You CAN Make That Stuff Up

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Over the last few blogs, I have been reminiscing with you about both the joys and perils of live performance. There is nothing more humbling than a faux pas on stage before hundreds of critical eyes. The beauty of reminiscence lies in its ability, through hindsight, to take a moment of mortification and make it a laughable lifelong memory. 

I would be remiss, however, if I didn't share with you the funniest such situation that I ever witnessed. Witness is the operative word here. It didn't happen to me, but I had a hand in it.

When we lived in Gaffney, the community came together every summer to fete peaches. Even though Georgia touts itself as the “Peach State,” Cherokee County, of which Gaffney serves as the seat, actually produced more peaches. The local Chamber of Commerce decided that the world should know this and organized a cadre of activities to bring visitors to the area. For a week every July, the South Carolina Peach Festival sponsored live concerts, tractor pulls, a beauty pageant, and a parade. The entire town stopped all regular goings-on to participate.

One year, I was approached about producing a variety show at the Little Theater. This would be a new type of endeavor for me. Even though I had often performed on stage myself, it had always been under some other person's direction. I had never written original material nor pieced together a program on my own. The prospect excited me and I accepted the request.

At the time, CB radios were all the rage. CB stood for Citizen's Band and they were originally designed for truckers on the highways to be able to talk to each other about accidents, speed traps, and other road conditions, but in the 80's their use expanded to the general public. Everybody, including us, bought one to install in cars.

The CB world had lingo and rules all of it's own that played out on channel 19. You never revealed your real name while chatting on the radio as you never knew who might be listening. In order to protect identities, people chose “handles” as disguises. (Captain's handle was “Wild Turkey” and mine was “Slow Mop.” I'll let you figure those out.) However, everybody was a “good buddy” even if you never saw them or knew who they were.

Conversation went something like this - “Breaker, breaker, 1-9, good buddy, in that silver Overnite eighteen-wheeler. This is Wild Turkey and I'm heading north up the old 8-5 about the 7-2 mile marker. What's your handle, good buddy? ”

In planning the Peach Festival Variety Show, I decided to write a skit about a man who bought a CB radio right before going on vacation with his wife and mother-in-law. The script imparted his excitement over the radio; his wife's consternation that he kept talking on it instead of paying attention to his driving; and his mother-in-law's mettlesome comments as she stirred the pot from the back seat. All of this revolved around a radio conversation with a trucker somewhere on the highway.

I selected the actors and decided that the set would be very simple - the three main characters on a blacked-out stage, sitting in ladder back chairs with two spotlights focused on them. The trucker would never appear, only his voice over the speaker system. Rather than find another actor to read the trucker's lines from the wings, I decided to have them recorded on audio tape and cued from the sound booth by the technician. He started and stopped the tape according to the script.

We went into rehearsal and, - if I do say so myself – the skit was funny. It went something like this.

Actors take places on stage, pretend to enter car, start car and jiggle as if riding in car.

Husband: “Well, I sure am glad that we are finally getting off, aren't you, honey?”

Wife: “I am, dear. It's been a long time since we've had any time away.”

Mother-in-law: “Time away? Time away? I thought maybe you could just leave me home so I could have some time away from him.”

Silence as the husband and wife look out their windows. Continue to jiggle.

Cue Trucker's voice: “Breaker, Breaker 1-9, good buddy in the blue Chevy sedan coming down the ramp from Highway 11 onto this big 8-5 black top, this is Holy Moly, come back.”

Wife looks up, down, all around in confusion. Husband stares straight ahead like he's startled. Mother-in-law jumps up and feigns hitting her head on the ceiling of the car.

Wife: “Who said that?”

Mother-in-law: “Who's in here?”

Wife: “Who's Holy Moly?”

Husband (laughing now): “Hey......that's coming over my new CB Radio that I got just for this trip. Here.....watch this.”

Cue Trucker's voice: “Breaker, Breaker 1-9, good buddy in the blue Chevy sedan coming down the ramp from Highway 11 onto this big 8-5 black top, this is Holy Moly, come back.”

 

Husband (laughing now): “Hey......that's coming over my new CB Radio that I got just for this trip. Here.....watch this.”

Husband pretends to put microphone to his mouth.

Husband (not confidently): “Well, hello there, Mr. Holy Moly. This here is Samson. Are you doing allright today?........I mean, good buddy.....”

