I didn’t intend to start a company. The name, One Foot, came from a joke buried in the liner notes of an album I produced in my 20’s. Something about a one-foot grand piano. It was funny at the time.
When a real opportunity came along in 2005 (thank you, Tribeca Film Festival), I needed a name. That one was already sitting there, so I used it. Then I kept using it.
Here we are. Twenty years later.
At one point, I tried to assign deeper meaning to the name One Foot. “It means balance. Standing on one foot in the middle of chaos.” Or, “It’s about persistence. One foot in front of the other when things get hard.” I let that go. Not everything needs to mean something.
There was never a five-year plan. No mission statement on the wall. Actually, no wall. Just people asking if I could help with something, a show, a schedule, a script, and me saying, “Sure, let’s figure it out.”
Over time, I—and the amazing people I roped in to help along the way—got decent at solving problems backstage. Keeping things from falling apart. Organizing mountains of information. Making sure the right person walked on at the right time. Stuff like that.
Eventually, we started shaping what was happening onstage. Then we started building our own stages. Pretty soon, we weren’t just supporting the show—we were creating it. That was always the dream.
I’m proud of what’s come out of that. We built Bear Music Fest (BMF)—our summer camp-style immersive music festival tucked into the mountains of California—because it felt like the kind of gathering we wanted to attend but didn’t yet exist.
We wrote a couple original musicals to satisfy my love of theater. We created dynamic award show and halftime performances—one of my favorites being the 2017 NBA All-Star collaboration with The Roots.
We worked on hundreds of projects (more than I can count) including podcasts, non-profit galas, benefit concerts, awards shows, cooking competitions, comedy specials, and plenty more.
And then there was 2020. When the pandemic hit, everything stopped. We went from full speed to zero overnight. But instead of shutting down, we started experimenting.
We built virtual house concerts for our BMF artists, figuring out how to make indie bands sound decent over Zoom. We helped the Apollo Theater reimagine its gala into a powerful digital tribute a week after George Floyd’s murder. We stitched together filmed performances for Dova Dance into an interactive story about family separation during COVID. We turned the Brooklyn Conservatory’s fundraiser into a virtual haunted mansion full of surprise performances hidden behind Zoom “doors.” (And yes, all of this without AI.)
At times—admittedly—it was chaos. But for better or worse, production folks often thrive in chaos. We even built a tool for it: dBocl (pronounced “debacle”), short for Database Organizing Chaotic Logistics. It makes our chaos a little more manageable. We still use it every day.
(Okay, my daughter is definitely going to say, “Dad, stop flexing.” Fair. But when I step back and really look at it, we’ve done a lot. It’s okay to feel proud.)
We’ve always felt like the odd-shaped tool in the box. Not quite a traditional production company. Not just logistics. Not just creative. Not just tech. Something hybrid. Something responsive.
Most recently, our interests have been pulled toward immersive and experiential work—exploring new ways to connect people to story and entertainment in unexpected and transformative ways. (More on that in future posts.)
As we’ve matured, we’ve come to love when the jobs get weirder, more creative, and more collaborative. If we leave a mark over the next 20 years, I hope it’s that.
Because twenty years in, we figured it was time for a little reflection and soul-searching. (Or at least that’s what my therapist says.) Remarkably, we still love creating live entertainment as much as ever—maybe more—and we’ve got some new projects cooking that we'll share later, since this is already getting long.
These days, we’re less interested in growth and more interested in depth. We want to collaborate with people who are curious, passionate, and willing to experiment. People who don’t mind getting in the mud. We want to build things that feel honest, even if they’re messy. Especially if they’re messy.
The work now feels less about managing chaos and more about shaping stories. Though, we still care a lot about making things smoother, more thoughtful, and more human.
Thanks to everyone who’s been part of the journey so far—and to future collaborators we are eager to meet. Let’s make some cool shit.
More to come.
