Regarding CATS

The two lights of my life, Goonie and Bobo, were born into a musical and operatic family. Both their parents are professional stage performers. Their grandfather is a 35 yr retired drama teacher. They are bombarded on a daily basis with parental singing (sometimes yowling on a bad day), or musicals and opera on CD. They really have no choice but to appreciate and become singers themselves someday. Either that or truck drivers. They can sing along with The Wizard of Oz. They even know all the lyrics to “We’re Off To See The Wizard…”, although it took me well over 30 years to figure out that patter. One day I went to pick them up and they met me at the door all excitable about this “new” show that has a bunch of cats singing. They described how the cats live on a big trash heap and jump around the stage while singing about their curious 9 lives. “CATS?” I asked. “CATS is your new favorite musical?” “YES!” they squealed with glee. Now most everyone I know despises the musical CATS. It has no redeeming value as a musical other than hot dancers in colored tights and fur. They think that Sir Lloyd Webber’s music is simple and non-creative (read: it sucks), the plot is non-existent, and they could better spend their time doing three hours of sewer maintenance than watch this show. I’ve had the complete CD for 20 years, however, and a fan for even longer. I know what a Jellicle Cat is. So I joined in my daughters exuberant joy and promptly ripped and downloaded the CATS soundtrack onto my iPod. We listen to it every time we’re in my car together. We celebrate the mischief caused by Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer, we hum along to the magic of Mr. Mistoffelees, and rock out with Rum Tum Tugger. We listen to it again. And again. and again……. I’m finding that this musical has no redeeming value without the hot dancers in colored tights and fur. I’m believing that Sir Lloyd Webber’s music is trivial and consists of clustered notes tossed together like a salad. And dammit! Where is the plot? I think I hate this musical.

I am NOT a headboard

I’m a Bond fan. I’ve seen them all. And I was skeptical about Daniel Craig as the new 007. Even after Casino Royale I was not entirely impressed. However, I watched the new Quantum of Solace on opening night and realized that Daniel is a Bond to be reckoned with. The new film is a sequel to Casino so I had to go back and rent that DVD to pick up what I missed in the sequel. Then I had to go back to the cinema to watch the exciting edge-of-my-seat Quantum just one more time. Well, even after weeks in the cinema the theater was nearly completely full. I had a choice to sit in the very front (no way) or in the very back. I chose the back. Bad choice. The only seats available were next to a couple of teenagers cuddling in the corner, so I sat right next to them. I thought to myself, “they better not start sucking face during the movie!” But, alas, teens will be teens. And I, too, was once a teen who would suck face during in a crowded theater during a movie. However, I never went so far as these two ill-fated lovers. After the first couple of big action scenes there of course needs to be some dialogue to move the plot along. Well, that was a perfect opportunity for the young frizzy haired, droopy pants wearing stallion to make his move. The face sucking commenced, and I thank my disciplined concentration skills that I was able to continue focusing on the movie. After a little shoulder to shoulder smooching the couple progressed to leaning, I reckoned so as to get a little better leverage. Leaning transformed into nearly prostrate with the young gentleman’s (I’m trying to be nice here) frizzy greasy head inching closer and closer to me. Oh, shit, I thought. I’m going to have to embarrass these kids and tell them to get a room. But I found myself hesitate as I was trying to live vicariously through this intimate couple since I’m single and haven’t sucked face in a while myself. And it was fun recalling the joyful intertwining moments during a flick with a girlfriend back in high school. Well sure ‘nuff, the horny adolescents stretched out enough that I was acting as surrogate headboard. “That’s quite enough!” I thought. But as I turned to begin my fatherly lecture about movie manners the girl finally wizened up and put the emergency brakes on their hot-n-heavy endeavor. Whew. But then they commenced to whip out their friggin’ phones and began texting a mile a minute. AAARRRRGGGHHHH!! Is there no consideration with today’s teens?! I’m never going to have a teenager. My girls will have to jump right into adulthood. I’ve decided.

Is is OK to knit in a crowded Opera House?

