My brother Donnyo and I are busy setting up lights and sound equipment for a gig at a venue in a nearby seaside town. As I am fighting with the cables, lights, speakers and microphone stands, and trying my best to look cool, and not break a nail, the manager of the establishment’s wife walks up to us with a quizzical expression on her face.
“Are you both in show business?”
Without missing a beat we break into song.
“There’s no business like show business like no business we knowwww!!!! Everything about it is appealing! Nowhere could you have that happy feeling! When you aren't stealing that extra bowwwwww!!!”
Question answered, but not appreciated, she stalks away, muttering something under her breath. It was a stupid question anyway. I don’t go around asking her if she’s an audience member. It’s obvious.
Donnyo and I have an unwritten script we perform by - even when we are not on stage. We don’t make small talk when we meet outside of rehearsal, we recite dialogue and lyrics from movies and musicals.
A conversation might go something like this:
Boefie: Wilkommen, Bienvenue, welcome. In here life is beautiful.*
Donnyo: “Hi, Boefie! That’s quite a dress you almost have on.” **
Boefie: “Dignity, always dignity.” ***
Donnyo: “You know, I think you are the only girl in the world who can stand on a stage with a spotlight in her eye and still see a diamond inside a man’s pocket.” ****
Boefie: “There are certain shades of limelight that can wreck a girl’s complexion.” *****
Donnyo: “It’s astounding. Time is fleeting…”
Boefie: “Madness takes control…”
Donnyo: “But listen closely…”
Boefie: “…not for very much longer…”
Donnyo: “I’ve got to keep control.” ******
Boefie: “Why? Did you get the contract for the new show?”
Donnyo: “Yes. The party of the first part shall be known in this contract as the party of the first part. How do you like that? That’s pretty neat, eh?”
Boefie: “No, that’s no good.”
Donnyo: “That’s in every contract. That’s what they call a sanity clause.”
Boefie: “Oh, no. You can’t fool me. There ain’t no Sanity Clause.” *******
Donnyo: “At last I can start suffering and write that symphony.” ********
And then Donnyo will grab his guitar, hand me some sheet music and we will start rehearsing for the next show.
Now you may exclaim: “Surely, you can’t be serious!”
But I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley. *********
*Cabaret
** An American in Paris
***Singing in the Rain
****Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
*****Breakfast at Tiffany’s
******Rocky Horror Picture Show
*******Night at the Opera
********Singing in the Rain
*********Airplane
(Title quote from Arsenic and Old Lace)
Monday, October 19, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Great Caruso
I love the theatre. I love theatre buildings, auditoriums, backstage, dressing rooms, the lights…hell, everything about it. But I love the stage with its promise of perfection the most.
Getafix and I went to a performance of a very famous local singer renowned for his vocal gymnastics and chameleon-like reinvention of his image with every show.
When we arrived at the arena I could feel the anticipation and excitement of the audience in the air. The auditorium was packed to the rafters. I could hardly contain myself and nearly fainted when he appeared on stage dressed in a white jacket, black pants and silver tie with diamantè pin that caught the light every time he moved. Very classy. True to his reputation, this new image is very different from the gold shorts and feather boas he wore when he started out about ten years ago.
He sang some of his own compositions, opera classics, a show tune and even did a few numbers from his past life as a funky, electro-fusion performance artist. His anecdotes were funny and his band was brilliant. He even had a string section to complement his arrangements. Perfection. There’s no business like show business!
When he started to sing one of my favourite songs of all time, I was beside myself and started screaming, whooping and whooing like a teenybopper at a Jonas Brothers concert. Getafix was embarrassed and pretended not to know me. Even the people around me that I didn’t know pretended not to know me. I suppose it is not appropriate to “lose it” during a rendition of “Caruso”, but when he launched into “Te vojo bene assai, ma tanto tanto bene sai…”, I jumped up and joined in at the top of my voice only to realise during “che scioglie il sangue dint’e vene sai…” that I was the only audience member standing up and making a noise.
After the show I waited with thousands of fans for him to appear from his dressing room. I HAD to meet him to tell him how much I enjoyed the show, that he sang my favourite songs, that I love his new image, that the band was amazing, that I want to have his baby.
After about half an hour he emerged and I elbowed my way through the crowd, trampling on feet, pushing people out of the way, and knocking over old ladies. I was making headway and could see him looking tired but smiling and being polite and cordial to his fans, paying his dues as a performer should.
At last I was standing in front of him with an angry mob behind me and an army of security guards closing in.
“Eeeeeee!” I yelled while jumping up and down.
