Why are we pursuing our dreams? We want to be happy. But sometimes in the midst of trying so hard to do it right and make it work, we forget to relax, have a ball, and enjoy the sensational ride we set out to take. We don’t trust ourselves to make good decisions. We stew about making a mistake. I went through a time, as you’ll read below, when I lost sight of my happy place and fretted about flubbing up. Ironically, it happened during the happiest, snappiest No, No, Nanette number of all, “I Want to Be Happy.” Agonizing over outcomes sucked the joy out of the journey and created unnecessary problems. Worry and self doubt turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy. What a waste of good pleasure and merriment. Trust yourself to take the right steps and intend to be happy even if you don’t give a perfect performance. Remember, it was happiness you were really after in the first place.
Please enjoy your next excerpt from
Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl’s Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes
by Kristi Lynn Davis
Shortly after Gypsy opened, we returned to the rehearsal hall to begin work on our next show, No, No, Nanette. For about ten days, we rehearsed Nanette during the day while continuing to perform Gypsy at night. It was a busy time of round-the-clock rehearsing and performing. After completing our thirteen-show run of Gypsy at the Civic Theater, we moved to the Starlight Bowl outdoor amphitheater for technical rehearsal, followed by dress rehearsal, and, finally, performances of No, No, Nanette.
The Starlight Bowl, located in Balboa Park in San Diego, would be home to the final four shows of our summer season. Balboa Park, which claimed to be “the nation’s largest urban cultural park,” housed fifteen museums, the San Diego Zoo, and many other attractions in addition to the theatre, all set amidst lush gardens and beautiful Spanish Revival Architecture.
Moving from the rehearsal hall to the theatre was exciting not only due to the lovely change of venue, but also because we got our own dressing table and could settle in and make the place feel like home. The phrase “home is where you hang your hat” could never be more true than for performers whose gypsy lifestyle forces them to become adept at making wherever-they-are-at-the-moment feel like home. In a flurry, the mirrors above our dressing tables were taped with photos of friends, family, lovers, and pictures of ourselves in other shows. We could even leave a few non-valuable items there; I left my Gumby slippers, a water bottle, a coffee mug, and some make-up.
Performers also make whomever-they-are-working-with-at-the-time feel like instant family. If you look at performers’ photo albums, every photo shows them with their arms around people in big bear hugs grinning from ear to ear like they are best friends. In reality, they may have only met the people the day before. An actor can be sent on assignment to Boondocks, Idaho to perform with a group of completely unfamiliar cast members. “Okay,” she (or he) says, “This will be my family for the next four months, and this will be my home.” The assimilation happens that quickly.
Upon relocating to the theatre, my first mission was to run to the box office to reserve tickets for my friends and family and purchase a souvenir show shirt for myself. So exciting! The shirt became the uniform I’d wear to the theatre on show nights.
With tickets and the latest show shirts in my possession, I was ready to focus on the task at hand: tech rehearsal–the time when the crew, lighting designers, and sound engineers work their magic. Prior to this, I had no clue about tech crew and little contact with them. For some reason, during this particular rehearsal week, I suddenly noticed these men (and women) in black roaming about backstage. They weren’t hunting aliens like Will Smith’s Men in Black, but they did seem to be awfully busy doing something important. So self-absorbed and in my own little world was I, that I couldn’t have identified our stage manager in a line up or accurately described what a stage manager does. Did I think the show could just run itself? All I knew was the men in black were the ones who screamed at you during tech rehearsal when you were about to be killed by a heavy set piece zooming in like a locomotive.
Tech rehearsals tested my patience like waiting in a long, slow-moving line at the grocery store check-out counter. They consisted of endless hours standing around under the searing stage lights while the lighting designer and director worked out all the lighting cues as we proceeded through the show “cue to cue.” The incessant glare of lights in my eyes gave me a migraine, which I learned to counteract somewhat by wearing a baseball cap. The process became so dull that it was nearly impossible not to whisper and joke around with the other actors; we were all entertainers, for goodness sake. To the delight of the cast, a dancer overrun with ants in his pants might finally break out into a Michael Jackson impression doing the moonwalk and grabbing his crotch. We would all bust up laughing until the director shouted, “Stand still and be quiet, please!” It was like kindergarten when the teacher tells the whole class to sit and wait quietly, but after a while the kids just have to say something or do something goofy, because they can’t stand all the silence and boredom.