Cue Trucker's voice: “That's a big 10-4, Samson. Just wanted you to know you have somebody's skirt flapping in the breeze out your back door, good buddy.”

Wife: “Samson.....SAMSON....your name's not Samson!”

 

 

You get the gist. The back and forth between the trucker, the husband, the wife and mother-in-law lasted about five minutes.

In all of our practices, things went like clockwork. As the writer/producer, I had great hopes that people would enjoy the show. Opening night came and we were all a twitter – not the modern kind – but the good old-fashioned butterfly-in-the-stomach kind. The theater was packed.

Everything moved along as planned and it came time for the CB Radio Skit. Captain and I stationed ourselves in a front wing where we could watch the actors and glimpse a couple of the front rows to gauge the reaction of the audience. The stage went dark and the actors carried their chairs out and took their positions. The spotlights flashed on.

“Well, I sure am glad that we are finally getting off, aren't you, honey?”

“I am, dear. It's been a long time since we've had any time away.”

“Time away? Time away? I thought maybe you could just leave me home so I could have some time away from him.”

Pause.....

“Breaker, Breaker 1-9, good buddy in the blue Chevy sedan coming down the ramp from Highway 11 onto this big 8-5 black top, this is Holy Moly, come back.”

“Who said that?”

“Who's in here?”

And then, before the next line could be spoken, this came out of the speakers.

“That's a big 10-4, Samson. Just wanted you to know you have somebody's skirt flapping in the breeze out your back door, good buddy.”

Momentarily stunned, the actors froze in their chairs as the entire litany of trucker lines raced through to their conclusion. For some reason, the audio tech had let the tape run without stopping at the appropriate places. Thirty seconds into the five-minute skit, the script as written was totally shredded to pieces leaving the actors to fiend for themselves.

Captain and I watched from the wing as the three actors went off into an improvisation that made my carefully designed routine look like child's play. None the wiser, the audience responded with raucous laughter to the random, spontaneous story unfolding on stage. We laughed so hard, we were crying.

Somehow, they wound things to a close and, after taking multiple bows, exited the stage. All three actors had perspired so much on stage, they were soaking wet. I jokingly asked if they might be able to repeat the performance at the next show. At that moment, it wasn't funny, but I'm sure over time when they reminisced about it, they had to laugh.

I haven't told you these stories to scare you away from performing on the live stage. To the contrary, I hope that you both will try it sometime. Nothing.....no, nothing....can give you such memories.

Grab the Hook

….continued from previous post....my second recollection of a ballet performance.

Dear Boo and Bubble,

For as long as I can remember, the leading publication covering the world of dance was one appropriately named Dance Magazine. Still published today, its articles inform readers on all aspects of the art, and its critiques can make or break the careers of individual dancers or the reputation of an entire company. I subscribed to Dance Magazine during my years with the Greenville Civic Ballet and, once every three months, looked forward to its arrival in the mail. The earlier editions contained reviews of such dancers as Maria Tallchief and Margot Fonteyn – then, as they came on the scene, international stars like Rudolph Nureyev. I read each issue from cover to cover.

Dance Magazine also offered reviews of civic companies written mostly by a woman named Doris Herring. At their fall meeting before my final year with Greenville Civic Ballet, the board of directors voted to extend an invitation to Ms. Herring to attend our annual spring performance. Previously, the only assessment of our talent had come from a local newspaper reporter who probably drew the short end of a straw in getting the assignment. The opportunity to be reviewed by a knowledgeable critic was both exhilarating and petrifying to the dancers. We waited with bated breath to learn whether or not she would accept.

Sometime before Christmas we received word that Ms. Herring would, in fact, attend. Mrs. McClellan called a special meeting right after the New Year to announce the program and ancillary events surrounding the occasion. Since the company wasn't large enough to present a full-length ballet, she decided to choreograph excerpts from some of the most well known scores. There were only five soloists. Mrs. McClellan picked music from the ballet Carmen for us.

We worked very hard over the next few months perfecting the steps and the Spanish stylization which required flicking fans open and shut at precisely the right moment. The music for the opening piece began with an orchestral flurry and Mrs. McClellan had all five of us entering the stage from the same side with commensurate fanfare. We made a large circle, left arms akimbo and right hands frantically working the fans until the music built to a crescendo, followed by an exaggerated pause. At that point, we came to the center and took a pose – one dancer straight up with arms overhead, two others on either side facing her in croise derriere, and the remaining two on one knee in front, mirror image. I was one of those on one knee.