I was very pleased to accompany my lovely daughter, Goonie, to the final dress rehearsal of La Traviata. Her mother was singin' in the chorus and Goonie likes to go to see productions that her mamma or daddy are performing in. Since she knew I was taking her to the opera she even dressed up in my favorite purple velvet dress. And it is traditional to enjoy fine dining before going to the opera so we went out to eat - at the local ma & pop diner. I mean, they make the best grilled cheese in Portland! We arrived at the opera house and made our way to the first balcony, row B. Ooooo, I thought, gonna be nice seats. They were! If we paid for that pair of seats for opening night they would have been well over $200! We settled in our seats and that was when I noticed that the lady sitting to my right was awfully fidgety. I didn't want to stare at her so I gave her the 'fish eye' and beheld a sight I've never seen before -- she was knitting! I thought, ok, that's a nice way to help make the time pass until the curtain rises. I fully figured the needles and yarn to be put away when the overture started. Nope. Kept right on knittin'! All - through - the - entire - opera! WTF!?!? Knitting is certainly not as bad as texting a friend with your phone, or being openly flatulent for that matter. But the constant fidgeting and elbowing was most distracting. Especially in Act II when Verdi just could not deem himself to move the plot along fast enough. I think because it was the final dress rehearsal and many of the tickets are 'comp' tics and are given to folks who do not usually attend the opera that someone gave it to a relative who figured the 3,000 seat cavernous theater was just as well as her own living room. Ok, then. I'm determined to pass some gas next time I'm at the opera.

Broken Chairs & Broken Platforms

Hell week. Day three. Dress rehearsal on top of another tech practice. Complete bedlam backstage and in the dressing rooms. "Where's my corset?" "Do I wear this on our head?" "Five minutes to places, everybody. Five minutes." "Five minutes? I don't even have my underwear on yet!" "Do these pants make me look fat?" "No, but you sure got a bad case of camel toe happening there, dude!" As you can see, the real entertainment happens backstage, people. You pay for the magic onstage, but the best seats are backstage where all the drama really happens. Tonight our rotating platform slipped its chain. Imagine a bicycle with a 24 foot diameter gear shifter. Imagine a chain that is inches thick wrapped around the gear powered by an electronic motor with at least 1/10th horsepower. With such unbridled power under our feet we spin at a sprinting speed, sometimes clockwise, sometimes counter-clockwise. We never know. It's always a surprise. Well, maybe not as fast as a sprint, but at least a bear crawl speed. Anyway, during a clockwise spin the platform chain slipped. Total breakdown. This needed to happen. You see, since it happened during tech we can reasonably be assured that it won't happen opening night. But hey, you poor suckers who purchased opening night tics for this Friday may be in for a treat! Also, will someone please tell the greenhorn that YOU DON'T SIT ON THE BREAKAWAY CHAIR! Especially after it's been placed onstage for the next scene. I must admit, that was one of the funniest foul-ups I ever did witness onstage. Thanks, Brian, for the good laugh.

Don't Touch My Heine

Four hours of tech. Four more hours of orchestra sitzprobe. Add on another two hours spent at church rehearsing and cantoring. I'm one pooped singer! Usually we singers prefer to only rehearse or perform no more than three -- maybe four -- hours tops per day. We're such delicate creatures. And we must preserve the voce so that we are able to access only the prime vocal quality at all times for our ever-adoring public. Yeah. Though the previous statements are based in truth, they certainly are far from reality. The exertion and energy expended today is tough on a singer, but it is something we must endure. And though we do prefer to be able to access our "top voice", the only time we hit the prime vocal quality is usually a moment in the shower or automobile or some other totally inaccessible location where no one hears us. The other 99% of the time we are struggling to sing through some sort of vocal malfunction. Samples of said vocal malfunctions can be caused by any of the following: 1. Waking up. Any singer who tries to vocalize right after their alarm clock shatters their slumber will find that portraying a sick frog is more likely be the only role available. I prefer not to even hum a note before noon. Mostly I'd rather not sing at all until after 3 pm. Ok, let's say I'd just as well sing around midnight. That's when the voice is probably warmed up best. 2. Alcohol. Sure, we singers like to drink the beers after a rehearsal or performance. But we pay dearly the next day when the post-alcohol dehydrated vocal chords go on strike. But again, when are we ever at peak performance anyway? Let's drink up -- and don't touch my Heine! 3. Breathing. Yes, simply breathing can knock the voice onto the disabled list. Dry air, moist air, dust, pollens, errant gnats that get sucked down one's throat. All these are detrimental. As I said, our poor voices are delicate instruments. 4. Having relations. You've heard that "sex weakens the knees!" But we don't need our knees! However, after an enjoyable lusty romp in the sack I find that my vocal range drops about an octave. Great for if I need to sing something out of the Russian basso-profondo repertoire, but usually I'm hired to sing something on or above the bass clef. So there it is. I'm pooped and ready for a full day off tomorrow for rest and rejuvenation. In that case, pass me that Heine! Prost!

