Behind the Scenes at the Musical Theater Revue
In our 60s costumes for Hairspray’s “You Can’t Stop the Beat” with Clara and Alyssa backstage
I let out a relieved sigh as the heavy oak door to the Magnuson Theater lobby swung open, slightly out of breath from lugging a backpack full of everything a performer could possibly need across campus. The carpeted coziness of the burgundy and gold lobby flashed by before the opening of the stage door revealed a familiar sight: remaining smoke from stage-crafting tools curled toward the black walls and ceiling, performing choreography of its own as the scent of chopped wood danced through the room. Clad in black, the tech team dutifully complied with the stage manager’s preparation requests. As usual, they bopped along to some good ‘ol pre-performance hype songs, which normally range from Disney to old pop favorites. Glancing at the empty seats, a customary shiver ascends my spine as a picture of all the friendly faces that will fill the space comes to mind. As expected, the heartbeat quickens, teeth begin to chatter, and legs quake with energy and anticipatory anxiety that courses through the entire body and threatens to steal the breath. Filled with pure nerves, I am overtaken by the desire to put on the best performance possible not just for the sake of loved ones attending, but for people who may be having a bad day, or maybe it’s their first live theater experience, or perhaps the program is special to them, or they may have just wandered in by chance.
Blinded by bright dressing room lights, I plunk my bulky backpack down and let a satisfied smile slip. Arriving just early enough to snag a coveted spot at the mirror with a chair before the 1pm call is always a treat. As dancers filter in, the fire hazard increases as curling irons are flicked on, hairspray clouds accumulate, and space becomes even more of a precious commodity. The best way to describe backstage is a happy hell. Each friend group takes advantage of the prime lighting situation by snapping a few pictures and boomerangs in costume, forming a cute obstacle in the middle of the floor. Catching a whiff of the sweetly pungent smell of hairspray is always a pleasant paradox. Its sharpness tickles the nostrils and permeates the back of the throat, but encourages nostalgic remembrance of a lifetime of backstage shenanigans. Soundtracks from musicals are usually the hype songs of choice, and it is customary for all to join in regardless of one’s familiarity with the lyrics. However, most dancers are enthusiastic musical fans and manage to turn what little dressing space they have into a Broadway stage.
When it comes to readying oneself for a performance, there are two large categories of people, with others in between. First is the prepared one that does their hair and makeup before leaving their house, yet dutifully shows up promptly at call time. This type of performer can usually be found wrapped in warm layers in the quietest corner with homework out and headphones in. Or, still wrapped in various garments, they are in the nearest hallway doing a specialized warm-up or marking through their choreography. The second type of performer arrives with a bare face, hair thrown into a messy bun, and carrying bags full of hair and makeup tools to complete their entire routine at the theater. They are usually unhurried and chat casually with their comrades between swipes of makeup. While their laissez faire attitude can be unsettling to the first type of performer, their calmness is enviable. A few trusted dancers voluntarily serve as the designated hair curlers and makeup artists for anyone who may request assistance, usually the second type of performer. The lengthy process of making sure the hairstyle is secured with several ounces of hairspray allows for much gossip and many giggles to be exchanged. With each styled strand, the bond between the stylist and the stylee grows stronger.
Mirror selfie with Lindsey while doing math homework in the dressing room during tech/dress rehearsal
Chaos erupts when the techie with the deepest, loudest voice shouts, “all dancers to the stage for warm-up!” Dancers emerge from the dressing room trenches with hair half curled and everything but their lipstick done, a humorous sight. Four lines are formed and the dancers find themselves at the mercy of whoever happens to be leading the warm-up that day. Will there be hundreds of jumping jacks or runs in place? Or will it be a calm stretch with plenty of attention given to spine rolls and hamstrings with the option of stretching whatever else is needed? One can usually tell by the gleam in the leader’s eye. A deliciously obnoxious pop throwback blasts from the sound booth, hand-picked by the stage manager. Many cringe at the memories of middle school dances that the song conjures, but wholeheartedly join in the sing-shouting. As is customary, a Gonzaga warm-up must consist of a grapevine and a clap thrown in somewhere. After the usual stretching series borrowed from Jazz class, several announcements, and sometimes a prayer circle, dancers are released back to the dressing rooms and find their muscles quickly cooling. The famed Gonzaga warm-up is thus more of a morale exercise.
A hush falls over the dressing rooms as “the voice of God” (aka the assistant stage manager) calls for places over the speaker system that sometimes functions. Silent smiles and thumbs-up are exchanged to the dancers who make their way to the wings. A word that dancers commonly exchange before taking the stage is “Merde,” French for sh*t. The equivalent to actors saying “break a leg,” the expression originated in nineteenth century France when horse-drawn carriages resulted in piles of manure in front of the Palais Garnier. According to Dance Spirit Magazine, saying "merde" became a way to tell your fellow dancers to have a good show for the packed audience. As my lips utter the phrase, I feel connected to the generations of performers before me. The superstition adds a welcome sense of control to my performance experience.
As dancers return to the dressing rooms gasping for breath after their numbers, a chorus of whispered “how-was-its” erupt from those still waiting to go on. Turning around in their chairs in front of the mirrors, listeners let out a few stifled giggles about funny mishaps described by those fresh from the stage. As the song two dances before mine begins, I rise from my own chair and begin more of the dreaded jumping jacks. After a few spine roll-ups, I run through the dance in my head one last time. Although unfounded, the fear of somehow forgetting the choreography after extensive rehearsal is almost unshakeable. A “Hairspray, places” from the assistant stage manager alerts us to make our own way to the wings, a welcome thing after a long waiting period, but also somewhat dreaded. The eerie blue light illuminating the wings just enough causes almost unbearable jitters that are only somewhat relieved by sharing reassuring smiles with one’s dance mates. After a few hops to let out anxious energy in a last-ditch attempt to warm the body adequately, it is time to stumble through the blackout to our beginning positions. Just before the lights go up, anxiety threatens to swallow me, but spits me back out as soon as the warm stage lights hit my skin and the music begins.
Whatever anxiety, sick feeling, injury pain, or other negative feelings one may have before performing is eased by the drug that is the adrenaline of being onstage. A megawatt smile, hopefully genuine, can be seen stretching across every dancers’ face. One may even hear performers complaining of a sore jaw after the show due to their “Disney princess” expressions. Muscle memory takes over, moving dancers’ limbs like puppets as they bask in the stage lights joyfully, either completely immersed in the story or scanning the audience for loved ones to project to. I struggle between looking audiences dead in the eye and looking slightly past them--the vulnerability of the former can be unsettling though slightly fun for both parties, and often causes me to lose focus. After the final pose is hit and we breathlessly jog offstage, all the anxiety I may have felt beforehand has melted away and an energized calmness takes over as the finale commences.
The idea of perfection is abandoned in the final dance that was most likely thrown together a few days before the production. This allows for one to completely let go and “play” onstage. An overwhelming sense of gratitude and togetherness charges the group. As a graduating senior, I savor every last moment as I do not know whether the real world will afford me performance opportunities any time soon. Families and friends whoop and clap vigorously, and several bows are taken before the herd stampedes off stage. Belongings are gathered as quickly as possible so families are not kept waiting, and dancers emerge from the dressing rooms to be enveloped in hugs and flowers from loved ones. Joy radiates through the space. Whether it stems from a sense of accomplishment or just the fact that a large post-performance meal is imminent does not matter. There is no place I would rather be.
Post-performance photo with my family, best friend, and his parents
