July 28, 2006

Off to Boast and Brag with the Boys

Once upon a time, little eight-year old Wenchie's parents joined a community theatre group that performed solely the works of W.S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan. (The name of that group is withheld to protect the asswipes, as well as the innocent.)

The little church at which these plays were performed, annually, was one block from her house. Naturally, during rehearsal season, Li'l Wenchie spent all her freetime there, sweeping up, watching, singing, painting, running around...

Okay, not naturally. Any normal kid would have been with other normal kids riding bikes or playing kick the can or whatever normal kids did back then before video games were prevalent. But my father had the tenor lead in "H.M.S. Pinafore," and by God, I memorized the entire opera at the tender age of nine. Hey, there was only one stereo in the house, and daddy needed to practice.

The years went by, and I watched from the lighting balcony as my parents and their friends became other people, donned ridiculous costumes, sang at the top of their lungs... and soaked up the applause. I worshipped them.

I thought to myself, "I can do that. That's gonna be me someday."

Of course, that someday wouldn't come until I was sixteen, as mandated by my parents. And if you know anything about theatre people, you know they were probably nuts not to make me wait until eighteen. But, hey, I sang alto then, and what chorus doesn't need a good alto who can sightread and hold her own part no matter who is shrieking in her ear?

More years passed, accompanied by voice lessons, and I went to each audition with high hopes. Not that I was in danger of being left out of the chorus, mind you -- no, I had loftier aspirations: a chorus lead!

Not a real lead. I'm not greedy. Just a small, supporting role that sings with the chorus and occasionally has a break-out verse of her own, or maybe a brief duet with a real lead. After all, it was my birthright, no? Weren't my parents founders of the group? Didn't I spend two decades doing ANYTHING that needed to be done behind the scenes? Don't I have a pretty voice and look like I'm eighteen on stage?

Yes, yes and yes.

But there were asses to be kissed, ladies and gentlemen. And Wenchie don't play that.

One year, not long ago, the role I wanted went to a sixteen year old diva with a vibrato you could fly a blimp through. And? I was asked to be in the mens' chorus because they were short on men and, hey, I know all the music to "Ruddigore" anyway, right?

I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed hysterically for hours. Not only was I not good enough to beat some fat, warbling bitch; I wasn't even good enough to be a woman.

That was my last year with that group. I never got to fulfill my dream. I never got to sing in their spotlight. I never got to have my parents watch from the audience and say, "That's our daughter!" I stood behind friends and enemies alike and was the pillar of the womens' chorus. And no one even bothered to throw me a fucking bone for my efforts.

The orgranization is defunct now, due to politics and egos and a dozen other factors. All the costumes and props are in storage indefinately, until the founding members decide exactly what to do. Oh, I could rally the troops and probably re-start the company... but why?

Wenchie has a new home now.

My voice teacher and fellow Thursday Dinner diner, K, finally succeeded in her nagging. And a year and a half ago, I joined a local choir organization. No costumes, no "roles," no spotlights. But it sure felt good to be singing again. And honestly? Felt good to be out of those damn period costumes!

And what do you know? This director likes me! Enough, in fact, to have given me solos in three out of the past four concerts!

Now, there are some serious voices in this choir. This is no rag-tag group of neighbors who got together and said, "Hey, let's put on a show!" These people are good, and for me to be counted among the best of them is incredibly humbling.

Of course, having been humbled doesn't mean I won't gloat... just a little.

On Saturday, we had our spring concert, the theme being "Sequels & Prequels." Gay, I know. What do you want? We're a choir. We sang selections from "The Wizard of Oz" and "Wicked," and "Camelot" and "Spamalot."

A (also from Thursday Dinners) and I sang the "romantic" duet from "Spamalot." And there are quotes around "romantic" because it's not very romantic, and because A is gay.

The song is called, "The Song That Goes Like This." Here are the lyrics, although, unfortunately, they don't specify who sings what. You can also go to Amazon and hear a snippet of it (it's no. 8), if you'd like.

But the snippet doesn't really give you a good idea of the vocal oomph the song requires. There are three key changes (a la Barry Manilow), and it ends on a high B-flat. You non-musicians won't be impressed, so I'll translate -- really, really high.

And in addition to requiring a set of lungs and a pretty voice, it also requires funny. Now, lots of singers -- especially amateurs -- take themselves waaaay too seriously to be funny. But that's where the Wench has a leg up because, let's face it -- I know from funny.

And if I may indulge in one of the Seven Deadlies for a moment... I sang the shit outta that song!

There were strangers coming up to me and gushing about how great our song was! Other soloists from the choir told me, "You guys were the hit of the whole show!" Imagine that!

Ex-tree! Ex-tree! Read all about it!

* * * CHORUS GIRL BECOMES STAR * * *

So, um, all you ex-G&S people? While you're cleaning out your storage locker? Be sure to eat your heart out.

Posted on July 28, 2006 03:08 PM

Comments

Posted by: some_other_dave at July 29, 2006 06:03 PM

Posted by: B.J. at July 29, 2006 07:57 PM

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