I'm Hungry - I'm Full

Goonie gets smarter every day. She has learned the artful dance of negotiation, she reads like a 12th grader, and she even composes improv songs on hilarious subjects such as excrement and throw up. She gets her smarts (and humor) from me. However, sometimes logic floats away like a helium balloon and becomes an airhead. She gets that from her mother. Last night after a meal of two forkfulls of Mac & Cheese she proceeded to ransack my kitchen in search of snack booty. “I’m hungry” “Then eat your dinner” “But I’m full” “???!!!??” Even after six and a half years of parenting I’m still trying to plug in to kid logic. They obviously understand that to get out of eating any more of the ca-ca that is set before them all they have to do is feign fullness. But their strategy to get up from their dinner and go straight for the kitchen pantry, well, I’m on to that scheme like Pooh Bear to hunny trees. But I take the cue and run with the ball and say, “I’d be happy to get you a popsicle – as soon as you finish your meal.” “But I don’t want any more.” “Then obviously you don’t want any popsicles.” “Then can I have potato chips?” “No.” “Popcorn” “No.” “Cheez-its?” “Uh uh.” So off she goes to play and dance, forgetting that she’s hungry. But near bed time she can’t stand the hunger any longer and eats her cold cheesy noodles. And after reading stories and hugs and kisses, and getting her cups of water and milk for her bedside, she walks into the living room 10 minutes later… “Can I have a popsicle now?”

Everybody Was Kung Fu Peeing

I’m reaching a very remarkable milestone in my life – the day when I shall NEVER have to change another diaper again! Well, ok, it’s a pretty important milestone for my daughter, the little Klingon, too. She is now ‘dis many (3) and finally stepping up to the plate, er, the bowl rather, to pee in the potty on her own without the protective shield of an absorbent diaper. However, as these milestones are reached, there is a transition period. Right? Can I get an “Hell Ya” from all the parents out there? A little person doesn’t stop wearing a diaper cold turkey one day and start using the porcelain throne as if it were second nature full time, right? Right. There are mistakes to be made. Accidents are expected. Just, why does it have to happen on the same throw pillow on my couch!?! Ok, sure, my precious little daughter has had “ooopsies” on the floor, and thankfully, on the linoleum in the bathroom on her way to the potty. But I swear I’ve steamed and Oxicleaned this pillow full o’ pee at least three times now. There are three, count ‘em, three decorative pillows on the couch, but it’s always the same one. Interesting, i’nt it, how a young Klingon, like a dog, will find an object to mark her territory again and again. But have no fear, if Oxiclean is as strong as it touts on cleaning up tough “diaper leakage”, you’ll feel safe that you may lean your head on my couch throw pillow with no fear of offensive odor or stain. I’m just not telling you which one of the three pillows. ;-)

You mean people actually read this crap?

I've been informed by certain power panty wearing blogger(s) that I haven't updated my personal blog in a while, and, under incontrovertible and irrefutable bodily harm I had, "better GODDAMN WRITE SOMETHING OR ELSE I'M COMING TO PORTLAND AND SUPERGLUEING YOUR FINGERTIPS TO THE KEYBOARD!" First, let me thank my limited and mostly likely disillusioned reader(s) for stopping by to check on me now and then. I am alive. I am breathing. And no, I have not been trotted off to jail for triggering a mass killing spree. (yet) I admit, I have for the last three or so months lifted an upturned nose at my keyboard as I saunter past thinking, "no one reads the crap I write." Coupled with a dose of lonely bachelor depression, and a corpulent and zaftig blue collar operatic daily schedule causing much exertion on my hoary bohemian body (not to mention the delicate voce), I have neglected my writing duties. In fact, I was quite thrilled and gratified to be singing full time and not have to count the proverbial beans for "The Man", at least for a partial year. Resultantly, I was away from my humble abode for about six of the last twelve weeks, touring the wide expanse of Oregon and SW Washington. That seemed a good enough excuse to avoid posting details of my vapid life, at least through my eyes. Now my contract of over. I'm home again. Permanently. Jobless. Now I have nothing else to keep me occupied so you're stuck with my pointless drivel and inconsequential scribble. WELCOME BACK, EVIL BARITONE!!! By the way...anyone need a good Bean Counter?

