwing around phrases like, “I saw that on YouTube once.”

At moments like these, a performer has a choice: you can push back or lean in.

Now, I’ve seen both approaches in the wild. One of my favorite cardists (who shall remain nameless to preserve the illusion of mystery) handles hecklers with flaming swords made of pasteboard. You heckle him, and he launches a blitz of knuckle-busting miracles that say, “How dare you question my sorcery?” It’s intense, it’s brutal, and it works for him. But when I tried that two decades ago, it fell flat—because, at my core, I’m not aggressive. I’m a gentle Midgley. When I tried the “sledgehammer of astonishment” approach, it felt as forced as a coin behind your ear.

Then there’s another magician I admire—cool, calm, and disarmingly kind. He pulls difficult spectators into his orbit with compliments and charm. “You’re so sharp,” he’ll say, “I’d tell you how the trick works, but you probably already know.” And just like that, they’re on his side. No secrets exchanged, just egos gently massaged and everyone back in the fun zone.

That’s more my speed.

So what did I do last night? I got curious. When the anti-magic brigade started acting up, I asked questions—not about the trick, but about them.

“What do you do for fun?” “Any  TV shows you’re bingeing?” “Favorite musical artist?”

Suddenly, we weren’t adversaries—we were having a conversation. I learned one woman loved Prince. Another was a Two and a Half Men superfan. So what did I do? I wove Prince lyrics into my patter. I made her feel seen. When the sitcom fan started to derail the show, I looked her dead in the eye and harmonized: “Meeeeennnnn…” just like the show’s theme. She cracked up. The crowd laughed. We all reset.

Now, were they suddenly angels? Of course not. They still offered up wild (and wildly incorrect) theories about how tricks were done. But the tone shifted. Their commentary was less acidic, more playful. I’d respond with a sincere, “That’s one way to do it,” whether or not their guess was close. Usually, it wasn’t. But I’m not here to win a debate—I’m here to make a connection.

There’s a line I won’t let people cross. For example, I once had to stop a show cold when a spectator made a racist remark. I gave an impromptu TED Talk on genetics and melanin that nobody asked for—but some things can’t be ignored.

But 99% of the time, my approach is to be present, be curious, and most of all—be patient.

This may sound like Jedi-level restraint, but honestly, I cheat. I spent years as a crisis counselor and now work as a psychotherapist. I’ve been trained to build rapport in under five minutes with people having the worst day of their lives. A room full of tipsy hecklers? Child’s play.

I genuinely want to know the people I’m performing for. If I know who you are, I can tailor the performance to land just right. And when people feel seen, they don’t want to ruin the show—they want to be part of it.

That’s the magic.

It’s why we call them effects, not tricks. A trick is something you do to someone. An effect is something you create for them. And when someone isn’t in the right mindset to experience that effect, maybe the best thing I can offer isn’t another card trick—it’s patience, attention, and a bit of well-timed harmony.

Meeeeennnnn…