I was cruising through my social media today and ended up on the pages of friends with whom I used to do theater. The pictures on their sites were filled with images of rehearsals, production shots (because we all know taking pictures during a live performance is a big NO-NO), behind-the-scenes, cast parties, and other large events. These moments have been frozen in time and, somehow, in this medium of algorithms, terabytes, and more tech than I care to know, I still felt the energy and soul of each moment.
Live theater tells the stories of the human condition. It traverses the vastness of each, regardless of who they are, what they look like, or what they believe in. It can look at history and poke fun at it, sing about it, make us feel it. It gives us a birds-eye view of our experiences and at the same time wraps us in wholly.
The process of discovering the journey of the characters and how they fit into the whole of the story is an experience like none other. We trustingly open our souls to each other and discover ways to give our story life. This collective openness and trust brings everyone involved close to each other in a very short amount of time. Sometimes in the most magnificent way and other times, well, every workplace has that moment of not being so hot. What makes live theater so different is that our goal is full of purpose and heart.
I’ve had the fortune of participating in one way or another in some really great shows, with some pretty spectacular artists — many of whom I am still in touch with and consider family. We have seen each other at our best and through our worst. We have fought, forgiven, created, laughed, and cried together. We built a makeshift AC during a massive heatwave in the Bay Area when our AC was really hauling and couldn’t keep my more actors cool enough under the hot lights and energetic dance numbers. I taught my crew my Dad’s recipe to help heal sore throats and they squeezed lemons for actors to gargle with in between songs so we could get through each show. Armed with a paring knife, lemons (which became a new line item in our budget), baking soda, and spit buckets, my crew took to caring for the cast, while I called cue after cue, asking about my cast in between. “Standby spit bucket!”
I have so many fond memories of these shows, places, and people. One show I’m finding to have really present in my heart is “Jesus Christ, Superstar.” I don’t know why the magic of that particular show stands out so much right now, there was a magic there I hadn’t felt this intensely. The actors were all so brilliant, the musicians exceedingly talented, the director is one of the most talented women I know. We did it all our way. We built this brilliant show together and we extended performances. It was a wild ride of brilliance and creativity, of heartaches, and wins.
As I listen to the Broadway soundtrack, I am transported to my tech booth. I’d arrive even earlier than I normally would just to get the AC cranking. The house would be freezing for the poor audience members at the top of the show, but it was necessary in order to protect my actors. The crew would slowly trickle in, some bringing me my coffee fix, as I was probably dead tired from getting up at 2:30 am to work my opening shift at Starbucks. I’d do my supervisor, coffee slinging, customer service thing, and leave the noise of the store to the initial quiet of the theater. Often times laying on a couch with a broken spring to catch a few z’s before I entered another period of noise and beautiful chaos.
There was something in that stillness. The theater and I would become one as I transitioned into the artistic side of my life. It was my moment of connection, of reviewing my cues, of going over notes, and shutting down for a spell. I’d slowly and methodically prepare everything I needed to prepare, freeing myself up to assist my cast and crew and tend to any last-minute emergencies. I’d sit outside and check people in as they came in, asking about their day and how they were, in the hopes of helping guide their transition into this space of creativity. I was mom, nurse, therapist, hugger, colleague, and friend. Once the last of them had arrived, I’d go in and check on everyone now with my stage manager hat. We’d warm up together and before we knew it, the house manager was asking if we were ready. I’d give the final notes from the director and would use my stage manager's voice to say, “House is open. We’re at 30 folks.” Like an echo, I’d hear voices in the distance “House is open. House is open.” I’d give the house manager a nod and the clock really started ticking. The excitement from the audience was palpable. Their energy could be felt in every corner of the theater. “15-minutes to places,” I’d say in a loud whisper backstage. “Thank you, 15” they’d reply. The cast knew I’d stay there and repeat myself until they all responded. “Please don’t touch the props if they’re not yours.”
“Places.” House light goes to half and the pre-show announcement begins. There is a vibration in the theater that is almost palpable. “And enjoy the show.” I’d turn my headset on and tell the crew, “Ok, guys. Here we go. Let’s be brilliant.” House to black. A spotlight slowly and elegantly brightens the spot on the stage where Tim or Bill would be standing, electric guitar slung over them. Pause. Quiet. We knew what was coming. Like an athlete ready for the starter pistol to go off, I’d be revving up my own momentum. The guitar solo began, each string calling on the muses, waking the theater up, and tying the audience, cast, and crew together in some inexplicable way. The solo was slowly ending and like a dam breaking, the cast BURST their way onto the stage. The hair on my arms would stand up and I’d start calling the show. I don’t read music, but I can feel it. During the rehearsal process, I’d talk to the music/band director and check in with the director — relying on their expertise to let me know what they wanted to see and feel. So, I’d dance along (something my crew started to do as well LOL), in order to help me count beats, and feel where the cues needed to come in. Some nights I’d find the sweet spot and other nights they weren’t as perfect so I’d listen to our own cast recording and go over the cues at home. I owed it to my cast, directors, and the audience.
Next thing I know, intermission. WHAT? How did we get here? “Places everyone! Have a great second half!” We were in our creative zone. Blackout. Lights up. Curtain call. I clapped my heart out for each actor. Winded, sweating, and smiling, they’d take center stage and bow to standing ovations. The cast would close with a song and I’d wave to my darling friend Raegena from the booth and she’d wave back — sort of our end-of-show thing each night. Blackout. House lights up. I’d get notes from the crew, share a few things with the band, and begin my cleanup. The adrenaline running through our veins was intense. We’d hang out afterward and share funny stories, unwinding from the show. We shared so much in that space and time. I’d get home late, send out my emails, and get ready for my next day of coffee slinging and storytelling. This moment in time is so special to me as are all the people involved in it. I miss them all dearly and the magic we created that summer. I’m grateful for City Lights Theater. They took a chance on me and helped me grow and gave me my second family.
TL;DR — I miss my theater family in the Bay Area. :)
Also: If anyone from the cast has the recording you all did for JCS, can you send me a copy?
Oh, and can you guys do a reunion thing over zoom, please? I’ll come out of stage management retirement for something like this.