Too Many Stories...Too Little Time

Ever have the opposite of writer's block? You'd think with as much as I'm ignoring the poor bloggy-poo I'm having absolutely nothing to write about. Quite the contrary. Working a full time touring opera with seven other performers giving up to three shows a day for children 5 to 18 gives blog fodder a-plenty. Ah, but it's that other part I mentioned -- up to three shows a day. Whew! Not to mention that the portable set for La Boheme must be unloaded and set up, struck and packed again...sometimes twice a day! The door and frame seen in the pic above must weigh upwards of 250 pounds requiring four burly opera singers (??) to lift and move it. Seems I've left my quiet comfortable bean counting white collar desk job for a heavy lifting blue collar, bruise infested, shin crushing, toe flattening job. And I love it! Tomorrow our troup drives to the scenic Eastern Oregon country. Likely there will be no high-speed Wi-Fi. No cable. No hot running water. In fact, I think they still ride horses into town to purchase supplies to fix their wagon wheels. But I'll try to save up the stories & tell them one at a time when I get back. That is, if I can avoid getting mauled by the wild grizzly bears.

Dead Meat, Suckah!

So, I have a dream…ok, a nightmare, really…where I am struck by a moving automobile. Call it my “phobia”. Perhaps the fear is a remnant of the time long ago when I was a senior traveling to Seattle for All-Northwest Choir. There, in some hotel in some burb which they felt was appropriate for unsupervised adolescents, we underage musical vagrants proceeded to engage in antics typical of stoopid hormone-induced pre adults. That is, we got nekkid in the hot tub. But in addition to exploring the limits of our modesty we went running about (fully clothed) in search of food and beverage. I was walking along a sidewalk outside the hotel and preparing to cross the street with two lovely singers with whom I wished to imbibe Jolt Cola and Zingers. Distracted as I was with their beauty and pocketless skin tight jeans, I proceeded to step onto the crosswalk assuming that the walking light was in my favor (as it should always be, right?) What I did not expect was the 18-wheeler diesel truck careening around the corner ignoring the yield to pedestrians. The girls screeched, the truck honked, I froze. If my reactions were anything less that the mongoose at age 18 I would have been asphalt roadkill. As I later learned in Austria, pedestrians are given pretty much the same title as roadkill. “Es ist mir Wurst”, or “It’s sausage to me”, are how pedestrians are referred by scrupulous drivers. Sausage. Mind the crosswalks people.

Plop Plop Fizz Fizz

Ok team, it’s two days before another op’nin of another show! You’re singing a very exposed 4-part harmony for a two hour show. You suddenly realize after the last rehearsal that DOH! you’ve caught a cough, a sniffle, Ich werde krank! What do you do? Do you punt and head for the sideline? NO! The show MUST go on! I’m about to start eight performances of a high energy, tight harmony, LET ME ENTERTAIN YOU holiday show. And what was a snot filled nose a few days ago has its crosshairs aimed straight for my throat & chest with “Bronchial Infection” flashing in neon. Only once have I completely lost my voice due to laryngitis, and it was for about five straight days when I was a cruise director and entertainer. Yeah, my job was to talk all day and sing at night and I could do neither. Bummer. Even my best remedies didn’t work then. But 98.4 out of 100 times these remedies work and I swear by them as a performer. Effective immediately I shall be doing the following: WATER WATER EVERYWHERE! Never stop drinking water. Always keep a bottle of water in your hand or in arms reach. Flush the body with water. Go pee. Then drink and flush some more. Water keeps you hydrated and is like a flash flood in your body clearing out the viral and bacterial debris. DRINK IT! AIRBORNE I’ve discovered this seemingly simple effervescent potion is a great metaphorical dam stopper. At the first sign of a sniffle or cough I start plopping these pellets at least twice a day. The sudden turbo boost of vitamins and herbs to the immune system usually knocks out an oncoming cold dead in it’s tracks, and in my belief is the cure for the common cold. And the best part? It tastes like Tang! One word of warning!!! Don’t repeat my mistake! Chewing and swallowing Airborne pellets is not recommended! Drop into a glass of water first! ECHINACEA My next favorite immunostimulator. C’mon, who doesn’t like to eat flowers? Echinacea is the purple power coneflower that fights off formidable infections. OPEN WIDE AND SAY AHHHHH This remedy may be a wives tale and sound more like a witches potion but, hey I’ll try anything to keep the vocal folds moving. Pour a tablespoonful of honey. On top of the golden yumminess sprinkle a liberal dose of Cayenne Pepper, also known to be in the Nightshade family. Count to three, then shove the spoon into your mouth upside down so the pepper coated honey runs off your tongue and down your throat. Helps soothe sore and scratchy throats. These are but a few of the witch’s brews I have in my pagan home remedy cabinet. I’ll save the best ones for the book I shall publish entitled, The Discordant Singers' Guide to Quick Fix Counteractive Herbal Elixir Solutions (or Double Trouble Croaky Singer Fuddle).

