I loathe musicals. Really, really hate them. I remember one summer afternoon of my youth when I turned on the television and “The Philadelphia Story” was on, but it wasn’t actually “The Philadelphia Story”, because Bing Crosby wasn’t in “The Philadelphia Story”, and there he was socializing in the drawing room with – Frank Sinatra? And then, oh, my heavens, they’re about to start singing, for no discernable reason. Except, of course, that it’s the only reason to have Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra when you could have had Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant, and if you’re younger than 30 and you have no idea what I’m talking about, you’re just going to have to take my word for it.
The acting in musicals is typically abysmal, because the people on stage are there because they can sing, not because they can act, unless, of course, the musical is trying to actually sell tickets, in which case, they’ll book a big-name actor, which just means that the singing will be abysmal instead. Sure, there’s the rare exception on the Broadway stage, and movies like “Chicago”, but by and large, given the choice between watching a musical and, say, rubbing my skin with sandpaper, well, just break out the Bactine.
Which all made it just that much more surprising to find myself in the audience at a summer theater camp production of “Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” in Orleans, Vermont this past Friday night. The reason for this particular evening of torture was that my dear friend Caryn, who were were visiting, has a five-year-old female tornado named Avery who’s currently obsessed with Willie Wonka. And since I have no children myself (at least, none that I know of), I could approach this particular bamboo shoot under my fingernails with the liberating knowledge that I’d never have to do it again.
And let me tell you, it was, as we’ve come to call it, a magical night of theater. You truly have not lived until you’ve seen a production of “Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” put together in a week by 14-year-olds. From the valiant attempts to sing along to a recorded soundtrack in keys never intended for teenagers, to the frantically stage-whispered line cues, it was a truly memorable performance. We may have been the only people in the audience who were not related to anyone on stage.
But to tell the truth, it was pretty hard not to be impressed by the results, considering the constraints of time, money and experience. It was not a masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination; but on the other hand, it really was a show, with decent sets, decent staging, and some genuinely ominous moments. And as usual, I was completely charmed by the kids. There’s nothing like getting on stage when you’re young. Stage fright is the single greatest fear of Americans, more than heights, snakes, clowns or, well, musical theater. And to take the opportunity to learn that sort of poise before you’re old enough to realize how intimidating it is, well, I just wish I’d had that sort of sense.
I was especially taken by the gang of eight-year-old Oompa-Loompas, with their orange wigs and face paint. And so was Avery. As the Ooompa-Loompas scurried around the theater before the show, already in costume, Avery was determined to get an autograph from one of them. But while the Ooompa-Loompas were ready for their dance numbers, they weren’t ready for a five-year-old tornado asking them for an autograph. There were a lot of deer in the headlight moments, followed by more scurrying around.
But you can’t learn everything at once. And there’s a lot to learn. It’s not just being able to sing, or dance, or act; you’ve got to know what to do before and after. Be nice to the people who came to see you. Welcome them. Make them feel good about coming to see you. A lot of performers realize too late that these skills are almost as important as their “core skills”. Especially at the beginning, they might be the most reliable way to build a base of fans that can help you through your early years of obscurity.
I have three gigs this month. I wish I could do that every month. I want every one of you to come, and I want every one of you to enjoy yourselves, and I want every one of you to say hello, and go home and tell your friends that you heard this charming, funny, engaging songwriter that they just have to check out. But none of that’s going to happen if I put my sunglasses on after my set and instruct the club owner to announce that “Sam Bayer has left the building”.
Love your audience, and your audience will love you back.