Once the music started again, the five of us danced in unison until the piece ended. After that, each one of us had a solo until we all came back together for the grand finale.

Mrs. McClellan designed our costumes with red v-waisted bodices and wired red tulle tutus, all covered in black lace. The highly classical look was completed with a red flower pinned to the nape of the neck and a black ribbon around the neck. We were all very excited about costuming this sophisticated. None of us had ever worn a wired tutu before.

Rehearsals went well as the Saturday performance date approached in early May. On the Thursday and Friday nights before, we found ourselves once again in the Greenville High School auditorium for the final staging. Mrs. McClellan paid particular attention to the Carmen excerpts as they were the featured portion of the program. She was pleased with both our execution of the choreography and the effect of the costumes.

Met by a cadre of board members, Doris Herring arrived from New York at the new Greenville/Spartanburg airport on Saturday morning. They ferried her to the historic Poinsett Hotel on Main Street where she was to stay and where, at 1:00 PM, we all congregated for a luncheon in her honor.

There are few characters in my life that have sparked fear in me. Doris Herring was certainly one. In the retrospect of maturity, I'm sure it must have been the situation, but her severely erect body covered in an austere black suit draped in a canopy of scarf clutched to her bosom with a huge diamond brioche really broadcast intimidation. When she spoke at the luncheon, her words were probably gracious and benign. For me, and the other soloists, however, it came out a little differently. She represented our chief judge and artistic executioner.

That night, as we gathered in our classroom at the high school to dress, our emotions quivered between nerves and excitement. We fussed about with our makeup, hair and costumes. It seemed forever before Mrs. McClellan finally called us to the stage for a warm up. When we finished, she gave us a little pep talk.....how she knew we would do well....how beautiful we looked....how we would represent the company ….. not to worry about Doris Herring.

We took our places in the wing – all five of us in a space so small that we squeezed together like sardines, forcing the wires of our tutus to flex straight up and down rather than around our hips. I was at the very back pressed against the pole of a stage light. The house lights dimmed as the stage director cued everyone. Shades of red filled the stage from the gelled lights, including the one behind me. He signaled for the music to start. The now familiar opening notes brought up the curtain. We took in a collective breath and the first soloist enthusiastically clicked open her fan and lead the way from the wing....followed by the second....by the third....by the fourth.....and then....me.

I lurched forward toward the stage. Maybe my hand with the fan made it, but the rest of me snapped back like a rubber band. Unbeknownst to me, while the five of us had stacked up like vertical pancakes in the wing, the wire on my tutu caught on a hook extending from the pole of the stage light. Once I realized what was wrong, I frantically tried to free myself, but the hook had a death grip on my tutu in the back. Every time I twisted to reach it, the light just moved with me sending its beam bouncing around the wing like a strobe.

Meanwhile, out on the stage, the other four dancers performed the choreographed circle, waving their fans and frenetically looking at me each time they came by the wing. The moment came when they had to strike the pose, which they did – looking like the “missing man” formation. They continued the piece until its end, without me....I was still hung up, as they say.

Fortunately, a stage hand came to my rescue and released me before my solo...and fortunately Doris Herring had never seen this choreography before. She didn't know I was supposed to be there. I'll never know if she wondered from whence I came later on in the program......she didn't mention it her review.

…....to be continued.

Please Call Me Home

…..continued from previous post.

Dear Boo and Bubble,

At the age of 12, I became eligible to audition for the Greenville Civic Ballet. Mrs. McClellan founded and directed the company. Becoming a member carried some prestige for students who studied ballet with her - a natural progression from recitals where everyone participated to a more select group that performed once year. Even though small in number, the company had a hierarchy. A dancer could graduate from corps to soloist if she exhibited certain levels of proficiency. I realized my dream of becoming a soloist when I turned 15.

My roles never included a dew drop or sugar plum fairy. Nor did I ever don the tutu of a swan. We had neither the dancers nor the facilities to produce the more familiar ballets. Mrs. McClellan choreographed pieces for us with music that underscored her own vivid imagination. As a matter of course, my memory of specific performances has totally faded.........except for two. They are forever indelibly imprinted on my brain.