The Thespian Life

This is what a first stage rehearsal really looks like. We spend four weeks rehearsing music, dialogue, blocking, and hours of choreography in a crowded tool shop, then move suddenly into a real theatre with curtains and chairs and lights and everything. One can assume correctly that the spacing in a tool shop is quite a bit more cramped. So the first day on the stage set we all tend to stand around, look at the set, look at each other, look at where the audience will be (we want to be sure we can be seen at all times), then generally conclude that everything we did in a cramped toolshop has to be redone. So then we stand around looking at the director, who looks at the performers, who look back at the director, who yells, “quiet on the set!” because the set construction crew is still constructing the set as we stand on it, but the set construction crew ignores the director because the dudes really in charge are the set and lighting designers. So the director and performers mill around the stage in between the construction crew and the constant hammering, continually fearing for our lives as extremely heavy light trusses are dropped inches from our heads. We laugh, we joke, we comment that we wish the incessant hammering-sawing-drilling would cease, but to no avail. After a while we shrug our shoulders, agree that everything will work out, then go have a beer. I love the theatre!

The Sacrifices We Make...

...for our art. There are a number of items that fit this category: sacrifices for and to family, in finances, in creative ideas, in bohemian lifestyles…the list goes on. In a recent post I mentioned how I made a rather quick change in my appearance by losing 5-8 pounds in about a month. I sacrificed food. Not completely, but I ate a lot of rice cakes I’ll tell you, and frankly I don’t know how rice cakes can be labeled a food product in the first place! I made that sacrifice so that I would fit a costume picked for me in the musical review, COLE. About two weeks before our first rehearsal the small cast was called for a promotional photo shoot. There we were made to wear very nice formal outfits, the men in dazzling black & white tuxedos. My tuxedo was a dashing double breasted winged collar with tails and white tie & vest. However, I felt like a sausage stuffed in that outfit. But I sucked in the gut & stood tall for the modeling session. I knew by the reaction of Sharon, the director, that the spiffy outfits we were wearing would be the very ones chosen for the show. Uh oh! I had to do something…and fast! I had previous experience in trying to look fit for a show. Last summer I slimmed down to wear a slinky, transparent Carmen Miranda dress with halter top. I looked like a tropical fruit-ka-bob Yes, you can bet my vanity forced me be the best looking Carmen Miranda I could be so I reached an ideal weight suitable for a 6 foot man in drag. How did I manage to lose the poundage required to fit the tux so that I looked marvelous on stage? The easy answer is I stopped eating and drank gallons of water. But really I ate smaller portions of healthier food, like 6 inch Subway tuna sandwiches, rice cakes, Wheat Thin crackers, anything that would put something in my belly and keep me from being hungry. And I drank a lot of water. No soda. Coffee is a must for me but I limited it to only one cup each morning. But water is an amazing element to rinse the inside of your body. Just be prepared to jump to the restroom every, oh, 15 minutes or so. So what sacrifices do YOU make for your art? Do you keep a strict diet? Exercise regiment? Botox injections? Leave me a comment and let me know. (Comments can be anonymous for those Botox patients not willing to sacrifice their identity!)

Alex, I'll Take Ribs for $1000

Hello, my name is Evil Baritone, and I'm a carnivore. As you remember from my previous post, I enjoy eating the flesh of animals. So it's not often that a carnivore like me, who's been surrounded by Northwest vegetarians for the last 9 years, gets a chance to rip into a plate of barbequed slathered ribs. My chance came today when I made a trip to Spokane, WA. I made a point to visit one of my favorite meat serving restaurants, Tony Roma's - a place for ribs! Now, TR's used to have roots in Portland, and I do remember a time when I actually tore into the cooked, steaming flesh of baby back ribs beneath at least a half an inch of sweet Carolina sauce. But it seems the vegetarian packs lurking in the great Northwest have run my favorite place for ribs right outta town. So tonight, this baritone is happy and feeling wave after sweet wave of protien rush. I fear, though, that my dreams will take me to fields where I am chasing prong horned antelope, or clawing after the elusive Impala holding a jar of Texas style BBQ sauce. Well, looks like broccoli for breakfast. I'm heading back to Vegetarianville. Wish me luck.

