by Anthony Rapp
Jim made his way down to the floor in front of the stage, holding on to a crumpled piece of paper. He cleared his throat.
“I’m, uh, I’m not used to making speeches in public,” he said, his gentle voice wavering. “And this morning when I woke up, I certainly never thought I would have to make a speech like this. But.” He cleared his throat again, glancing down at his notes. “As you know, Jonathan Larson died last night, after he went home after our dress rehearsal. We have found out that his death was the result of an aortic aneurysm, a freakish cause of death for a young, thirty-five-year-old man. I think it goes without saying that this doesn’t seem fair at all. I can think of a lot of people I’d like to see die of an aneurysm right now. Certainly not Jonathan Larson.” He paused, clearing his throat once again.
“As we came together at the theatre today, trying to make some sense of this horrible turn of events, we decided that all there was for us to do was to continue the work that we and Jonathan had begun together. We owe it to Jonathan. Even though he’s gone, this beautiful, loving, courageous piece that he created lives on, and we will do our utmost to honor his memory by bringing it to life every night here at our theatre.
“When we were trying to figure out what we were going to do about tonight’s scheduled preview, we knew that what we couldn’t do was keep our theatre silent. We knew that much for certain. But we also didn’t want tonight to be about anything other than Jonathan’s words and music. So we asked our amazing cast if they would simply sing through Jonathan’s score for us, and they agreed, and I’ll stop talking now, so we can all listen to them, and listen to Jonathan. Thank you.”
Jim abruptly sat down, and the house lights dimmed. I centered myself as best as I could, silently pledging to get through it, thinking that if we could all just get through it, we’d be giving Jonathan’s friends and family an incredible gift.
I had the first lines, and so I took a deep breath and glanced over at Tim, who stood at the ready in front of his keyboard. I nodded, and Tim cued our guitarist, Kenny Brescia, to begin. He plucked the opening notes on his guitar, and I dove in.
“December 24th, nine P.M.,” I sang, my voice stronger and clearer than I’d thought it would be, “Eastern Standard time / From here on in, I shoot without a script / See if anything comes of it / instead of my old shit.” As I continued singing, I gained momentum, clicking into a real performance, embodying this character that I knew so well and so loved to play, and I focused all of my energy and sent it out to the audience. I was owning the story, driving it forward, sharing it.
As we continued, the audience laughed at all the right jokes (especially Kristen Lee Kelly’s “Voice Mail” as Mrs. Cohen), and when the band kicked in with a blast of energy on “Rent,” I could feel the voltage in the room rise enormously. By the song’s climax, when all fifteen of us defiantly raised our voices in climbing, flying harmonies—“Rent, rent, rent, rent / We’re not gonna pay rent!”—the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. And when Adam and I screamed out our last line at the top of our lungs—“’Cause everything is reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeent!”—holding out that last note for what felt like forever until Tim and the band crashed themselves into a huge, crazy, rock-and-roll finish, the entire audience instantaneously erupted in thunderous, joyful, cacophonous cheers.
We plunged forward, the first act continuing on with Jesse Martin and Wilson Heredia’s tender “You Okay Honey?” and Adam’s heartbreaking “One Song Glory.” A hush descended over the theatre as Adam sang, his voice tentative at first and then explosive, his eyes cast down at the index cards he still needed to remember his lyrics.
One song
Glory
One song
Before I go
Glory
One song to leave behind
I couldn’t believe the strength and clarity with which Adam was singing, and to Jonathan’s parents, who must have been in agony as they listened to this song evoke their lost son. I sat still and watched intently as Adam leaned into the chorus, his voice a gorgeous howl.
Time flies
Time dies
Glory
One blaze of glory
One blaze of glory
Glory
And then he came back into himself, quieting down, the song ending in a surprising, suspended chord, not resolving itself. And even though it was over, the riveted, awestruck audience didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even seem to breathe, and then Tim cued the band, and Daphne and Adam went right on into the sweet, sexy, seductive “Light My Candle.”
