Thin-Skinned

At least my arm didn’t get bruised again last night – just my ego.

There were lots of little things – like when I thought Mary was singling out my “fake-strumming” of a prop ukelele to show everyone how well I fake-strummed, but actually it was to show everyone how I was doing it ridiculously, unbelievably wrong.  What can I say?  I’ve never strummed anything before.

Then there were bigger things – like the song “Ballgame,” a trio with all three ladies.  All of a sudden, I just cannot sing it.  Every other note is wrong, and I can feel Julie and Blaze feeling sorry for me, which makes me want to gauge my eyes out with a ukelele.  My inexperience with singing harmonies is like a blazing neon sign.  And when I’m already struggling with the notes, I DEFINITELY cannot sing and learn choreography, even when it’s just step, step, sway-sway-sway.  So I got bawled out by Mary for starting on the wrong foot – three times.

After that humiliation, we took a break and Blaze was kind enough to work with me on the harmony out in the parking lot.  We realized we could probably switch parts if necessary (she’s got the melody), but God, I don’t want to give up on this, I will feel like a failure if I do, and I thought I was done feeling like a failure.

Finally, as we strutted around with fake cakes during a song called “Sara Lee,” Mary stopped and said to me, almost as an aside, “Oh, I forgot to tell you we cut some of ‘Colored Lights’ – Doesn’t it seem a bit long to you? (No, it does not.  I am too busy letting my soul take flight like a soaring eagle during that song to notice how long it is.) We just cut out some of the fluff.  I’ll show you later.”

When rehearsal ended, she showed me – they cut out an entire verse, and an entire chorus.  One whole minute.  I nodded and smiled.

But when I got in my car, the fact I’ve been ignoring smacked me indignantly in the face – I have the fewest songs of anybody in the show.  I didn’t mind before, but something about them hacking away one of my final precious minutes just killed me.  Many of the songs I was supposed to sing have been shuffled to others.  And yes, I have received a song, THE AWESOMEST SONG EVER, in exchange.  But I couldn’t help but wonder if it was just circumstance, or because they don’t think I’m good enough.  And if I wasn’t so pleasant and agreeable, if I made more of a fuss, would I have more songs, would they restore my missing minute?  Sure, Mary might not like me as much, but would I care, if I had more songs to sing?

I probably would care.  I’ve been trying to learn that “squeaky wheel” lesson all my life, but I can’t seem to get my desire for the spotlight and my need to be well-liked to… harmonize.

Shit.

I guess that’s just showbiz, kid.  And I guess this is the part where I try to develop thicker skin. 

Night off tonight.  Tomorrow,  I dance.

Off-Key

You know those dreams where you’re back in high school or college and you realize you have a final exam that you forgot to study for, and furthermore you haven’t attended class all year and forgot you were even enrolled?

That’s what rehearsal felt like last night.  Unlike the first music rehearsal where e were all in the same boat, at last night’s rehearsal I fell overboard and spent three hours frantically treading water.

I don’t know anything about music.  Or, I hardly knew anything about music before Monday, and now I’m cramming information in my head as fast as I can.  Some of this information I knew years ago, just barely, when I took music theory in New York, but I really wasn’t paying attention, because I was so tired from staying up late making out with the boy next door.  Also, music theory is really boring.  Bars, measures, eighth notes, quarter-step, half-step, ritard, legato – right, right – it’s all coming back to me…just not fast enough.  And some things I just can’t do.  Like when the music director talks about the note in question being a fifth up from the current note.  Everyone else says, “Ah, a fifth:  LAAAA!”  Whereas I say, “Ah, a fifth: La? La? La?”

Monday went so well.  But last night I was the only one asking for my notes over and over and over again.  I think I felt some looks of pity.  I fear those looks will soon turn to annoyance and then anger if I don’t get the hang of it lickety-split.  I thought I could take a break from practicing yesterday.

I was so very wrong.

The Broom and the Doom

As Herbie predicted (smartypants), I came home last night with a smile on my face, humbly admitting that he was right and I didn’t humiliate myself.  Not that it was easy.  For three hours, every muscle in my body strained and tensed in an effort to help my brain and voice follow the harmonies and hit the right notes.   I got a headache the instant I got back in the car to go home.  Poor tired brain.  Luckily, we were mostly all in the same boat (the S.S. Oh God What’s My Note Again?) as far as learning the music, except for Julie, who is blessed with an extensive background in singing and the vocal chords of an angel.