Sausage Monster

My little Bobo is a true born carnivore. Takes after her dad. That’s me! Yes, Bobo the Klingon has a craving for animal products. She and I can enjoy a heaping stack of babyback ribs, a plateful of greasy bacon, or extra raw horsemeat burger if we ever travel to Hungary. Goonie, however, takes after her mother. She’s a self-taught vegetarian and prefers to dine on fresh vegetables, fruits and whole grains. Ok, I know I can’t get that one past you. She actually prefers deep fried okra, fruit roll-ups and Kraft Mac & Cheese, and please do not make it the Sponge Bob shape! I took my girls to eat at kid-friendly Dennys, where they offer delicious and nutritious meals for kids consisting of rocket shaped chicken planks, happy face pancakes, and colored sugar additive that turn water blue, red or green, as well as providing one hell of a sugar rush lasting the entire meal. Not to mention kids eat free on Sunday! SCORE! The girls decided to order identical meals: cheesy pasta noodles (c’mon it’s mac & cheese!) and a side of grapes. I ordered the meat lovers scramble. Goonie’s quick vegetarian response was, “eeewwwwww!!!” To which little Bobo mimicked and cried, “eeewwwwww!!!” Goonie is so proud to be training little Bobo to become a vegetarian just like her. Our server placed our food before us on the table about 10 minutes later. By that time the sugar squad duo was in high gear. Goonie stuffed grapes in her mouth, creating chipmunk cheeks. Of course, little sis had to do the same. Yup, you guessed it…one laugh and the grapes flew all over the table. I noticed, however, that Bobo seemed indifferent to her cheesy mac and was eyeing my plate as I shoved gobs of meat-filled scrambled eggs into my mouth. I knew her secret desire for salty bacon so I offered her a piece. Bobo tasted the bacon, shoved it into her mouth, dropped her fork and walked around to my side of the corner booth and sat very snuggly next to me, looking closer at my plate. “Do you want some more bacon, Bobo?” “Mmm hmmm” She says ‘mm hmm’ to just about everything. You could ask her, “are you an alien from Mars,” and she would respond in the affirmative, “mmm hmmm.” So I give her an entire slice of bacon. Gone. I’ve only been provided two slices of bacon and the same amount of sausage. I’m already running low on meat products. “How about a sausage, Bobo?” “Mmm hmmm.” She took the sausage link, savored a small morsel just to be sure, then I kid you not, she shoved the rest on the link into her mouth, grabed the other link with both hands and gobbled it just like Cookie Monster, “mmmaaarrrhhgghhhmuaahharrrghgghgh!” After a few chews she swallowed the Tyrannosaurus size bite and said, “Uuuuuurrrrrppp! ‘Coo me!” Which, of course, is ‘excuse me’ in Klingon dialect. Well, Goonie got a big kick out of Bobo’s production and laughed and giggled with delight. Then did it herself. “Uuuuuurrrrrrrppp!! ‘Scuse me!” “Uuuuuuurrrrpp!!! “Coo me!!” repeated the Klingon “Urrrrrrpppp!!!! ‘Scuse me!!!” parroted Goonie. Oh boy. Despite my attempts to subdue the belching chorus of these two rugrats fueled by a super sugar high, they continued a crescendo of stomach noises until we left, which was pretty promptly after the beginning of the impromptu performance. Meantime, the nice older couple nearby attempting to enjoy a plate of grits & a bowl of prunes gave me the double stink eye. But as we departed said, “they’re so cute.” “Thanks,” said I. “I taught them everything I know.” Then without hesitation I provided the coda to the chorus with my signature Daddy fake belch, “UUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPP!!! Oh!! ‘Scuse me!”

An Aura of Aroma

Today my sixth sense awakened. I saw an aura. Or at least what I thought was an aura. Let’s see how dictionary.com defines an aura…ah, here’s a good definition Au-ra noun -A distinctive but intangible quality that seems to surround a person or thing; atmosphere -A distinctive but intangible quality surrounding a person or thing; "an air of mystery"; Yup, that about describes it. I walked into the local down town Taco Bell to get my guacamole fix for lunch. My first reaction to the essence I sensed as I entered was, “hey, that’s not the smell of delicious seasoned ground beef.” The aroma was sickening, almost to the point of hurling. What could it be coming from? Did they actually kill a cow and it is decaying right now in the back room? But my sixth sense went to work and I peered to my left and saw, yes I SAW, the source of stink. There, sitting in a booth all by himself, was a man wearing a ratty trenchcoat, fingerless gloves, munching on a burrito of some meaty variety. The man’s “aura” looked much like Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoon. I could only suppose that he was one of the local homeless beggars who hustled enough kopecs to buy himself a burrito but not enough to shit, shower & shave at a local hostel. Funny thing about the beggar: on his head he wore what appeared to be brand spankin’ new fancy Sony headphones and was jammin’ to a beat. I reckon the begging business ain’t so bad. But one must have the aura of pathetic helplessness in order to be successful, so a clean beggar is a broke beggar. As broke as I’ve been lately I may just bite the bullet & take a second job as a beggar. But I’m a clean evil baritone so I MUST shower, but lucky for me I’ve got lots of good stage makeup and can pull off the aura without the smell. I’ll just carry a loaf of limburger in my ratty trenchcoat when I’m on duty.