We were doing more than a simple sing-through. Sure, we weren’t moving around, and there were no lights or costumes or sets, but the undeniable electricity of a full performance positively sizzled through the air. We all felt it onstage, too, playing off each other, warming up as we went, letting loose, singing our hearts out.
By the time we got to “La Vie Boheme,” it was clear that the time for sitting down was over, and as I began my opening verse, I climbed right up onto the table, just as I did in the show, and sang out to the crowd Jonathan’s joyful valentine to all things bohemian. Soon, everybody else in the cast was joining me up on the tables, and we danced and spun and wailed our way through the song, its energy and drive overtaking us, its propulsive percolating beat sending us flying. As I led the group in our final “Viva la vie boheme!” I knew that there would be no going back to our seats when we came back from intermission. We’d have to get up and really do the show; its power was too great. And the audience seemed to agree, their cheers and applause enormous and full and overwhelming.
And, true to form, when the house lights came up, Michael rushed to the stage, delighted and exuberant. “That was fantastic,” he said to us all. “We have to do Act Two for real now.” We all immediately agreed to continue on with full staging and props and lights, but no costumes; we didn’t want to get snagged up by Angel’s quick change into Pussy Galore in the middle of “Happy New Year,” or the ensemble members’ quick changes into the finale.
The intermission zoomed by, and soon the opening chords of “Seasons of Love” rang out, and we made our way to the edge of the stage, looking right out at the audience. Some of them held tightly to each other, and, even before we began singing, I knew that it was going to take every last shred of control and strength in my being to just get through these songs in Act Two. They were all too terribly appropriate to the occasion.
Singing requires an open, clear throat; it’s the only way pure, melodic sound can come out. But as we sang “Seasons,” its lyrics resonating through me in a thousand new ways, I began to cry, and my throat began to close up, and then I could hear others in the cast crying as they sang, which made my tears run even faster and hotter. But somehow we all managed to keep singing, we all managed to open our throats back up, and let our hearts up and out through our voices, as we sang about love and joy and remembrance. Gwen Stewart miraculously led us through the final chorus, her voice wailing up to heaven for Jonathan and his friends and family and God and everyone, her tone as clear and powerful and acrobatic as ever, her amazing, soaring notes sending Michael’s hands into the air as he sat in the back of the theatre, tears streaming down his face, which sent even more tears streaming down mine. And when Gwen and the rest of us were finished with the song, the audience raised their voices in a clamorous, seemingly endless cheer.
During their applause, I swallowed down the last of my tears, wiping my face and abruptly switching gears into my narration for “Happy New Year.” The show had its own incredible, undeniable motor at this point, and I was doing my best to keep driving it, staying as focused and true as possible.
“Happy New Year” gave way to “Take Me or Leave Me,” and Fredi and Idina might as well have literally burst into flames during their number, that’s how on fire they were. I luxuriated in Michael’s staging during their song; he had me sitting off to the side so I could just sit and watch the action. It was thrilling to be onstage with them when th
ey resoundingly brought the house crashing down all around them at the end of the number. Tim and the band held for what felt like several minutes while the audience screamed and whistled and cheered, and I thought that Jonathan could surely hear all of this glorious noise. It was all for him, after all, and he had to be out there somewhere. My chest burst with joy and pride for him, and for all of us, in that moment.
Finally the audience calmed down, and then came the “Seasons of Love” reprise, and immediately the tone shifted from jubilation to sorrow, and I steeled myself through that brief song, fighting my closing-up throat once again as we sang, “How do you measure a last year on earth?”
