I made lots of jokes, and I talked with the audience in between numbers, which I loved doing. So with a big musical introduction of my company, allowing everyone to do an individual riff of their own, we’d have more than enough show.
The development of the concept seemed to be progressing nicely.
We hired a band. I decided to go self-contained, which meant traveling with eight musicians (two keyboards, bass, guitar, saxophone, drums, percussion, and piano conductor), instead of hiring an orchestra in every city augmented by a permanent rhythm section.
I loved my previous conductor, Jack French, but he hadn’t worked enough with synthesizers. So we hired a conductor out of Vegas who had. He was recommended as being cool in time of crisis and very accomplished musically.
We chose a rehearsal hall with windows, good restaurants nearby, and a central location for everybody. It had a good wood floor (any other kind of floor, such as cement or linoleum, is lethal for a dancer because of lack of flexibility and spring). Television studio floors are crippling to dancers, because they are laid with cement (to insure smooth-flowing cameras). Dancers develop shinsplints and shattered backs from the rigidity of the floor.
There was a smaller studio upstairs for vocal rehearsals that would also serve as the band room where the musicians could rehearse and program their synthesizers with sounds, while Alan and I and the dancers toiled below.
We began with a new dance number. I have never understood how choreographers can take the pressure of having to move dancing human beings around in an entertaining way and produce two hours worth of show in a few weeks. What kind of dreams do they fall asleep to? And do they sleep at all? I have worked with many of them. They all suffer from temperament, anxiety, illusions of grandeur, sensitivity of such depth that they are often cruel, and—more important than anything—a desire to be loved and appreciated.
Choreographers come out of years of toil and suffering, first in relentless dance classes and then under the tutelage of another choreographer who has also gone through a conditioning of pain. It’s a kind of exquisite love affair with sadomasochism. To force the body into the form and line they see in their own mind’s eye is their never-ending task. The body has limits. A vision doesn’t. So a choreographer can put a troupe of dancers through excruciating repetitions until he either comes to terms with the limitations or loses the love and respect of his dancers. Dancers will keep going, however, because they too have come from a schooled lifetime of hard labor. They are conditioned to obeying authority and, indeed, somehow identify themselves with suffering. A dancer will never feel anything has been accomplished if it has been easy. The choreographer knows that and behaves accordingly.
Alan Johnson, however, is different. I continued to ask for his help in putting together shows, because he—along with being talented and creative—is the nice one. I could never understand why he was different. He was a taskmaster but a gentlemanly one. If his feelings were hurt, he never struck back with cruel hostility. He somehow had himself centered and under control, and his talent flourished.
He held his dancers’ auditions, but he and I both knew which four dancers he was going to use. He had worked with all four before. I had worked with two. There wasn’t much work for dancers in California now, since the demise of variety-show television. MTV ruled and it was mostly rap-dancing—staccato, sharp, athletic moves that were more reminiscent of an entertaining and colorful aerobics class than the art of traditional dance.
So when Alan put out the word along the gypsy grapevine, he had his pick of the best dancers around.
Damita Jo Freeman was a black dancer with whom I had worked ten years ago. Her intelligence was blazing and her talent matched it. She had been assisting Joe Layton in choreographing shows for Diana Ross and Lionel Richie, as well as Whitney Houston and Cher, She was a choreographer herself, and when she called asking if she could get back to “real” dancing, Alan and I took her immediately.
Blane Savage had been a principal dancer in Dancin’ for Bob Fosse and starred in the movie A Chorus Line. He was blond, fabulously handsome, funny, and had definite star quality.
Keith McDaniel was a principal dancer with the Alvin Ailey company in New York. He was dynamic, strong, and possessed a muscled body that inspired awe on the stage.
Jamilah Lucas had starred in Sophisticated Ladies and Solid Gold on television for years. She was drop-dead gorgeous, as well as strong and lithe.
Each dancer was a soloist and perfectly capable of holding the stage alone. I was honored that they would back me up. I wondered, in fact, if I could keep up with them.
So rehearsals began. Alan didn’t like to have me around when he was creating new ideas. “Don’t come to preproduction,” he would say. “I want you to see it when I’m finished; then tell me what you think.” Fair enough.
I had always loved to see the magic created out of thin air. It was a miracle mystery to me, but that was before I became “intimidating.” I still operated with a gypsy mentality, feeling like one of the group, so it was sometimes difficult for me to accept the truth that when I walked into the rehearsal hall, there was a subtle change of charged energy. “What does she think?” “Is she watching me?” “Is it what she expected?” … and so on. “The Lady is here” was the hidden implication. “Let’s do it full out now.”
There is always a separation between the “star” and everyone else, regardless of how intimate the working relationship might be. The star is the one on the line, of course, so that is given unspoken priority. The star pays the salaries, the airlines, the hotels, the costumers—all the bills. The star, therefore, is in charge of everyone’s contractual destiny. Even the creative behind-the-scenes talent has a hidden, subtle need to please the star so that instant approval is forthcoming.