Applause and the Blahs

How do you get motivated to do a performance on a day you wish not to be there? Happened to me on Wednesday. At 8:00 sharp the curtain rose for COLE, I looked at the audience, 600 pairs of eyes stared back at me, and I just could not find the motivation I needed to give them an uplifting performance. I was tired. I had low energy. My voice was being a pest and would not warm up. Not to mention the pesky distracting blister on my heel. So I switched to autopilot and after curtain call I felt I gave a robotic performance. Mid-weekday performance tend to be a little low energy anyway, and there are tricks for getting prepared and getting through an unmotivated performance. Was I so robotic that the audience did not enjoy? Not at all. I sang well, but realized my vocal limitations and know I can do better. I felt like lying down & taking a nap, but I danced my little dances with the obligatory wide smile. So how does one pull off a professional performance when none of the right elements are in one’s favor? Here are some tricks from the Evil Baritone bag: 1. Drink water. Constantly! Water is life. You must stay hydrated. Start drinking water at least 2-3 hours before the performance. Water is great for keeping the vocal folds from becoming inflamed and irritated. And the subtext of this statement is: a.) Avoid alcohol & caffeine. These dehydrate the body, working against your optimal performance mode. I failed to do both before the performance. I didn’t drink enough water & consumed coffee, soda and partook of the free beer provided at the summer company picnic. My performance suffered. Oh, and since you drank so much water, make sure there is a toilet close offstage – or just pick a pack of Depend underwear and simply get onstage and “just go”. 2. Stretch A few minutes of quiet meditation and stretching the poor, tired achy muscles will help prepare the body for it’s journey the next few hours. Of course this does nothing to help the aging and creaky joints of a weary thirty-something. I can usually be heard in the back of the stage bending my body and complaining that “I’m too old for this shit…” 3. Be prepared That means know your stuff! Inside & out! Your songs, arias, dialogue, character, whatever, need to be ingrained and rehearsed so that they flow freely from your mouth. Being completely able to immerse yourself into a natural performance is better than the stress of thinking, “oh, shit, what’s the next word/phrase/dance step?” When switching to autopilot this is essential. 4. Focus Number 3 above is no good without focus. Sometimes in situations when you are unmotivated on stage you need to focus even MORE! Focus on your next entrance. Focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Focus on keeping distractions at bay! Sometimes, as I did for a moment last night, I see an audience member wearing odd apparel such as a scarf, earmuffs and goggles. Distracting? You bet! But realize quickly that if you don’t drop it right away you are likely to make an embarassing slip in the lyrics to “Let’s Misbehave.” 5. Smile! Look at my face….I’m dancing! That’s a non-dancer’s mantra. I’m not a trained dancer. Never had a tap/jazz/ballet class in my life. But I move well and I have rhythm. But to keep an audience from realizing my lack of grace and an occasional moved caused by two left feet, a toothy smile is the best thing to let them know I’m having a great time, even if I’m unmotivated. If you’re having fun, the audience has fun. If you’re not having fun, let your professionalism take over and smile anyway. 6. The show MUST go on! Your fellow cast, tech crew, directors, designers, not to mention a paying audience all are depending on you to do your part. It’s a tremendous responsibility. Don’t blow it! Or you may end up never working for that company, or in that town, again. How’s THAT for motivation? Ok, be my guest to leave your tips & tricks for getting through an unmotivated performance. I’m too unmotivated to leave you with anything witty so I’m gonna have a beer & pass out on the recliner.

Don't Sing, this is a MUSICAL!

