Yes, it is a rehearsed show, yes, it was analogy of going to see

“Yes, it is a rehearsed show, yes, it was analogy of going to see a play at the theatre, where everything has to be in place and whole things, everything being works, all works together to get the best effect you know it's more like an actor learning a part.” — John Deacon

In these reflective words, John Deacon, the quiet genius and bassist of the legendary band Queen, unveils a profound truth that transcends music and performance. Beneath his modest tone lies a timeless insight: that excellence — whether in art, craft, or life — is not the fruit of chance, but of discipline, preparation, and harmony. His comparison of a concert to a theatrical play is not a simple analogy; it is a philosophy of creation. For, as in the theatre, every gesture, every note, every light must serve a greater purpose — the unity of the whole. To achieve beauty that seems effortless, one must rehearse endlessly, aligning heart, mind, and hand until they move as one.

The origin of this quote lies in Deacon’s perspective on the artistry behind Queen’s performances. Known for their elaborate stagecraft and emotional grandeur, Queen’s concerts were never random expressions of energy; they were carefully woven spectacles where music, movement, and emotion danced together. Deacon, ever thoughtful and understated, reminds us that such perfection is built not upon spontaneity alone but upon practice, just as an actor learns a part. Behind the dazzling show stood hours of unseen labor — rehearsals, corrections, and coordination — not for vanity, but for the sake of giving the audience an experience that would stir their souls.

The ancients, too, revered this union between discipline and artistry. The philosophers of Greece taught that the pursuit of excellence — arete — required both inspiration and repetition. Aristotle himself wrote that virtue is not an act but a habit, formed through consistent practice. Likewise, the great actors of the classical stage, wearing their masks beneath the open sky of the amphitheater, rehearsed every movement and line until their performances appeared divine. To the untrained eye, their grace seemed natural; yet behind it was devotion — the sacred labor of perfecting one’s craft. Deacon’s words stand firmly in that tradition: true mastery is rehearsed, refined, and united in purpose.

Consider the story of Leonardo da Vinci, who, before painting the Last Supper, spent days merely observing how light fell upon a wall, how expressions flickered across faces, how gestures revealed emotion. When he finally painted, his brushstrokes seemed spontaneous, alive — yet they were born of years of preparation and endless revision. His genius, like Deacon’s musicianship, was not simply inspiration; it was discipline made invisible. The same truth applies to the performer, the writer, the craftsman: the most moving art appears natural only when every detail has been tended to with care.

When Deacon says it is “like an actor learning a part,” he also speaks to the empathy and transformation required in any art. An actor must inhabit another’s soul, must learn to feel what the character feels, until the line between performance and self dissolves. Similarly, the musician must surrender to the music, the dancer to the rhythm, the craftsman to the work. What appears rehearsed becomes, paradoxically, alive — because through repetition, one transcends mere technique and touches the heart of truth. It is in the act of rehearsal, of practice, that the performer learns not only the part, but also themselves.

Yet, Deacon’s wisdom also carries a lesson in unity. He reminds us that every element — every person, every detail — must work together to achieve greatness. A concert, like a theatre play, succeeds only when all its parts serve the same vision. No sound stands alone; no light shines without purpose. Each performer, technician, and craftsman becomes a thread in the same tapestry. So too in life: harmony arises not from isolated brilliance, but from cooperation — from individuals learning to play their part for the good of the whole.

Thus, dear listener, let these words guide you as you walk your own path of mastery. Whatever your art may be — whether it is music, teaching, craftsmanship, or leadership — treat it as a theatre of the soul. Rehearse your craft with devotion, as an actor learns a role, until your actions flow like poetry and your efforts breathe life into others. Do not mistake preparation for confinement; it is through structure that true freedom is born. For when everything “works together to get the best effect,” when heart and hand and will are in accord, your work will cease to be mere performance — it will become creation itself. And like the great shows of Queen, it will not simply be seen or heard — it will be felt, long after the curtain falls.