The first was an original work entitled “The Summons of Sariel,” a rather somber interpretation of the judgments made by the Judaic archangel of death. My role was that of a very ill blind girl mortally afraid of leaving her earthly parents. The interpretation proved challenging because, regardless of the steps, I had to maintain a constant stare with my eyes. I held my arms up in front of me as if feeling my way along. Ultimately, Sariel called my character to eternity after uniting her with a young mother who would die in childbirth. For the Civic Ballet, “The Summons of Sariel” was a weighty departure from the usual program selections. And it was an artistic risk for Mrs. McClellan because of its more modern, interpretive genre.

Staging was also a challenge. Since this all happened long before sound and light boards of today, achieving proper visual effects required manually covering the lights on overhead battens and in the wings with gels, the transparent yet hued material that changes the color of light when placed across the path of the beam. Once the overheads were set, they could not be changed without lowering the batten onto the stage, but the wings offered some flexibility. By placing a variety of gels in a wheel plate, a stage hand could instantly change the color of the light beam by turning the wheel.

During rehearsals, Mrs. McClellan worked diligently with the stage crew to cue light changes at the appropriate time. The ballet started with a brighter cast, but when Sariel appeared, the lights were supposed to change dramatically to a deep blue/purple backdrop, all achieved by simultaneous gel shifts from the wings and a cut to only blue-gelled lights from the battens. We practiced the scene over and over until Mrs. McClellan was satisfied. The dress rehearsal the night before the performance went flawlessly.

The next day, the dancers arrived at the theater (once again at Greenville High) and went to our assigned classrooms to put on make-up and costumes. All of the soloists shared a room and, shortly after we congregated, Mrs. McClellan came in all excited.

“Look what I found downtown this morning,” she exclaimed. “Chignons for everybody!”

We all looked at each other a little perplexed. Until then, she had said nothing about how we were to wear our hair.

“I really wanted everyone to have a completely stylized look, but couldn't figure out how to do it because your hair is all so different. I found these today at the wig store on Main Street and I think I've pretty well been able to match everybody's hair color. Now, if you will all brush your hair back tightly and spray it good and pin these buns at the nape of your neck, it will be perfect.”

We all did as told, some of us more easily than others. I, for one, had relatively short hair which required a lot of spray to get it to lie flat and what seemed like a hundred bobby pins to secure the chignon. With the bun in place, I finished up my makeup, donned my blind girl costume and headed to the hall where Mrs. McClellan waited to conduct our pre-performance warm up.

Promptly at 8:00 PM, the houselights in the auditorium dimmed and the curtain rose on “The Summons of Sariel.” One by one, at the appropriate points in the music, the characters of the ballet took the stage and began to weave the story for the audience. In the second act, the time came for Sariel to enter. The music marched up, up, up the scale to a thunderous crescendo and, on the specific prescribed singular note, the stage hands in the wings turned the gel plates to the blues, purples and blacks that they had drilled so hard to perfect.

The effect was immediately dramatic......especially the part where the combination of gel colors projecting onto our chignons turned them a very ghastly blood red. Apparently, the buns were not real hair. Whatever their construct, they had an allergic reaction to the lights. Instantly, we all looked like we had been fatally shot in the back of the neck. On stage, we dancers continued with the ballet, at first unaware of what was happening. The situation, however, didn't go unnoticed by the audience as a hubbub started slowly rippling through each row until the entire auditorium seemed to be vibrating in a collective, muffled laugh.

There was nothing we could do to stem the tide. Our red dots became the focal point of every move, pose or turn. The audience finally couldn't hold back and by the end of the ballet, all of us wished that Sariel could really just summon us right off the stage and out of Greenville High School without having to see anybody..... ever again.

…........to be continued.

Curtain!.......PLEASE

Dear Boo and Bubble,

My last blog about “Oklahoma!” opened up a flood of memories about my experiences in performing live on stage....and and the inevitable, unpredictable, and often hilarious situations that can occur.

