Why I Go On Stage

One evening in 2010, must’ve been around the end of May, I bit into a very large bullet. 

Not literally of course. But I did something that scared me a little, and walked into a room full of strangers to start singing as a hobby.

The room was in the Hexham Community Centre and the strangers were members of the Hexham Amateur Stage Society (HASS to those who have no time to say the whole sentence). As I walked in, two women who were going in ahead of me whispered to each other that there was “a man following us.” I thought at the time that they might have been a bit unnerved by that, so I did my best to give the appearance of an innocent baritone just looking for something to do. But I learned over the following weeks that the society was – and is – mainly composed of ladies and that male members are few in number. The sight of a strange man voluntarily walking into the rehearsal and actually asking to join is as rare as a Cabinet Minister hanging on to their job for more than a month. So it was no wonder they were excited by my appearance. The more men that join, the better it is for balance when the chorus is in full flow. 

That evening I was given a welcome that was warm and sincere, so I decided to stay. 

That sense of nervousness that I felt on my arrival then still revisits me whenever we put on a show, but those strangers are now friends. That includes the two ladies who were so intrigued at my arrival. 

I learned that the society was about to start rehearsals for “Carousel,” the Rodgers and Hammerstein classic. Leading roles were mentioned, and in an outcome that still astounds me, I was asked to audition for the part of Mr Snow. I’d only been in five minutes (almost literally) and there I was being encouraged to go for a lead role. Yes, okay, I thought, always good to push yourself. I passed the voice test, where I could sing a few lines of my choice just to prove that I could hold a tune, and managed to slip past the guards there to go on and do a full audition for the role. Again, I passed that and started to think that maybe I could warble satisfactorily enough to carry it off. 

I loved the Wednesday rehearsals, forming friendships along the way. It’s true that most of those friendships were formed at the pub after rehearsals rather than at the sessions themselves, but it was easy to settle in and become a part of this lovely group. 

I’m not a nervous person. I laugh at the idea of public speaking, and can walk into a room full of strangers without batting an eyelid. So I didn’t mind singing in front of everyone on a Wednesday, as they were all very supportive. I will wail away in the shower to amuse myself and any hidden spiders, so I didn’t think that I would worry about singing on stage. Unfortunately, I hadn’t factored in the idea the people I was singing to during the actual performance were paying customers and I needed to raise my singing to the highest level that I could possibly achieve. All of a sudden it wasn’t just about how I felt. 

The first night arrived quicker than I had thought it would, and I began to worry a little about what was going to happen. Would I forget my lines? Would my American accent sound stupid? Would my trousers fall off? All these thoughts and worse arrived (if you can imagine something worse than your trousers falling off in public) as the show started and I made my way to the wings to wait for my cue. 

There were two steps in front of me which went up to the stage and into the lights, and as my moment arrived I genuinely thought I wouldn’t be able to climb them. “Go on, legs, MOVE!” I thought. “No, we’d rather we didn’t if you don’t mind, and I think your stomach agrees with us,” came the reply. But, short of setting the fire alarms off or pretending to collapse, I had no choice, and so on I went. 

It’s easy I know for those who don’t appreciate the appeal of musicals or drama to ridicule groups such as HASS. I’ve been called a “luvvie” by some friends more times than I care to remember, and yes, although we can’t pretend that the standard of production is not the same as a full-on West End show, it is societies like HASS that provide a vital community service as well as an alternative to sitting on the sofa,  watching Eastenders or Coronation Street. Not that there is anything wrong with that if that’s your bag, but the point is that HASS offers an alternative to those who want something else out of a Wednesday evening. 

I stepped on to the stage and belted out my first line, despite protests from various parts of my body, and I’ve never looked back. That was the precise moment that I discovered that I love singing in public. Whether they like it or not. 

In the subsequent twelve years, I’ve been in almost every show that the society have put on. My friendships have strengthened, my voice has improved, my confidence has improved and the spiders in the shower are happier. 

I’ve played all sorts of roles; I’ve been a pirate, a King, a bar owner, a policeman, a travelling businessman, and a festival promoter. I’ve learned to really love musicals. People will say that they’re not real, that people don’t just start singing in public. To which I say “Tish and pish!” They aren’t meant to be representative of real life. They are an escape from it. And if you think people don’t burst into song at the drop of a hat, you’ve never been in the pub with us after rehearsals!

This week we are back on stage for the first time in three years as we celebrate HASS’s 90th anniversary with a concert at the Queens Hall in Hexham. The rehearsals are nearly over, the stage is set and lots of tickets have been sold. 

And come Wednesday night, I will be with my like-minded friends, behind the curtain at 6:55pm, excited at the prospect of yet another chance to perform on stage.

As long as my legs agree. 

“The Sound of Musicals” runs from Wednesday 19th – Friday 21st October at 7pm, with a matinee on Saturday 22nd at 2pm. Ring the box office for tickets (01434 652477).