Every person in the theater has a few formative moments, I think, those performances that in their sheer surprising and moving power made us become who we are, got us addicted to this ever-dying, ever-disappointing, anachronistic beast of an art form. The reason we stick with theater is precisely because of those moments–it’s like an addiction.

For me, one of the three or four performances that sticks out in my mind took place in 1997 or ’98, in a tiny little community theatre in Hillsboro, Ore. A friend of mine was a member of the company, Hillsboro Artists Repertory Theatre, and it was their fundraiser evening, a mixed showcase of mainly musical numbers ranging from a sassy take on How to Succeed in Business from the clearly gay but possibly not-yet-out kid, to a few ballads, to…you know, the typical mix of heartfelt tripe.

And then came the closer. I’d been told in advance that he was a character: an older retired man who’d been something on Broadway in his day (which I assume means no one), who’d been very generous to the company (probably a few hundred dollar donation), and was tolerated as the colorful character who was ever so slightly gauche with the teenage ladies. So he was invited to close out the revue, but when he came on, instead of launching in to a number, he just…talked. Told a story. Sang a few songs. And it was one of the most captivating things I’ve ever seen.

I still remember the set-up to the last number. It was, he explained, a song from a nearly forgotten Broadway musical of an earlier age, in which an older man and a younger man both fell in love with a young woman, who of course wound up with the more appropriate younger man. But here’s the trick: the song he was about to sing was the old man’s lament, and when, during previews (Catskills?) the woman went for the young man, the audience started booing. So the show closed, the ending was scrapped and rewritten, an lo and behold, now the young woman went for the older man.

I have no idea what musical it’s from, and the melody and lyrics have long since vanished from my memory. Hell, the story’s too neat and clean to be true. But I still remember him telling it. It was one of the single finest demonstrations of the most basic and profound power the theater has: a person, in front of an audience, keeping them rapt and leaving them ultimately profoundly moved by just telling a story.

That’s one of the reasons that, despite my countless misgivings, I am and will remain a big supporter of solo performance. In the theater world, solo performance is more often than not a bastardized catch-all: a creative outlet for bored actors who fall back on monologue cliches, or worse, a weirdly commercially viable form of theater. I know more than one artist who relies on a salable solo show to make half a year’s living working the North American or European fringe fest circuit.

But there are definitely some solo performances that defy the term. One of the best pieces of theatre to come out of Seattle in years was Keith Hitchcock’s Muffin Face, a solo show that doesn’t feel like one. Nor does whatever the hell it is Mike Pham did onstage at the last NW New Works in I Love You I Hate You. And then there are the Charles Smiths or Paul Budraitises or Jose Amadors of the world, and yeah, even cynical, seen-it-all me has to admit, solo performance is a powerful and vibrant form

Tonight marks the opening of the fifth installment of Solo Performance Festival down at Theatre off Jackson, which runs through May 7. The festival is a little sparser than last year, but the programming is tighter. It kicks off tonight with the inimitable Lauren Weedman, an LA-by-way-of-Seattle performer, in No…You Shut Up!, which explores adoption. (Don’t let that touchy-feely description fool you–Weedman’s amazing.)

Local fave Terri Weagant (who not so long ago owned a production of the solo show to end ’em all, The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe) presents a original piece, Karaoke Suicide is Painless, “a multimedia karaoke comedy that explores the correlation between air guitar and personal choice.” Up-and-comer Jerick Hofer tries to step up Seattle’s take on queer solo performance (a form that always gestates in Seattle but in NYC is amazingly fertile) in Turning Parlor Tricks. And long-time Seattle theatre mainstay Bret Fetzer directs Matt Smith in All My Children.

The “Best in Shorts” evenings are always a mixed bag, to be honest, but are worth it for the truly dedicated because that’s the sort of format you’re going to see something amazing in, the type of 10-minute performance that three years later might blow your mind at On the Boards. And this year, a new tidbit has been added with “Voir Dire,” a mixed evening of storytelling from Seattle writers and performers, which continues to expand the base.

We’re going to be covering the festival throughout, so more information will come in the near future. That said, I caught most of the festival last year and was amazed at how often truly amazing little shows played to small audiences. I always worry that saying something like that will throw up red-flags, but I just want to be honest: this is the sort of thing that people shouldn’t miss. Theatre people who care about the form obviously need to be there. But non-theatre people who have little patience for tedious “acting” in big shows will be be surprised–most of these artists are here because they’re tired of traditional theatre productions, too. If the Rep and ACT and Intiman are the NBA, then SPF is March Madness: balls-to-the-wall, one chance only so bring your A-game theatre. Tickets are a steal at under $20 a show, and beer’s cheap on-site.