I think I’ve learned more about people’s personalities than anything else
this semester. Musical theater people: where can I even begin to describe them?
They are most definitely a different breed of human. When they’re happy, they’re
up. High, high up. They’re doing a tap routine, sipping on their huge bottles of
smart water, talking over their friends because what they have to say is much
more important. But when they’re down, it’s like a whirlwind of dramatics—and
for bystanders there is nowhere to seek shelter.
For you regular non-dramatic college students, try and imagine the pressure
of finals multiplied by twenty. Never in my lifetime would I ever look back and
yearn for the days of quietly going mad in the library trying to memorize
theories. Now, finals are physical, so it’s clear within the first fifteen
minutes whether you’ve been doing your homework this term. There is no open
window of opportunity for bullshit, it’s either, “Turn Turn Kick Left Pop Head
Again. Right Turn Shoulder Pop Thrust Pelvis,” or not. There is no middle
ground. And yes, I have seen students run from their demonstration to go vomit
and occasionally even pass out. I’m pretty sure none of you have ever looked at
your written final and thought, “Geez I hope someone has the local EMT on speed
dial.”
"Don’t even think of performing your jazz routine to
Grease while I am eating my egg salad sandwich."
No one is immune to
anxiety though. Not even me. Everywhere it’s alphabetical order, and
you’d think with
the letter “C” I’d be close enough to the beginning not to get
bored, and far enough down the line to see everyone else make the
mistakes so I can get it perfect. But not in Tap. In Tap, the guy
before me alphabetically never shows up and consequently, I go
first. Well, being the first in a line up gives me the sweats and
anxiety. It’s awful. The instructor gave me a simple combination and
I just stood there frozen in time, kind of like Paris in her porn.
And I’m pretty sure the instructor thought of me the same way he
would her: not attractive with the deer-in-headlights look, and lazy
as fuck.
One perk of musical theater is that there is a lot of nudity. You straight
men really have no idea what you’re missing out on. Girls don’t have a choice
but to become comfortable with their bodies. The quick costume changes and
everyday work in a tight leotard forces you to not to care what the hell anyone
thinks of how big or small your tits are. The behavior in a woman’s dressing is
like a cheaply made soft core porn: all the girls are running around jokingly
grabbing each other’s boobs and slapping each other’s butts while the guys
ignore the giggles and check each other out through the mirrors.
Aside from the nudity perk there is the overwhelming sensation of
obnoxiousness. You can be reading audition roles on the callboard quietly
minding your own business, when out of nowhere one of your classmates will
stroll up to you
singing at the top of their pretty little lungs. And they always expect you
to play along with the little fantasy they’re starring in, in their head.
Oh please.
It’s as if they expect you to know the complete choreography of the obscure
song from whatever musical they’re singing. When I first got there I used to
humor them, but now I just shoot the aspiring Pavarotti a look that’s says, “No.
Don’t even think of performing your jazz routine to Grease while I am eating my
egg salad sandwich. I don’t even like watching John Travolta do it. What in the
world would make you think I want a free preview of you?” It was a hard look to
master but it’s recognized now throughout our theater community and quiet time
has increased by a whole 3% since.
Still, I’d take the American Idol audition any day over those that cry
in class. People crying before finals or midterms is just ridiculous. You’re not
going to be terrible if you studied even a little, I promise. There’s no need to
turn on the waterworks for any academic reason unless you lost both your legs
and want to be a race car driver. Then you can cry. But it’s a drama school, and
drama students are genetically enhanced with more emotional drama while in the
womb than non-drama babies. So when you get overwhelmed and have to let out a
sob, do it at home, do it in your room, or save it for the phone call to your
mom, but don’t cry in class. There’s nothing more distracting than a red-snot
faced audience member curled up in the fetal position just
aching to be aborted.
There’s this disease that travels within the musical theater community (MTC)
called the “Cassie Syndrome,” derived from a character from A Chorus Line
who was such a great dancer that she couldn’t perform any dance combination
without a little flare. And I’ve never thought anyone I knew had it. I just
thought the guy loved dance so much he couldn’t help but shake his ass like a
salsa dancer. It wasn’t until the head of the dance department called him out of
it that I realized he had the disease. But not once had our instructor ever said
anything about it—probably because he clearly enjoyed watching salsa-ass too
much to make him stop shaking like a broken washing machine.
I remember having this problem at Lawrence where the school provided everyone
with private sound-proof practice rooms and still the girls next door to Meghan
and I would insist on practicing their French horn in their dorm room. And who
doesn’t enjoy a French horn solo at 10am on a Sunday morning? Probably the same
people who don’t enjoy listening to the entire Rent soundtrack from 7 to
midnight every night.
Everyone loves Rent; it’s a great musical. It’s a fantastic rock opera
and has a really moving storyline. But I’m the only one who sees the comic
genius in the Lease scene in Team America, and that’s just sad.
No one apologizes in Musical Theater. It’s not like we weren’t raised to
have good manners, it’s just that we’re so consumed with ourselves that we
didn’t notice that your Nalgene bottle spilled all over your lap when we knocked
our dance bag into your head. But we saw our acting coach and wanted to ask him
if our slight overbite would prevent us from having a lucrative film career, and
that seemed way more important than our friendship at the time. Don’t worry, a
quick boob grab in the dressing room later and everything will be back to
normal. Promise.