The segue from the final chords of the “Seasons of Love” reprise into the acoustic guitar intro of “Without You” was one of my favorite musical moments in the show, and Tim led Kenny into it perfectly. I settled myself into my chair so I could let Daphne’s voice wash over me and watch Michael’s beautifully simple and eloquent staging. I had no idea how Daphne was going to be able to sing this song; its lyrics were so directly about why we were all there tonight:
Without you
The ground thaws
The rain falls
The grass grows…
But I die
Without you
Yet she managed, her eyes burning with concentration, her arms and hands splayed out to her sides in a kind of reaching surrender, her voice raspy and grief-stricken and lost.
More tears rolled down my cheeks as I sat there listening to Daphne sing and watching Jesse’s Collins gently tend to Wilson’s Angel in his sickbed. It was a rare moment in the show in which I could just let go, in which I didn’t have to hold anything together or move anything forward, and I released into it as much as I could without falling apart completely.
Then came “Contact,” which provided a brief respite from the intensity of “Without You,” at least until Wilson started to sing. I bowed my head, holding myself together as Wilson sang over and over again, “Take me, take me, take me.” It was all the more difficult to stand because I knew what was coming next in the show—Angel’s funeral—and I did not know how any of us were ever going to get through that without losing control.
But, again, we managed, beginning with our eulogies, the words of which could so easily have been said about Jonathan. “You always said you were so lucky that we were all friends,” Idina said, her voice cracking. Then she looked right up to the sky and said, “But it was us, baby, who were the lucky ones.”
And at last, Jesse slowly took his place at the edge of the stage, clutching his coat. His kind, handsome face illuminated only by a pin spot, his big brown eyes deeply mournful and loving and humane, he began his song to Angel and, tonight at least, to Jonathan.
Live in my house
I’ll be your shelter
Just pay me back with one thousand kisses
Be my lover
And I’ll cover you
The room was completely silent and still, except for Jesse’s resonant, heartbreaking voice and Tim’s accompanying, soulful piano. More and more tears fell down my face, and I could feel my fellow cast members crying too, which again made me cry all the more. I couldn’t even bear to look out at the house, because I knew what I’d find there, and before I knew it, it was my turn to sing with the rest of the ensemble, and I joined the line at the edge of the stage and did my utmost to produce some kind of sound. But no sound wanted to come out, my throat was choked. I saw the sorrow in the faces of the audience members in front of me and my heart broke all the more—I could not believe that we were here right now singing this song for such a terrible reason—and I tried to sing through my sobs, but I could only manage a few notes, my voice croaking through the climax of the song:
Oh lover I’ll cover you
Oh lover I’ll cover you
Jesse amazingly held us all together, never wavering, and ending with a wrenching wail that echoed through the theatre, until the light on him faded to black, and the audience exploded once again with an extraordinary, cathartic cheer.
I gulped down my grief as much as I could in the transition into “Halloween,” and actually regained the power of my voice just enough, as I sang the questions we were all asking ourselves that night:
How did I get here?
How the hell?
Even though I was shaking as I sang alone onstage, I was finally able to channel everything I was feeling into the song, rather than be overpowered by it, although it was definitely a struggle. But I made it through to the end:
Why am I the witness?
And when I capture it on film
Will it mean that it’s the end
And I’m alone?
And then we were into “Goodbye Love,” with its explosive fights between Daphne and Adam, and Idina and Fredi, which Jesse broke up with another set of lyrics that absolutely could have been about what we were all experiencing that night:
I can’t believe he’s gone…
I can’t believe this family must die
Angel helped us believe in love
I can’t believe you disagree
And we all joined in on the final line, singing through our tears:
I can’t believe this is goodbye
Adam was a rock during our fight, and we were able to hold it together through the end of the scene. But when Daphne began wailing out, “Goodbye, love, goodbye,” I wished I weren’t standing off to the side all alone, that I had someone to steady me before my knees gave out from all of their shaking.
But then I had “What You Own,” and I attacked it ferociously, pouring my exhaustion and grief into every note, letting the fierce propulsion of the band launch me into my angry, sad howls.