From the time I could walk, I danced. Music was an integral part of our family life. The focal point in the living room of my very first home at University Ridge Apartments in Greenville was the Victrola record player. Your Ipod/ITunes technology of today has made access to music quite simple and unencumbered, but back then listening to music required virtual libraries of vinyl, cylindrical records and a player upon which to play them. The records came in three sizes and three speeds – 78, 45, and 33-1/3 RPMs. You chose the speed on the player based upon the size. The records revolved on a turntable while a needle, imbedded in what was called a tone arm, glided across the vinyl to read the grooves on the record. The needle then transmitted the information through the tone arm and out into speakers. Magically, the result was music.

Mamaw Mary and Granddaddy Schaefer had quite a selection of all different sizes and genre of records. From classical to big band to hits of the day – no matter what sound came out of the Victrola - you would find me sashaying around the living room interpreting what I heard, oftentimes in a world all my own. When I was three, Mamaw Mary decided to enroll me in LaBruce Heist’s School of Dance. I studied tap, ballet, jazz and acrobatics – all in the same hour. The lessons only heightened my preoccupation with dance.

The year-end recitals were held at Greenville High School and, in my second year, I was scheduled to perform in four different numbers. That night gave me my first dose of live stage surprises. The dancers in each number were assigned different classrooms in which to dress and assemble. When Ms. Heist called for the group, they would hold hands and walk in a line through the school hall to the stage and wait until it was time to go on. This meant that I had to go to four different rooms during the course of the night. I’d come off the stage, Mamaw would meet me in the wings and take me to my next room.

The fourth time, she was helping me into my costume when we both realized it was different from all the other girls. Theirs was a soft blue with a fluffy tulle, ankle-length skirt while mine was white with red polka dots and a flouncy bottom accented by fake fir around the hem. I totally panicked. Mamaw rushed to find Mrs. Heist to tell her and perhaps persuade her to let me forgo the routine. Mrs. Heist told her to put me at the back of the line. Everything would be okay.

Hand in hand, all the little dancers trooped up the hall to the stage door. When it was our turn, we entered backstage. Mrs. Heist took me forward one wing, walked away, and cued the music. As the curtain opened, a roar of tapping noises rose up behind me as my compatriots shuffled their way out of the wing. I followed suit with the prescribed choreography. We made our way left towards the center of the stage. From the opposite wing came a little boy shuffling as hard as he could to the right. We met in the middle, locked arms and proceeded to dance together. I had never seen him before (nor have I since). At the end of the number, I broke loose and shuffled back right off the stage. He shuffled to the left and disappeared into the wing and out of my life forever.

I guess Mrs. Heist was scared that I might balk if I knew ahead of time that I was going to be in front of the line and dancing with some unknown boy. Actually, Mamaw Mary was the one who balked. The next fall, she plucked me from La Bruce Heist School of Dance and enrolled me in Doris McClellan’s School of Ballet.

From that point - until many years later – ballet became an integral part of my life. I spent hours in the studio at the barre beginning each class with pliés, tendus, relevés, and grande battements. I worked diligently on the turn out of my legs so that my feet could easily slide into fifth position. In the center floor, I practiced my pirouettes, focusing on spotting my eyes to a single place with every turn. On most evenings at home you would find me with records spinning on the turntable while I honed my glissade assemblés and jetés, both petite and grande.

As I grew older, Mrs. McClellan took an interest in me. When I was eleven, she choreographed my very first recital solo, which was quite a momentous occasion for me. I have no recollection of the music or the steps she prescribed, but I vividly remember the ending. It took place once again on that stage at Greenville High.

Everything went along just fine, no mistakes, I was feeling very confident. Time came for the final combination which, in conjunction with a bravado crescendo, had me concluding my solo with a souténu turn, arms thrust high above my head into fifth position, and landing emphatically on one knee. The audience applauded with what I thought was good vigor and I held the position, as instructed. 

When the curtain started its descent from above, I began to teeter, ever slowly at first, like the leaning tower of Pisa. Frozen in the pose, I continued to smile, willing the curtain to hurry up, which it didn't. Arms still in fifth, I proceeded to fall over sideways, very much like a cardboard figure, until I hit the floor.

There is only one thing worse than utter embarrassment – death by a thousand cuts. Finally, the curtain thudded closed and I was shielded from the laughter slowly overtaking the audience. You would think that after this humiliation, I would never want to set foot on a stage again. Ah, but that's the true mystery of it ---- the stage is like love, once bitten – always smitten. Like an old bob-up toy, I bounced back only to be smacked down again.

To be continued........