Tech rehearsal was also a likely time for injuries, because some directors required us to dance full out until the next change in lighting. Then we’d stop and stand there for so long that our muscles would freeze up, especially on cold days. After waiting forever for the lighting to be worked out, the director would have us resume dancing at performance level once again, but our muscles would still be in a deep freeze or completely asleep.
The schedule was particularly grueling, because we were there for several “ten-out-of-twelves”–ten hours out of a twelve hour day. It wasn’t as bad being outside, but when you do this inside in a dark theater, you begin to feel like a mole stuck deep underground. Moles, of course, seem perfectly happy with this arrangement, but I needed sunlight and some fresh air once in a while.
Tech rehearsals were also by far the most dangerous point in the theatrical process. The entire theatre should have been wrapped in yellow police caution tape. If we did venture into the danger zone, it would have behooved us to wear a hard hat with a miner’s lamp attached and steel-toed shoes and preferably flame retardant clothing. Backstage, there were black cables running everywhere underfoot. They were supposed to be taped down and marked with glow tape (tape that glows in the dark), but inevitably someone would end up tripping over a wayward cord while running to make an entrance. Stairs were also supposed to be marked with glow tape so that when the lights were off backstage we’d be able to see the edge and avoid tumbling down to our death, or worse, embarrassment. Glow tape was our friend! Even scarier, sometimes “pyro” (pyrotechnics) was used for special effect, so we needed to be prepared to “stop, drop and roll” to put ourselves out should we get too close to open flames.
The most hazardous safety issues, however, commonly involved the set pieces and overhead drops flying in and out at rapid pace. These scene changes could be so perilous for those in their path, that the backstage “choreography” became every bit as important as the on stage choreography. If we didn’t know where to be and where not to be backstage at every moment in the show, we could get bowled over by a massive set piece or have a seven-hundred-pound drop dropped on our head. We had to be alert and have our heads up at all times. We hoped, should we find ourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, that the crew would yell or push us out of the way in time, but it was really our responsibility to steer clear. This was the first time it dawned on me that tech rehearsals could mean the end of my life if I weren’t vigilant and careful.
Back to the show: No, No, Nanette was a 1920s, glitzy, cheesy, tap dance extravaganza first performed on Broadway in 1925 and famous for the songs “Tea for Two” and “I Want to Be Happy.” The show features Nanette, a young lady who wants to go to Atlantic City to indulge her wild side but is told “No, No, Nanette” by her companions in an annoying attempt to keep her wholesome and respectable. (Kind of reminded me of how my Midwestern friends implored me not to move to kooky California.) It’s a crazy comedy of romantic entanglements and misunderstandings all set in that silly, early twentieth-century musical theatre world where everyone acts like a doofus.
Lucky for me, this was a huge dance show with a chorus of eleven guys and eleven girls. It was so sugary sweet and sappy it made your teeth ache to watch it. The Los Angeles Times said that while the show technically had a plot, it was really about “spangles and beads, tap dancing, dancing through hoops (literally), dancing on beach balls and glorious candy store colors that drape its chorus from hats to spats and be-ribboned feet.” An accurate assessment.
“Peach on the Beach” (Kristi’s on the right)
I especially loved the exuberant group tapping in “I Want to Be Happy” and the soft-shoe partner dancing with frilly parasols in “Tea for Two.” In one number, called “Peach on the Beach,” we all dressed in old-fashioned, colorful bathing suits, and some of the girls had to walk atop giant wooden beach balls. That was one balancing act I’m glad I wasn’t chosen for, because I certainly didn’t have the balls to do it, and I wanted to stay injury free for the three remaining shows.
My biggest headache was “Two Many Rings Around Rosie”—a song about how having too many boyfriends will “never get Rosie a (wedding) ring.” In this number, we danced with giant hula-hoop-like hoops to represent the ring theme. The hoops weren’t my problem, however. It was the blasted hat toss. Although never very good at Frisbee, I was somehow chosen to Frisbee-toss a barber-shop-quartet-style hat to one of the leading men all the way across the entire length of the stage. The rest of his choreography involved the hat, so it was imperative that he catch it. Talk about a pressure position! Every night, I’d wind up and watch that hat fly across the stage, praying to the theatre gods to let it land somewhere within his reach. Sometimes it would arc over the orchestra pit threatening to decapitate the conductor. (He was such a pro and so focused on the music that he never skipped a beat. Whether he was ducking for an airborne chapeau or being buzzed by a bumble bee, his baton kept the orchestra playing in perfect time. My hat was off to him.) Amazingly, I never once missed my intended target, but my nerves were on edge every show.
