Comocabaret (capitalized ONLY to start the sentence) is an adult performing group for which I auditioned last fall. The original vision was to present musical theatre vignettes. I wish I could say I was a part of the original few shows, back before they auditioned for a regular cast. I wasn't, but I had heard such good things about the group's artistic directors and their vision for the group that I couldn't help but be intrigued. One of the ensemble's main artistic directors, Adam McCall, had actually been cast as Chip in Putnam County Spelling Bee, for which I directed the vocal music last summer. Inevitably, we ran with the same crowds, the Columbia musical theatre "underground," if there exists such a thing. I figured my chances of getting in might be *slightly* tipped in my favor, but I wouldn't dare allow myself to think those thoughts for fear of rejection. After all, I was just a teacher.
I got in, met and bonded with the cast, and was assigned my first piece, "No One Knows Who I Am" from Jekyll and Hyde. I learned it (transposed up about 80 keys to the soprano realm), memorized it, and performed it.
It was...eh.
Everyone tells me I'm my own worst critic. Thanks, Freud. Like I didn't know that by the fact that I obsessed over the details, which I'll save you all from reading. Just know that I did, in fact write them all out in this very blog and then subsequently delete them because no one really cares about the mistakes. A realization in and of itself. They should have called the song "No One Cares How I Mess Up." But I did realize something pivotal in that first performance:
...worrying about the mistakes was actually keeping me from doing what I really wanted to do...which was present a musical, technically finessed song in the best way possible....
This is where I'm going to get a little D-2 Mighty Ducks (inspirational) on you. Setting impossible standards (a HUGE factor in the field of MPA / Music Performance Anxiety) results in exactly what you think it would: a seemingly god-awful performance devoid of any musicality and riddled with mistakes and unrealized potential. It's one thing to have high standards and strive to reach them, and quite another to aim for the impossible. We're only human, after all.
A month later, I performed the duet "Old Devil Moon" with another cast member. Logistically, we get one rehearsal with the group's other artistic director and pianist Tony Hernandez. Then we have one dress rehearsal, which occurs directly before the show itself. Welcome to the real world. As I was rehearsing with my scene partner, something that Adam told me really stuck in my mind. He told me to just control a little less and let go. This seems trivial, commonsense, even. But it was the way he said it to me, under his breath and as if he were my own miniature angel-conscious decked in white robes and crowned with a halo, sitting on my shoulder and telling me just to let go. So much of what I do is about control: vocal control over myself, classroom control over my students, financial control over my life. It felt liberating to just let go little.
I was 95 percent more satisfied with my duet than I was with my first solo. If I could have changed anything, I would agreed to Adam's proposed stage kiss.
...Which I did at this last weekend's Valentine's weekend performance! The program was about all kinds of love, and I just so happened to be assigned the gushiest, ooey-gooiest love duet in the history of man: Say it Somehow from "A Light in the Piazza."
I felt more satisfied with this than I have with almost any other performance I've given, except for maybe when I sang Glitter and be Gay at my undergrad senior recital (and lord knows if I could turn back time, I would do a lot of things differently with that piece...like let go...a la Kristin Chenowith). It helped to sing with a patient, understanding scene partner, Trent, inches in front of an equally as wonderful cast.
These developments are monumental...earth-shattering for me, even, because performing has never necessarily come naturally to me. Many who know me as a person but not a musician might laugh at this. To them, I sing and even teach people how to sing. But performing is rough, rough stuff. I'm in no way capped out, and I know I can still do a lot more technically and vocally, but I do feel like I've improved a lot. It was community theatre that prompted that, not two conservatory-type college degrees and years of voice lessons. This tells me a lot about education and the way people learn: you never know how you're going to affect someone or be affected. I only feel like I can teach young performers because I've experienced some of the limitations and capabilities of the human psyche. You put yourself out there to be judged, and you must, must, MUST take rejection, in all its ugly forms, with a grain of salt. The teensy bit of self-satisfaction I feel now is something I've developed from years of overly harsh self-criticism, and only recently have I felt even remotely worthy of the music.
And that feels good.
The take-away:
1. I feel more prepared to inspire young generations to a level of (deserved) musical confidence
2. We are always our own worst critics...sometimes this helps us be better, and sometimes this keeps us from being who we really are.
3. ...so just let go.
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