I love the PME fundraiser. It's the one time each season when a whole bunch of us get to share our inner-divaness, sing our favorite songs, and discover and admire the talent among our fellow peemers. The Big Night features an entire show of new, old and sometimes unusual repertoire, an occasional costume, some fairly uncomplicated choralography and a bit of witty patter, ending with what we hope are wild applause.
It all begins with an Audition. No, the capital A is not a typo. Auditions are a big deal, even for seasoned performers. Imagine there's this Committee of your peers (five in this case, plus our music director, Lynne) sitting there, mostly smiling at you, listening earnestly, really wanting to like your song -- but they have this challenging job to do which is to put together, bit by bit, an amazing program. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The first and almost hardest part is picking the repertoire you're going to put up there for Scrutiny. (That S definitely needs to be a capital). The choices are entirely up to the auditionee, based on whatever the theme of the show is. This year, it's about love or the lack thereof, so the field is pretty wide open.
I search for months through my dog-eared collections of Gershwin and The Best of Broadway, rifle through my piano bench stuffed with photocopies of solos gone by, none of which seem to have all the pages, and finally go online to get some of the newer stuff. (This is deeply cool because you can get a lot of sheet music in different keys, on the spot, downloaded right into your computer). Then, I spread everything out on the dining room table and cull. I agonize. I whine. Maybe I am too old to sing this one anymore…can I get through this one without being reminded of that horrible ex-boyfriend in 1987…when will I get over my fixation with channeling Julie Andrews? (The answer to this last one is -- never!) I give up and call my singing partner, Kim Keeton, who is also PME's program committee liaison, and pick her brain. She is her usual paragon of patience and a fount of good ideas, and finally, the list is complete: a duet with Kim, a trio with Kim and Angie, a trio with Becca and Victor, a trio with Peggy and Kevin, and two solos. OK, then. That is until my dear friend, Lucia, over a couple of glasses of wine, plays me this duet called Therapy which her astoundingly talented daughter, Emily, has just performed. I KNOW I have to do it. There is no contest -- Kevin is the only choice for the guy-part so I gently (sort of) twist his arm and he says yes, if I insist. I do. That makes seven altogether. An embarrassment of riches. I am not embarrassed. What does this tell you about me?
Finding rehearsal time outside of our regular Monday nights becomes the next challenge. This requires coordinating multiple schedules including those of our accompanist, Kymry, who is a masterful pianist and really in demand right now. This requires patience. Oh, that. Somehow, we find a few spare half hours that works for everyone and astoundingly, very few of the songs need more than one session.
Meanwhile, the audition schedule is filling up. A week before the first night of auditions, there are over 50(!) songs on the list. Kim tells the group that the Committee can only use maybe 23 of them. Wow.
At this point in the game, I am always equal parts determined and resigned. I know that even if I knock every one of my tunes out of the park, which is pretty unlikely, there's no way most of them are going to get in. Still, I've got to give it everything I have and not think about what happens after. Be in the moment. Savor the experience. Yeah, right.
PME holds open auditions so we can cheer for our peemer-buddies. I've always thought this was a goofy idea, but on the first night of auditions I'm grateful. When I arrive, there are a few folks in the audience and the Committee is assembled in front, with their pencils poised and their ears attuned. (I've been on this Committee several times, and you couldn't ask for a nicer group of people to vet you. Still, I know what they are going to have to do. And it will involve me. And my songs. Sigh).
I show up right before Starting Here, Starting Now, which features Peggy, Kevin and I. I love singing with these two terrific musicians and I love the song, too. It goes well. We smile at each other. One down. Therapy is next. Right before we start, Kevin tells me that he has worked out some "moves" to go with the song. It will be a surprise, he says. You'll love them, he says. This worries me. Kevin can be a wild man. He has obviously taken temporary leave of his senses. He has forgotten that our greatest fear is that we will would look at each other at some point and get completely hysterical (Therapy is really funny). He throws me a curve -- and that's putting it mildly -- at the very end. It's unbelievably silly. The audience laughs and somehow we keep it together. Whew. This is good sign.
I sit down. My heart is beating hard, but not uncontrollably, also a good sign.
Kevin sings a solo next. Talk about a study in contrasts. It knocks me out. It's so beautiful that I actually stop thinking about ME and just enjoy listening. Then he sings a duet with Victor, also breathtakingly lovely. I want to kiss them both afterward, it's that good.
There is supposed to be a break after, but the Committee asks if I would like to do the next song (I have three more that evening, all in a row). I'm feeling so Zen after hearing those boys sing that I decide to go for it -- But Not for Me, one of my two solos. It is the first Gershwin song I ever learned, lovingly taught to me by my dad, a formidable jazz pianist who was, at the time, in the throes of a break-up with one of his girlfriends. Dad was really good at being maudlin, but he was always so charming about it that no one minded. He's been gone now for more than 20 years, but I'm so calm I can almost feel his presence in the room. I look at the audience and see Victor mouthing the words. It turns out it's one of his favorites. Too bad he's not on the committee, but at least I know that someone likes it.
After the break, Kim and I do a duet from "Jekyll and Hyde." I look at her for dramatic affect at the end of the piece and forget the last note. Splat. She tries not to wince. Lynne says something about it needing to be higher. I want to die, after which I mysteriously self-combust, a mysterious reminder of an audition gone sideways. No such luck, there's one more. It can only go up from here, right? I am praying silently.
How apt -- it's What I Did for Love from "A Chorus Line." I close my eyes for a half second and think about the character. Kymry is waiting for my high sign. They're all waiting. And the light goes on. The character is in the midst of Auditions. Oh duh. And she's singing about love and believing in yourself and putting it out there for the world to see. I feel like a Kodak commercial. I plant my feet, take a deep breath and away I go. "Kiss today goodbye and point me toward tomorrow….we did what we had to do…won't forget…can't regret…what I did for love…" Amen to that.
Kate Berenson
January, 2008