That doesn’t mean they won’t tell you the truth. Quite the contrary, especially when they really care. But the separation is always there. The idiosyncrasies and temperamental shenanigans of other “stars” are a never-ending source of rich gossip; and even while participating in the gossip yourself, you know that the minute you leave you are the source of the next day’s dish.
The star and her fears; the star and her strengths; the star and her talents; the star and her husband, boyfriend, or outside personal influences are the priority conversations. And that is how it should be. The others are there to serve the star, and everybody knows it.
Of course, in my case they were even more intense subjects of conjecture and gossip, because I wrote books on how to be more peaceful, centered, and free of the negative attributes that played such a part in the colorful gossip always swirling around the environment of a star. The real pressure would be on me. “How would she handle it?” “Would she live up to her tough, perfectionistic reputation?” “Would she stretch everyone else like she stretched herself, or had she learned through her own writing and investigation to relax with the demons of fear and possible public humiliation?”
Show business is all about wanting to be loved, wanting to avoid rejection. “Healthy” people rarely have such a need to be constantly reinforced with overt appreciation. “Healthy” people can settle for a more satisfactory, less stressful way of expressing their contribution in life. “Healthy” people don’t need to dabble in the expertise of “magic” in order to feel fulfilled. “Healthy” people don’t need to be somebody in order to be happy.
So the star reflects all those unspoken fears and anxieties lying dormant in “healthy” people.
Creative minds that work as a team to make a star look good are every bit as complicated as the star they serve. Maybe more so.
A lyricist’s task is to feel the star’s values and truthful emotions so impeccably that his words, coming from the star, sound real. Audiences always pick up falsity. And stars never feel they can express themselves on stage with words, so we rely on writers to do it for us. After that we change them! A symbiotic relationship, to say the least. For a lyricist and writer to put on the c
loak of another is a kind of abdication of his own identity, yet at the same time an expansion of it. A really good writer becomes the star when he’s working at his peak.
Then the musical interpretation of the star’s body and voice is translated by a composer whose talent lies in the combinations of notes and chords and styles of music that seem the natural musical language of the star. They are well versed in the star’s range of voice, emotional expression through music, and whether or not the audience will believe a song coming out of the star’s mouth.
Each member of my creative team had worked with many stars, so they carried with them a backlog of respect and experience that is always necessary for trust when insecurity raises its inevitable head. I am always amazed at the sensitivity inherent in each creative person whose job it is to serve what is best for the star.
During the rehearsal period, anxieties become magnified—all sorts of anxieties. Personality traits that are the most troublesome become obviously those that one needs to work on and resolve. Rehearsals are sometimes better than therapy. The body, the mind, and ultimately one’s spiritual balance come into play while learning something new, and at the same time attempting to perform it.
Some people learn fast but don’t retain what they’ve learned. Others plod along but learn more deeply and thoroughly. Musicians have the advantage of speaking a common musical language, which is set before them to read. Dancers have no way of recording movement in a really articulate way, except of course by videotape (which we used later).
So the choreographer experiments on the bodies of the dancers until he sees what he wants. That process can be exhausting at the same time that it challenges one to stretch and build physical stamina. During the repetitions of combination after combination, the muscles record, as if by memory, what they are required to do. We know that feeling of “muscle memory”; and if a dancer learns to trust it, it is only necessary to get out of one’s own way and allow the various parts of the body to remember and have their way. It’s almost as though the cells themselves have brains and feelings, the capacity to be autonomous.
I knew that from experience over the years, yet somehow the process of learning for me was different now than it used to be. I now approached steps and body movement from an acting point of view. It was no longer a mechanically scientific exercise of learning by rote and repetition. Now I needed to know why each movement existed. I literally needed motivation! I was forever asking a choreographer “Why?” And “why” doesn’t exist in the world of dance. But if someone found a way to answer me and it made sense, I never forgot a step. I could recite the Gettysburg Address and dance at the same time if I knew why I was doing a step. But there are some dance combinations that no one could give a motivation to. “Why?” is irrelevant to some things. Such a moment occurred during our rehearsal period when Alan gave me a new dance combination with complicated rhythms and uneven phrasing. It was unattached to any motivational thinking process, and it looked fabulous on the other dancers, who had learned it in a few minutes. Now it was my turn. I was the star. I was expected to give the combination a panache no one else could or I wouldn’t be a star.
The company stood watching me. Alan demonstrated the combination for me. I tried it. Since I couldn’t find a motivation, my mind went blank, my legs and arms worked in contradiction to one another, and I couldn’t even hear the rhythm and beat, much less dance to it.
My mind scrabbled. Then it got ahead of itself, a self-destructive tendency I thought I was rid of. But the threat of potential humiliation in front of a live audience can be paralyzing. Instead of focusing on the combination, with its rhythms and phrasing, I zeroed in on the opening date and how little time I had to feel comfortable with what I was learning. I panicked. Frozen with fear, I stood in the center of the room feeling that everyone on the planet was staring at me, waiting for me to get it. Blank. And then a flood of humiliation, embarrassment. I felt like a total idiot: tears filled my eyes, and I doubled over and began to cry.