“Two Many Rings Around Rosie” seemed to be the directors’ downfall as well. They re-choreographed it over and over and over. We finally had to quit and go with what we had because the show was opening, and we were out of rehearsal time. The directors weren’t getting what they wanted and were frustrated. So was I; I had a hissy fit every time the number was changed. What’s the lesson? Don’t marry the choreography. Expect changes up until and sometimes after opening night. Even directors and choreographers have writer’s block, so to speak. It doesn’t pay to get all worked up over it.
No, No, Nanette finale (Kristi’s second from the left)
Fortunately, the vivacious finale more than made up for the “Rosie” debacle. It was a dazzling dance party made all the more spectacular by the bubbles spraying out of bubble machines à la Lawrence Welk, as we tapped our way to the end of the show in our colorful, sequined flapper dresses. It was a delightful, effervescent champagne finish.
Due to the abundance of dance numbers, the ensemble had loads of costume changes, including hats and bows and wigs. Between numbers we all stampeded en masse down the stairs to our dressing rooms to quickly change clothes. Between the onstage dancing and the offstage sprinting, it was a great overall workout—better than interval training at the gym.
We also had a ton of choreography to learn. I panicked one day when I realized my head no longer knew what steps came next, especially for the tap numbers. Before each show and before each number, I tried to review the choreography in my head, but it was pointless; the choreography had already migrated from my brain to my muscles. At first, when performing, I’d have to make a concerted effort to remember the step sequences. After enough rehearsals, however, I danced on auto pilot and couldn’t have told you in words what came next even if you offered me a million dollars. When another performer asked me, “What comes after the kick ball change?” I replied, “I don’t know. Let me find out.” Then I had to do the dance in fast forward and let my body show me, because the show had settled in my muscle memory.
My brain had delegated the job to my muscles, thereby freeing up precious space in my mind for new information. I was then free to think about other, more important matters like what to buy my friend for her birthday, where to go out for drinks after the show, or whether there were any cute guys in the audience. The process became second nature, like driving a car. Once you’ve done it enough, you can listen to the radio, talk to passengers, drink a smoothie, make phone calls, and fix your lipstick while the car seems to drive itself.
The problems came when I got nervous or distracted, or second-guessed my muscles. Thinking about the choreography too much sabotaged my performance. Once during “I Want to Be Happy” I started to consciously wonder what came next, and I didn’t know what to do. It was terrifying, and I had to glance at my castmates next to me to get back in step. I learned that I had to quiet my mind, relax, and trust my muscles to do their job.
The lead actors in No, No, Nanette awed me, as did anyone who could really sing, act, and dance, for that matter. Alan Young was one of the leads in our production, and he had been a real, live television star! From 1961-1966 he starred as Wilbur Post in the popular Mister Ed series about a talking horse by the same name who only talked to Wilber and liked to cause trouble. I was thrilled to introduce my parents to him, as they used to watch his TV program back in the old days. Alan was very kind to my parents and in front of them said to me, “You should keep performing. You have what it takes to make it.” I was honored to have his seal of approval.
Two of our other leads were none other than the directors’ son and his wife. Sure it was nepotism, but they were both incredible talents and well suited to their parts. The daughter-in-law had given birth to two children and was still able to wear short shorts and wow the cast with her perfect legs. I was inspired. Maybe having babies wouldn’t ruin my figure forever. If she can do it, why can’t I? Eventually the couple went on to star in Crazy for You in London’s West End. Another young female lead in our show went on to star as Eponine on Broadway in Les Miserable. At least two of the ensemble members went to Broadway as well. So I was thrown in the midst of a group of very talented people with bright futures ahead of them.
The Starlight Bowl was a unique place in which to perform, not only because of its setting within Balboa Park, but also because it sat in the middle of the San Diego Airport flight path. As the story goes, some time after the Starlight Bowl was built, the San Diego airport ended up redirecting all incoming flights directly over the theatre. I’m sure the musical theatre directors were none too thrilled. Of course, a few singers and an orchestra were no match for the deafening jet noise. It was impossible to perform as airplane after airplane roared overhead. Audience members would have been highly disgruntled had they bought tickets to Oklahoma hoping to be moved to tears by Curly and Laurey singing their tender, romantic love duet “People Will Say We’re In Love” only to see the star couple open their mouths and hear nothing but jet engines. They’d surely want to boo, throw tomatoes, and demand their money back.