A quote and words of wisdom from our director, Sharon Maroney, while discussing a few final stylistic notes before opening night last Friday. After three weeks of intense music, staging and dance rehearsal Sharon imparted upon us before going onstage the importance of “showmanship” over musical quality when performing musical comedy numbers. Sharon is a brassy, loud and fabulous character performer and belter with years of New York stage experience. Mix in her deep Wisconsin dialect and scatterbrain train of thought, and she makes for one very amusing, confusing and diffusing director. But me? I’m too legit to quit. Ah, the fate of the classically trained singer. In fact, I think one Sharon’s quotes to me during a rehearsal of this charming Cole Porter musical review was, “you’re so goddamn TRAINED!” Thanks, Sharon. I’ll take that as a compliment! Besides, it was my “training” that had the audacity to interpret all those little black & white notes, rests & time signatures on the musical staves as music. Cole Porter wrote MUSIC along with the words, right. Cole tells a great story, and his clever word play and play on words make great songs. But my training instinctively informed me that Monsieur Porter added the music for a reason. So if I end up singing my way through this musical review, I’ll just say, My Training made me do it!!!

Cole Porter...and the Deathly Hallows

Tonight is opening night for the Cole Porter musical review. And the final book in the Harry Potter series is open to the public beginning at 12:01 am tonight! Decisions, decisions. Do I fulfill my contractual obligations and attend the opening night performance to 600 muggles, or skip out to get in on the Harry Potter Midnight Madness book release party at the local Barnes & Noble? I gotta get this book and find out HOW DOES IT END!? I don’t want any spoilers ruining my book reading experience. I won’t have it! My greatest fear is that after the release tonight there will be so much hype, talk and discussion that everyone will know the ending whether they read the book or not tomorrow morning. And if you haven't heard, J.K. Rowling herself has asked the entire world to "ignore the misinformation", and "help preserve the secrecy" of the final outcome. But alas, I cannot shed my stage obligation. 600 sold out ticketholders depend on my stage presence. I shall be a trooper and yes, the show MUST go on! But in order to shield me from this nemesis of my Harry Potter revelation fear, I shall be diving underground, shutting out the world until I get my hands on a copy of The Deathly Hallows. That means no more internet. No evening news. No newspapers. And no more bubble gum wrappers. Any of these are prime media candidates for Harry Potter spoilers. And may Dumbledore have mercy on your blackened heart if you even THINK of posting the HP resolution on my comments! Mischief managed!

A Five-Six-Seven-Eight....

Let’s compare and contrast breathing and support, shall we? I’ve sung opera and I’ve performed musical theater. Let me tell you something, opera singers have an enormous advantage when it comes to breath support. Not to say opera singers have it easier. Opera singers must research and learn a role, same as musical theater, sure. But the opera role it typically sung in a FOREIGN LANGUAGE, with a much heftier and vocally taxing score, over a 60 piece orchestra and in front of a 40+ member chorus into a house of 3,000 seats with no amplification. Am I saying opera singers have it easy? Absolutely not. But let’s take a typical staging for any opera. Stand here. Sing. Ok, move over there. Stand. Sing. Wander back over there. Stand. Sing. Oh, you’re a lyric coloratura? Ok, lie down there on the stage and sing all your high notes. You’re a tenor? Ok, plant your feet, grow roots to the stage and emote with your hands palms up with elbows bent at a 45 degree angle. Typical tenor staging since their mind doesn't wander much past a concentration level of, "look everybody! I'm singing a high B-flat!!!" This kind of opera staging fundamentally allows a singer to consciously align and support the vocal production, even from a prone position. A singer can make minor adjustments as necessary to enhance resonance, concentrate on phrasing, and literally bust a gut if necessary. Recently I’ve observed a definite contrast in support techniques while rehearsing for COLE. This musical review is jam packed with Cole Porter’s famous, funny and cleverest songs. Each number is choreographed by local former Broadway dance captain, Amy Palomino, who tests the coordinational limits of all six cast members through elaborate footwork and Fosse-hands, all while singing in tune and in harmony. What goes through a singer’s mind while singing and dancing an ensemble number of “Anything Goes”? It ain’t breath support, and clear vocal production. In my mind, at least, it goes something like this…. (A five six seven eight) “In olden days…"(step left turn) (hands in the air, now do the Charleston) (Step kick, step-ball-change, now we’re trucking) "…looked on as something shocking" (DON’T FORGET TO SMILE!) (box step left and don’t poke your neighbor do a little time step) “Anything Goes!” Whew! Ever see A Chorus Line? Compare what I just wrote to a few lines of the first song of that soundtrack: Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch...Got it? Going on, turn, turn, touch down, Back step, pivot step, walk, walk, walk! Sound familiar? After wiggling through a full number with my pearly whites gleaming and ending full blast on a high “E” I’m proud to say my operatic vocal training and a worthless music degree comes in handy for something. Next stop…Broadway?