His eyes widened and his smile faded. He looked scared.
I dived on him and embraced him. The security guards were prompt, prepared and ready for action and pried me off of him. While they were restraining me I attempted another bout of communication.
“Ooo show great band autograph me songs new lovely!”
I think he understood.
As the security guards escourted me out of the venue, I caught sight of Getafix patiently waiting for me at the entrance.
“Are you okay?” he ventured as we walked to the car.
I paused, looked at him, took a deep breath and
“TE VOJO BENE ASSAI
MA TANTO TANTO BENE SAI
È UNA CATENA ORMAI
CHE SCIOGLIE SUNGUE DINT’E VENE SAI!!!!!!”
I think he understood.
Getafix and I went to a performance of a very famous local singer renowned for his vocal gymnastics and chameleon-like reinvention of his image with every show.
When we arrived at the arena I could feel the anticipation and excitement of the audience in the air. The auditorium was packed to the rafters. I could hardly contain myself and nearly fainted when he appeared on stage dressed in a white jacket, black pants and silver tie with diamantè pin that caught the light every time he moved. Very classy. True to his reputation, this new image is very different from the gold shorts and feather boas he wore when he started out about ten years ago.
He sang some of his own compositions, opera classics, a show tune and even did a few numbers from his past life as a funky, electro-fusion performance artist. His anecdotes were funny and his band was brilliant. He even had a string section to complement his arrangements. Perfection. There’s no business like show business!
When he started to sing one of my favourite songs of all time, I was beside myself and started screaming, whooping and whooing like a teenybopper at a Jonas Brothers concert. Getafix was embarrassed and pretended not to know me. Even the people around me that I didn’t know pretended not to know me. I suppose it is not appropriate to “lose it” during a rendition of “Caruso”, but when he launched into “Te vojo bene assai, ma tanto tanto bene sai…”, I jumped up and joined in at the top of my voice only to realise during “che scioglie il sangue dint’e vene sai…” that I was the only audience member standing up and making a noise.
After the show I waited with thousands of fans for him to appear from his dressing room. I HAD to meet him to tell him how much I enjoyed the show, that he sang my favourite songs, that I love his new image, that the band was amazing, that I want to have his baby.
After about half an hour he emerged and I elbowed my way through the crowd, trampling on feet, pushing people out of the way, and knocking over old ladies. I was making headway and could see him looking tired but smiling and being polite and cordial to his fans, paying his dues as a performer should.
At last I was standing in front of him with an angry mob behind me and an army of security guards closing in.
“Eeeeeee!” I yelled while jumping up and down.
His eyes widened and his smile faded. He looked scared.
I dived on him and embraced him. The security guards were prompt, prepared and ready for action and pried me off of him. While they were restraining me I attempted another bout of communication.
“Ooo show great band autograph me songs new lovely!”
I think he understood.
As the security guards escourted me out of the venue, I caught sight of Getafix patiently waiting for me at the entrance.
“Are you okay?” he ventured as we walked to the car.
I paused, looked at him, took a deep breath and
“TE VOJO BENE ASSAI
MA TANTO TANTO BENE SAI
È UNA CATENA ORMAI
CHE SCIOGLIE SUNGUE DINT’E VENE SAI!!!!!!”
I think he understood.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Never Wash a Feather Boa
“I am giddy. Expectation whirls me round. Th’imaginary relish is so sweet that it enchants my sense.” (Shakespeare. Troilus and Cressida, Act 3 Sc 2)
I stood there taking in the beauty, the strength, the majesty, the well proportioned stature of the object of my newfangled passion. I was blushing, felt hot and cold simultaneously. Dare I approach and throw myself mercilessly at this vision?
After an enjoyable lunch one Friday afternoon, my friend and I decided to do some serious window-shopping. And that’s when I saw it. That was when I saw the most beautiful bed in the entire world. Yes. A Bed. A big, wooden, flamboyant, pretentious, ostentatious, gold bed. Just as Ru Paul is a true Diva, this bed is a true Divan.
I grabbed hold of a shop assistant and inquired about the price. Love does not come cheap. In fact, love is bloody expensive. Ask anybody who has been on a date or divorced. But when you are in love, reality, as well as the size of your bank account, becomes a figment of your imagination.
I bought the bed.
The shop-assistant assured me that the bed would be delivered within the hour. I rushed home. I was elated, euphoric, ecstatic, ephemeral. I’m in love. I feel like I’m in a Barry Manilow song.