Immediately Alan called a coffee break and came over to talk to and comfort me. At that moment, I felt like a presumptuous fool to imagine I could still get up on a stage and entertain people. I couldn’t even learn the stuff, much less make it pleasurable for people to look at. The paralytic craziness that strikes when the insecurity crunch comes is impossible to describe. A less experienced choreographer would talk about how wonderful it’s all going to be, denying completely the reality of a mini-breakdown. Performers never want to hear that. We want specifics about how to climb our way out of the abyss. We know when we are in a survival modality, and candied reassurances are deeply annoying and even an insult. We want a plan, a mode of operation, a strategy, in order to see our way clear to the light again.
Alan’s strategy with me was to give me different choreography. “You’re the star,” he said, “remember? You don’t have to be a gypsy here.” That wasn’t good enough for me. “Why can’t I learn as fast as I used to?” I wailed. “What’s wrong with me?” And then, “Oh God, maybe I’m just too old for all of this.” “No,” said Alan, “you’ve been acting for six years. Your approach is that of an actress.”
I thought about that—it made sense for a moment, and then other doubts flooded in. I launched into a fear rundown on whether the costumes, the sets, the lighting designs, the tryouts, the previews would all come together in time. “Could we put the opening back a week?” I asked. “Why am I doing this! Aren’t there easier ways to make a living?”
Alan didn’t laugh. Nor did he point out that making a living was hardly relevant. He was much too sensitive for that, and besides, he had been through many mini-breakdowns with other performers. I derived much comfort from hearing about the problems of others. At least it meant I wasn’t the only crazy one; the only insecure, blithering idiot. It meant that people I considered far more talented than myself had their own demons, and must have their own approaches for banishing them. Some, I knew, used tricks like booze and pills that I wasn’t interested in, mostly because I’d lose control and I wanted to be firmly in control of my choice to be insecure! Anyway, a dancer’s trained body and the drug-drink scene definitely do not mix.
Alan put a hand on my arm. “Remember the other times,” he reminded me. “You’ve been through this before; everyone goes through it and everyone finds a way out. You will too. For now don’t worry about these steps; and if we’re not ready, we’ll deal with postponing.” His tone was reassuring and sensible. He saw me relax. “Now,” he said, “I’m going to rattle the change in Puss’s can.”
Puss was Alan’s Jack Russell terrier dog, a child to him. Alan took him everywhere, including rehearsal. Puss was stationed on a leash by the piano and next to his little traveling case. Puss loved to sing. When the rehearsal pianist launched into “I Hear Music When I Look at You,” Puss hit a high C and held it for the duration of his aria. When he misbehaved, Alan rattled a can full of loose change at him and threatened to make a live painting of him up against the wall. Puss also took on his master’s tensions, which Alan himself was so adept at disguising.
Puss had lived through the tensions of Legs Diamond with Peter Allen on Broadway, a revival of Can-Can with Chita Rivera, the act of Peter Allen and Bernadette Peters, numerous productions of West Side Story, the many Academy Awards shows, and now me.
I lifted my Evian water bottle and tried to finish off what would be my first of the day, knowing I’d need to drown myself in at least one more liter of water in order for my muscles and joints to work properly. The other dancers had discreetly moved outside into the sunshine and the musicians, thank heavens, were working in a room upstairs. I patted Puss on the head and paced around the rehearsal hall.
Alan was right. I had been through the PANIC several times in the past—in fact, each time we did a new show. I wasn’t good at having patience with myself. I was relentless with my self-demands and wanted tomorrow’s accomplishments to be achieved today.
I remembered the panic I ha
d felt the night I opened at the Palladium in London. It was so paralyzing that I fell asleep in my dressing room, fully made up in costume, and woke to hear the overture playing. I had unconsciously designed a complete checkout, right up to the moment they announced my name.
Even with rapturous reviews, I wondered why people paid good money to come and see me. How could their experience with me possibly be worth it? Foreign countries and cultures flooded my mind as I paced around the rehearsal hall—the one-night stands for a month in Germany and the habit audiences had of stomping their feet in approval. In Berlin I had left the huge stage, taken off my makeup, and was taking a shower when the theater owner retrieved me for one last bow. I went on the stage dressed in my towel and nothing else. The waves of appreciation and approval washed over me. I didn’t really understand why.
The instant interplay between a collective mass of human beings and a performer is a hymn to a kind of tribal rhythm. When it’s going well, a transformation occurs that lifts the spirits to the gods, and passions are acted out with a collective creativity, reminding us that the call of the crowd can be as loving as it is cruel. The cruelty of a crowd can be informative too. I remembered the night I opened at the Palace in New York City. During some banter, I called New York the Karen Quinlan of cities (on a respirator, neither dead nor alive). The crowd booed. I experienced flop sweat and couldn’t live it down for a long time.
Then there was the time in Vienna, Austria. I had a 106-degree fever, the flu, and four shows in two days. The crowd was so nourishing that after the first show, my temperature was nearly normal. Sure I worked hard, sweated out much of the virus, but I could feel the healing energy of the crowd.
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