I have to say, when we all hit the right notes, it sounds pretty magical.  Even stupid “Cabaret.”  We spent almost a whole hour picking through Cabaret note by note, and I found out that I’m the lucky one who almost always get stuck with the wackadoo note in the chord (also called the “dissonant” note, but I prefer “wackadoo,” or even “effed up”).  I kept having to ask for my notes for “the broom” and “the doom” over and over again, until I felt that the Glare of Utter Disdain would soon shoot over Fawna’s shoulder, so I shut my mouth, and didn’t mention that I hadn’t been singing when we finished and Fawna declared, “Oh, that sounded wonderful!”

But that was just one hiccup in the evening.  Overall, I think I hit many more correct notes than painful-t0-the-ear notes.  Tonight, we have a pow-wow with the director and we also get measured for costumes, which means I must now throw myself to the ground and do 500 sit-ups, in hopes that my leftover baby-belly will disappear by 8:30 p.m.

First Rehearsal – The World Goes Round

AAGH.  (I wonder how many posts I’ve started  with this Cathy-like cry of despair?)

Two hours until our first rehearsal for “The World Goes Round,” and as expected, I am kind of a mess.  We’re starting with a music rehearsal at Fawna’s house, and I must admit I find her a tad frightening.  I’m afraid if I don’t excel off the bat, she will hit me with her Glare of Utter Disdain and tell the director I’m going to ruin the show.  (This fear is not totally unfounded, but that’s all I’ll say about that.)  I’ve been working and working on the music and lyrics, and just when I feel like I’ve got a pretty good handle on the harmonies, I try to sing with the Broadway recording and cannot find one single correct note.  The last time I tried, Moo frowned and said, “Ehh, Mommy.  Not too good.”

Even my biggest fan is disappointed.  That is not a good sign.

Life is NOT a Cabaret

I diligently worked on learning music last night, once while the termite guy inspected our house (buh-bye, $600), and later after Moo went to bed.  Here’s what it sounded like when I was alone:  {doom. gloom.}  And here’s what it sounded like when Herbie was home last night, except with curses replaced by the word “snack:”:  “What the snack!  Mothersnack!  This makes no snacking sense!  Snack snacking SNACKER!”

The song that really makes me want to snack is “Cabaret,” the hell song of Satan in five-part harmony.  I worked on it for over an hour and finally got to the point where I can sort of sing it if I hunch over in the fetal position with my eyes closed and my hands over my face.  That will look great on stage.  About 30 minutes in, the real problem occured to me – these notes – this crazy snacked-up five part harmony is NOTHING like a cabaret.  It does NOT make me want to taste the wine, or hear the band, or blow my horn and start celebrating.

I believe the song arrangement is supposed to be some sort of homage to that delightful 80’s group, Manhattan Transfer.  Sure sounds a lot like them.  Rosalind had never heard of Manhattan Transfer, so maybe they’re not as well known as I thought (so then why do they deserve an homage?).   Hence, I present to you, Manhattan Transfer (I HIGHLY recommend starting at the 1:40 mark – it will brighten your day x 100):

 

Maybe it will help if I bust out some of those sweet dance moves?

Da Da Da Da Daaa Da Oof, Ick

I realized yesterday that I have a LOT of work to do over the next two weeks if I am going to “learn” all this music by the time rehearsals start on February 16th.  I say “learn” because when I sat down to work on a couple of these songs last night, it became clear that some of these harmonies are simply impossible and make no logical sense in the realm of musical theory (because clearly I am an expert in musical theory), and so certainly the powers that be will soon realize this as well and just let us all sing in unison.

This is sort of what that realization sounded like, or what I imagine it sounded like to Herbie, sitting in the next room: “Life izzz a ca-buh-ray oh God raaay oh shoot raaay? old chum, come to the- um COME oh crap come to the ca-aa-aaaack oh shit buhhh buh?? BUH! ray ray ray RAY? ray ray?? RAY oh WHAT THE *$&*#&! BWAH-AAAH this makes no SENSE boo hoo hoo… Herbeeee!”

And so on.

Right about the time I started weeping in self-pity, I remembered the conversation I had with my friend Snow White last week.  Telling her about the show and these songs with crazy harmonies, I asked if she remembered much from our time in Mrs. Murphy’s high school choir.  I seemed to recall we sat next to each other.

“Yes,” Snow White said.  “You were always asking me for the right note.”

Oh no.  That sounded very, disturbingly familiar.

But this time, I will not have Snow White to tell me the right note to sing, since a) Snow White is not in the show (a minor detail), and b) I will be the ONLY one singing those particular notes.  I am on my own.

I am screwed.