As soon as my new bed arrived the delivery men disassembled my old bed. I saw it lying there, on the floor, in pieces, obsolete and venerable, and I realized it resembled the emotional state of all of my ex-husbands after divorcing them. (Now I love younger men. Their stories are shorter. And their longevity is, um, well…longer.)
Like with every new relationship you have to make a few changes. Some people call it ‘nesting’. I call it ‘exorcism’. So I started redecorating immediately. Luckily the gold curtains, lamé drapes, Persian carpet, gold framed mirrors, chandelier and mirror-ball complemented the bed beautifully, but I had to repaint the bedside tables and move some paintings around to accommodate the huge golden headboard. Darlings, listen carefully, size does matter.
Something was not quite right, though…I scanned the room carefully and located the problem: hanging there all limp, old and dusty, my once fluffy snow-white feather boa was looking very sad and grey with age. Memories of sequins, high heels, fishnet stockings and the smell of fresh false-eyelash glue and stage make-up came flooding back to me and I decided to attempt at resurrecting this object from my past with a little soap and TLC.
After lovingly and very gently hand washing it, I put it in the dryer, which I hoped, will fluff it up again and restore it to its natural beauty. Alas. It shamefully emerged from the dryer resembling a dead wet rat. No fluff, no grandeur, no stage presence. Just a mangled ball of manginess. I was grief-stricken. I felt like I was in a Leonard Cohen song.
I said a sad goodbye to my once beautiful costume prop and threw it, and my past career as a showgirl, in the bin.
Then I went back to my rehabbed boudoir, relapsed in my infatuation, and felt a bit like Joan Collins making her comeback on “Dynasty” after being a has-been for twenty years. My youth may be in the bin along with my feather boa, but I am still able to do a pirouette in high heels and sing “Copacabana”. I named my bed Lola.
I stood there taking in the beauty, the strength, the majesty, the well proportioned stature of the object of my newfangled passion. I was blushing, felt hot and cold simultaneously. Dare I approach and throw myself mercilessly at this vision?
After an enjoyable lunch one Friday afternoon, my friend and I decided to do some serious window-shopping. And that’s when I saw it. That was when I saw the most beautiful bed in the entire world. Yes. A Bed. A big, wooden, flamboyant, pretentious, ostentatious, gold bed. Just as Ru Paul is a true Diva, this bed is a true Divan.
I grabbed hold of a shop assistant and inquired about the price. Love does not come cheap. In fact, love is bloody expensive. Ask anybody who has been on a date or divorced. But when you are in love, reality, as well as the size of your bank account, becomes a figment of your imagination.
I bought the bed.
The shop-assistant assured me that the bed would be delivered within the hour. I rushed home. I was elated, euphoric, ecstatic, ephemeral. I’m in love. I feel like I’m in a Barry Manilow song.
As soon as my new bed arrived the delivery men disassembled my old bed. I saw it lying there, on the floor, in pieces, obsolete and venerable, and I realized it resembled the emotional state of all of my ex-husbands after divorcing them. (Now I love younger men. Their stories are shorter. And their longevity is, um, well…longer.)
Like with every new relationship you have to make a few changes. Some people call it ‘nesting’. I call it ‘exorcism’. So I started redecorating immediately. Luckily the gold curtains, lamé drapes, Persian carpet, gold framed mirrors, chandelier and mirror-ball complemented the bed beautifully, but I had to repaint the bedside tables and move some paintings around to accommodate the huge golden headboard. Darlings, listen carefully, size does matter.
Something was not quite right, though…I scanned the room carefully and located the problem: hanging there all limp, old and dusty, my once fluffy snow-white feather boa was looking very sad and grey with age. Memories of sequins, high heels, fishnet stockings and the smell of fresh false-eyelash glue and stage make-up came flooding back to me and I decided to attempt at resurrecting this object from my past with a little soap and TLC.
After lovingly and very gently hand washing it, I put it in the dryer, which I hoped, will fluff it up again and restore it to its natural beauty. Alas. It shamefully emerged from the dryer resembling a dead wet rat. No fluff, no grandeur, no stage presence. Just a mangled ball of manginess. I was grief-stricken. I felt like I was in a Leonard Cohen song.
I said a sad goodbye to my once beautiful costume prop and threw it, and my past career as a showgirl, in the bin.
Then I went back to my rehabbed boudoir, relapsed in my infatuation, and felt a bit like Joan Collins making her comeback on “Dynasty” after being a has-been for twenty years. My youth may be in the bin along with my feather boa, but I am still able to do a pirouette in high heels and sing “Copacabana”. I named my bed Lola.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)