The ingenious solution was a stoplight system visible to performers at the back of the orchestra pit. As long as the light was green, the show proceeded normally. A yellow light warned that a plane was approaching, and we should prepare to stop. A red light signaled that all performers were to “freeze.” We watched the orchestra conductor for the exact cut off point. Whenever possible, he tried to pick the end of a musical phrase or an appropriate moment in the dance, hopefully not while our partners were holding us up in a lift.
We’d be frolicking around stage, singing and tap dancing and suddenly catch a glimpse of a plane in the distance. Oh boy, here it comes. The jet noise would become audible, “I want to be happy…” (triple time step right, triple time step left). The yellow light would come on, “but I can’t be happy…” (triple time step right, add arm swing, triple time step left, add arm swing and move one spot to the left). We’d try to discreetly take a peek at the conductor without breaking character “till I make you happy…” (triple time step right, bigger arms, triple time step left, bigger arms, and move one more spot to the left). The conductor would bring his baton to a sweeping halt. “…too!” We’d strike a pose using whatever dance move we were in at that moment.
If we remained there for an inordinately long amount of time, the situation could get pretty harry, depending on the pose we were in. After a while our muscles began to quiver with fatigue. (Try lunging deeply on your right leg with one arm up above your head and one straight out to the side with your head and eyes looking skyward. Hold that pose for a full minute.) And we’d have to remain frozen with whatever goofy face or toothy grin we had plastered on at the pausing point. If I got stuck gazing directly into the eyes of another performer I’d feel like I was in a childhood staring contest not wanting to blink or laugh first. The entire wait we’d have to watch the conductor with our peripheral vision to see when he waved his baton and the green light “Go!” signal returned to resume the show. We’d try to remember where we’d left off, but the lag time could seriously disrupt the flow if we were already dancing on autopilot.
Some nights we stopped and started again and again. It seemed like every few bars of music we’d have to freeze, like someone was constantly hitting the video pause button. It wasn’t unusual for audience members to become annoyed, perhaps a reason the company struggled with patrons.
The other challenge had to do with dancing outdoors and braving the elements. In June, San Diego was loaded with, appropriately named, June bugs. June bugs were half-inch long, brown, winged, hard-shelled beetles that looked pretty scary the first time I saw them. They’d fly in our faces while we were dancing, but we couldn’t swat them away, or we’d distract the audience and mess up the choreography. Those insects seemed to know that we were helpless and took advantage of our situation. Accidentally, I got revenge on plenty of those creepy crawlies. When tap dancing, I’d hear an awful crunching sound beneath my feet and know another one bit the dust. Or I’d do a cartwheel, my hands crushing their brittle shells. Yuk! Believe me I tried, but I couldn’t always avoid them. The temperature outdoors was also out of our control; we might sweat to death or freeze to death. There wasn’t much we could do about it.
Working at The Bowl definitely offered its pluses as minuses, one big plus being the live orchestra, which, of course, is better than working with a dead orchestra and infinitely better than working with recorded music. Dancing and singing to that full, rich, magnificent sound was a real treat. As performers, we relied on a competent conductor for the right tempos and on competent musicians for a clean sound. A change in tempo either faster or slower than what we practiced with in rehearsal made a considerable difference in the ease or difficulty of performing the choreography. As such, the orchestra could enhance or botch up the show. Regardless, the first rehearsal with the orchestra was always a big day. The glorious sound infused us with much energy and excitement.
Opening night was also a thrill, not only because it was our first night to perform for a real audience and hear their response, but because opening night meant presents, flowers, and a party. The performers passed out cards and small gifts to the other cast members. I could barely afford to pay my bills, but that didn’t stop me from making cutesy little trinkets for everyone. For No, No, Nanette, I filled plastic champagne glasses with party streamers and bubble gum balls to look like glasses of bubbly champagne. Many cast members received bouquets of flowers from friends, family, and lovers. It almost didn’t seem fair that we got gifts for simply doing a job we loved to do—but that was tradition in the theatre world. For closing night, we all chipped in to get presents for the conductor, director, choreographer, and stage manager. It was a love fest from beginning to end.
Life in Southern Cali was moving along splendidly. Then, one morning around five a.m., I was awakened by the alarm clock from hell: an earthquake. Good morning, Mother Nature! My entire two-story building was grinding back and forth like we were being carried on ocean waves. My heart beat wildly as I waited for the wild ride to subside. I never slept well after that, always anticipating another tremor. Talk about feeling out of control. While California was certainly famous for its entertainment scene, it was also notorious for natural disasters. Earthquakes came with the territory. I was going to have to shake, rattle, and roll with the punches.
Don’t worry. Be happy. Thanks for reading.
Shake, rattle, and roll on,
Kristi
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