Hello Dolly closed at the Queen’s Hall in Hexham on Saturday afternoon, and show week is over. Now all the emotions that I felt over the past few days are just a memory, to be replaced by a flat feeling that isn’t really sadness at the show’s passing, but more of a sense that something important is missing. That experience is the same after every show, having put so much effort into it over (in this case) the past ten months, but even with taking that into consideration it’s an activity that I would heartily recommend to anyone who fancies giving it a go and I will try to explain why here.
I go through all sorts of emotions in show week. To someone who doesn’t really “get” musicals, it must all seem a bit of a nonsense. But I love it, the whole thing – the music, the acting, the audiences on their feet at the end of a good performance, and even the dancing, which most of my friends will tell you that I’m really not very good at. My attempts at a Paso Doble or somesuch would have Craig Revel-Horwood reaching for the “1” paddle.
But most of all I love being part of a group of people that feel very like a family. And before you think it, no we are not “luvvies,” there are no air kisses and “dahling-you-were-wonderfuls” every time we meet up. Although there is nothing wrong with telling people that they were good at what they do, which for some reason tends to be ridiculed in the theatre world – but not so in other activities or professions.
We are not professional actors; if we were, the ticket price would be six times what it is. No, among our group there are teachers, lawyers, students, full-time mums, and even – ahem! – taxi drivers, all doing something we love to the best of our varied abilities to produce something that might bring people together in a theatre for a joyous shared experience once in a while.
The week had its moments. One of the traditions is for boxes of chocolates to appear in the dressing rooms, and being the registered chocoholic that I am, I proceeded to tuck in. Having been brought up properly by my parents, I offered one to Sarah, our Mrs Molloy, who declined as chocolate isn’t good for the vocal chords and can affect your singing. She is quite right of course, but I have no will power which is why my clogged up throat allowed me to croak my way through “It Takes a Woman” – while later that night Sarah sang “Ribbons Down My Back” beautifully. My only defence is that my song was intended as a comedy interlude so I was meant to sound rough.
Our rehearsal schedule saw us visit many and varied places. The halls of a local school vibrated to the sound of “Elegance”; Wall Village Hall witnessed my attempt at dancing, and has yet to recover; Sarah’s children and dogs will take months to recover from my own and Ellen’s attempts to learn our lines while eating sausage sandwiches in her kitchen; and of course the Hexham Community Centre, which has been hosting most of our rehearsals for years, will breathe a sigh of relief now that thirty people aren’t clattering about on its polished wooden floor for two hours every Wednesday night.
One of the hardest things for me to do is to keep a serious expression in the face of humorous events. I think I managed it this week, at least nobody said otherwise. But when faced with Ellen as Dolly, telling me not to open a closet (which would have revealed “Cornelius” hiding from me) because “it’s too dangerous!” with the back of her hand across her forehead and a pained expression on her face, it’s difficult. Even more difficult when I called her “Mrs Molloy” when her name was “Mrs Levi”. I corrected myself but it was too late and we got a laugh from the audience that had nothing to do with the written script. But still I hung on to my stern expression. I think…
Ellen and Sarah would often rehearse their lines with a Bristolian accent, which gave the show a whole new feel. They would also change the lyrics to some of their songs, but thankfully none of those alternative lyrics made it to the stage. And I’m not going to repeat them here as some of them, well, they would’ve made a doctor blush.
On occasion we would be accompanied by children and animals. It is a cliche in theatre that you should never work with either, but I really enjoyed having them around. Rosie, who played “Minnie” to great comic effect, occasionally brought her dog, Jock, who seemed to be going for the “Best Behaved Dog in England” award as he sat and watched us rehearse. Sarah has two dogs, Lily – who is also in the running for the award – and Nellen, who isn’t. But how can you not love an excitable puppy?
Hayley’s daughter, April, was witness to many a rehearsal too, and won everyone’s hearts. Sarah’s children made an appearance in the school holidays, eating most of the biscuits when they could get away with it, playing and generally putting up with us all invading their space from time to time.
The dressing rooms were happy places. You can always guarantee that the old pantomime joke about knocking on the door and asking “are you decent?” and, on hearing the answer “yes” you reply “OK, I’ll come back later” resurfaces at every occasion. Okay, it’s usually me who says it, but I’m not the only one.
The men’s dressing room was a particularly nice place to be. There were four of us, surrounded by chocolate, in a space designed for six; apart from me there was Stu – who had stepped in to play Ambrose when his husband Ben, who had originally been Ambrose, had taken the part of Cornelius after the original Cornelius, Rob, had unfortunately broken his ankle. Stu was quietly studious and enjoying the chance to be back on stage after a long lay off. Ben never stopped smiling, which was very infectious. And then there was James, playing Barnaby, whose enthusiasm bubbled along unceasingly without dipping at any point in the week and whose knowledge of musicals is unrivalled by anyone in the society.
The Ladies and Gentlemen of the Chorus were all gathered together in much larger spaces. My part was mainly about the acting; learning lines, developing a character, wearing a silly hat and singing one song. The chorus however had it hard; there were lots of songs and choreography to be learned and I’m not sure I could’ve managed that. I think I got the long straw there.
On the Friday night of the show, some of the group went to Buongiorno’s Restaurant in Hexham for a celebratory pizza. Now, when we go out as a group, we don’t just sit down, eat the food and engage in small talk. We are all there because we love singing, and just because we were in a restaurant that wasn’t going to stop us, no siree! There were fifteen or so of us and we had the place to ourselves. I like to think that the waiting staff were delightfully amused and entertained by our impromptu demonstration of the love of singing. If they weren’t, they were too polite to say so. The highlight was Jim Wright’s song about a construction worker being injured by a bucket, beautifully delivered while the waitress made valiant attempts to clear the table around him. Jim has a lovely tenor voice, and like anyone in this group of friends, he’s not afraid to use it.
There were the occasional tense moments as there are in every family, especially as we approached Show Week. They arise from a genuine attempt to make sure that we put one a show that people will enjoy. After all, they are paying to watch us. But those moments were few and far between and very soon forgotten. It’s the laughter and friendships, along with learning obscure facts about leeches and a new appreciation of a good sausage sandwich that I will remember most. That and forgetting a line on the last night, which actually arrived at about 4:30 in the afternoon, as it was a matinee. To be honest with you, I was a little disconcerted as I had forgotten a line early on in that performance and it took a while to get over the shock as that’s rare for me. But it happens to everyone at some point.
However, by the time we arrived at the finale, and were hitting the last few notes, I got the old familiar almost overwhelming feeling of happiness that being part of something as wonderful as this brings. Not just because I had a principal role; it’s the same in whatever part I take in a production. We sound fantastic when we sing together, I could see my friend Clair conducting the orchestra for the first time ever and doing a great job of it (she would tell you otherwise, but she’s wrong), I was sure that our director Jude was going to be pleased with our efforts (she was) and I was surrounded by friends old and new, all doing something we love. And when the audience obviously loved it too, applauding and rising to their feet, the feeling was complete.
When I came off stage, Ian, our stage manager, told me that Palace had lost at home to Everton. And I didn’t care!
I went to get some fuel yesterday, at a petrol station in Prudhoe. The lady behind the counter did a double take before asking me if I had been on stage on Saturday.
“Indeed, I had that honour, dear lady,” I said (in my head. What I actually said was “yes”). She told me that she’d thoroughly enjoyed the show and was so glad that she’d decided to go.
I thanked her for coming, saying that I was really pleased she’d enjoyed it.
After all, that’s why we do it, isn’t it?
Steve's Journal 