The audience cheered again at the end of that song, and I flowed, spent, into the finale with the rest of the cast, helplessly standing off to the side once again as Adam sang his love song “Your Eyes” to Daphne, and then joining in with everyone else in the final chorus. Again, we were singing about Jonathan:
There’s only now
There’s only here…
No other path
No other way
No day but today
Again and again, the men repeated that refrain, “No day but today,” while the women repeated over and over, “I die without you.” We were singing for ourselves and Jonathan and his friends and his parents, and when the song ended, his friends and his parents leaped to their feet, raising their hands above their heads, their faces both released and terribly sad. We bowed, and bowed again, and then made our way backstage, where we silently embraced each other, exhausted but uplifted. As we quietly busied ourselves with taking off our headsets and gathering our things together, I realized there was no sound coming from anywhere in the theatre, and I opened the backstage door to find the entire audience sitting in absolute, perfect stillness and silence. No one moved, no one spoke. They all just sat, some staring straight ahead, others sitting with their heads in their hands, still others sitting huddled together. Afraid to move myself, afraid to disrupt this moment, I walked across the stage as quietly as I could and found a group of actors from the studio production and sat with them, looking down at my hands, feeling the crushing, enormous silence of over one hundred fifty people bearing down on me. I have no idea how long we all sat together saying absolutely nothing, but it felt like forever. Finally, a male voice from the back of the theatre called out, “Thank you, Jonathan Larson,” and with that utterance the spell was broken, and the group began to move and breathe again.
Christina found me then, her face alight and pained. “I don’t know how you all did that,” she said. “That was…that was incredible.”
“I don’t know how we did it either,” I replied. “We had to.”
“Well, I won’t ever forget this night.”
We said goodbye, and I found Al and Nan, standing somewhat dazedly in the middle of the house. Al’s eyes were surprisingly clear, his manner intense, as he firmly took my hand in
his.
“You all were amazing,” he said. “Now we’ve got to make this show a hit. We’ve got to make this show a hit.”
“We’ll do our best,” I said, and I knew that all that was now left of his son was this show, and I resolved to honor that. I think we all did from that night forward.
Our work over the next two weeks of previews was urgent and intense. Michael and Tim had the unenviable task of second-guessing what cuts Jonathan would have been willing to make (there was no question in anyone’s mind that Jonathan had been looking forward to revising the show during previews), and they presented each proposed cut with respect and sensitivity. And, inevitably, every cut they proposed made sense. We had to believe that Jonathan would have been pleased.
Our subsequent audiences were never as responsive as the one on the night of the sing-through, but they seemed to love the show nonetheless, and I remained cautiously optimistic about our prospects with the critics. My greatest fear was that they might not be willing to open themselves up to the show’s enormous heart, which was the source of most of its power. But I did my best to leave those anxieties at a low murmur so I could concentrate on the work.
Jonathan’s memorial service was scheduled for a Sunday morning a week and a half after his death, and I arrived early, along with the rest of the cast, Michael, and Tim. We assembled at the off-Broadway Minetta Lane Theatre, coincidentally situated next to a restaurant called La Bohème, on a small street in the West Village. Jonathan’s memorial had been announced the day before in the Times, so the Workshop had been deemed too tiny to contain the crowds that were expected to attend.
Our job as a cast was to sing “Seasons of Love,” the reprise of “I’ll Cover You,” and “La Vie Boheme,” and Adam was to sing “One Song Glory.” We quickly ran through the numbers for a sound check, and then milled around as we waited for everyone to arrive.
I didn’t recognize most of the somber faces that poured into the theatre, and as I sat and watched them come in and quietly take their seats, I realized that their grief was thicker and fresher, somehow, than ours. It struck me that those of us involved in the show had actually benefited from the nightly catharsis our performances had afforded us. We had been able to be active with Jonathan’s memory in a way that allowed us to process our grief, while his friends and family and acquaintances had been left to their own devices. The show had become a healing conduit for us, and this memorial service would serve that purpose for everyone else.