Abortion

Upright Citizens Brigade has closed the doors on its theatre and training center in New York and since I was there at the very beginning, it seems high time – did the news come on 4/20? – I tell the story. This might not seem specific to our world of musicals, but sit tight and I’ll draw the connections towards the end.

See what I did there? Anyone who’s done a Harold is nodding right now. A Harold is a type of long-form improvised play. Towards the beginning there are three seemingly separate plots, with no apparent relationship to each other. Towards the dénouement, connections emerge, and the audience comes to understand the three threads as part of a larger theme. And did I mention it’s all hysterically funny?

For this story to make any sense at all – and I don’t know it will – you have to know what a Harold is.

A quarter century ago, it’s fair to say, nobody in New York knew about the Harold. None had been performed on our stages. Improvised shows existed, but these were revue-like: individual scenes that each began with a suggestion from the audience. Part of the experience was an understanding of how challenging it is to be an improvisor, to make something of the suggestions, which were often intentionally difficult.

I’d been dragged, kicking and screaming, into New York’s improv community by a tall redhead named Karen Herr and she had an old friend named Ian Roberts. Roberts was doing improv in Chicago, performing at Second City and the ImprovOlympic and learning from master improv-teacher Del Close. When Del died, a few years later, it was revealed he’d bequeathed his skull to a theatre to be used as poor Yorrick in productions of Hamlet. But I digress.

Ian Roberts, along with two guys named Matt and the girlfriend of one of them, Amy Poehler, was regularly performing Harolds in Chicago. Del Close had invented the form. The quartet gave themselves a name and a logo that seemed to refer to a political movement, but did it? They were the Upright Citizens Brigade, and Karen got wind of what they were doing.

At the White Horse Tavern, Karen told me she was starting an improv group and I had to be a part of it. I told her that playing piano for improv was something I’d done as a teenager, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it again. She said she wasn’t interested in my playing piano; I needed to be on stage, improvising this thing that nobody had ever done in New York, the Harold. Among the other players would be the cue card holder at Saturday Night Live. Seemed legit. I joined what became known as The White Horse Experiment.

Our group took what amounted to a class field trip to Chicago, where we saw shows at ImprovOlympic and Second City, attended a party at The Annoyance, and, most memorably, spent a lot of time with UCB. The fab four were considering moving to New York. They dipped their toe into the Croton aqueduct-supplied water by spending a month teaching free classes, just to see whether they could convey the wonders of the Harold to New Yorkers. And what New Yorkers did they use as Guinea pigs? The White Horse Experiment.

At the end of our Chicago visit, UCB told us of their intention to move and Karen said, “Great! We’ll prepare the way.” But here’s where things get really crazy. What did “prepare the way” really mean? UCB had no website, no mailing list, no publicity staff. Karen and I and comedian Bill Chott stood on a Greenwich Village street corner, with the busker’s typical open guitar case at our feet. We may have had a bullhorn.

“People of New York! Prepare yourselves! The Upright Citizens Brigade is coming! Enjoy a free Scooter Pie!”

The guitar case contained no coins. Just Scooter Pies. Until we gave them all out. For this was how we prepared the way.

Once Ian, Amy, Matt and Matt arrived, word got around a lot quicker. Something funny was going on. It was improvised, but only involved one audience suggestion, right at the beginning. It had intricately-drawn characters doing improbable but risible things. And, by the end, things tied together in a satisfying way.

UCB, before long, had an inexhaustible supply of students, young people dying to learn the ways of the Harold. And they converted a tiny strip joint into their own theatre in Chelsea. Every Sunday night, they filled their stage with funny people for improvised mayhem. This helped word get around. They were a “happening” – the thing cool young people would attend every week.

The funny people who joined these shows were not household names – then. They were geniuses who’d not yet been discovered. Tina Fey. Stephen Colbert. Other people you’d see on TV a few years later. Of course that could be said of my UCB pals. Amy went to Saturday Night Live and on to Parks and Recreation. Matt Walsh went on to Veep. Matt Besser and Ian Roberts went on to countless other appearances in front of the camera. One night I showed up at the Red Room to run lights for them, but those numerous other gigs had prevented all four from appearing. So, knowing I knew the Harold, they threw me on stage. So I can proudly state I was on stage as an actor in a UCB show.

At The Ballroom, though, I was on stage as a musician when a short-form improv host told the audience they were going to improvise a song based on something that happened to an audience member that day. Unfortunately, the person chosen had an awful experience, one that couldn’t possibly be made fun of. So, the host picked someone else, and the audience could see why. However, the someone else had also undergone a particularly tragic day. The host said, “Folks, I don’t think you want to hear a song based on that, so I’m going to go with one more person, and I promise you, we’ll make a song out of it, whatever it is.” By now, I suspect you see where this is going. The third person had an even-more-impossible to songify occurrence that day (the title of this piece), and yet we sang. But the whole thing was fake; I’d pre-written the song with Matt Walsh, hoping to fool people. We did.

I’m proud to have been one of the very first students UCB taught in New York. Over the years, their school trained an entire generation of mirth-makers. Kate McKinnon, Donald Glover, Aziz Ansari, Nick Kroll, Ilana Glazer and Abbi Jacobson, for starters. Who’s like them? Damn few.

Calmato

Zoologists sometimes concern themselves with a species’ ability to mate in captivity. Much on the mind of musical theatre, right now, is whether new musical theatre can be created in captivity. I can only speak to my own experience, and, in so doing, I’ll reveal something of my process.

You hear certain individuals have too much time on their hands. With a daughter suddenly with no school to go to, and a wife who works from home and insists on absolute quiet and no interruptions, time that used to be devoted to writing has been whisked away. There are two issues and I’ve faced an onslaught of information about them. One is the common parent’s plight of how to educate a young ‘un. I’ve collected so much advice in this area, I’m overwhelmed, and my daughter views our confinement as an opportunity to play a certain computer game night and day. The other issue is particular to this world of music: How do you hold a rehearsal via teleconference when there’s a time lag? I’ve two casts that I’m working with, weekly, and some people overlap. The first project, which was always supposed to go in front of an audience in late April, is a performance class. Mostly, individuals have solos. And the plan now is to assemble a video of everyone performing. But there are a couple of chorus numbers, and getting everyone to sing together is a tricky bit of engineering.

Rehearsing my new musical, The Influencer, presents far more complex challenges. I’m to blame, in a sense, because I wrote some fairly complicated numbers. Those were all written in January, when we had every expectation we’d be meeting in person for months. The scheduled performance, in mid-June, is still on the calendar as I write this. But a decision might be made to turn a stage musical into a movie and I don’t know much about how that might work.

Ten years ago I wrote script and lyrics for a quickly-made movie, but, as writer, I can’t say I learned much about the technical aspects. And it’s likely much has changed in a decade. Do you still have to punch out the sprockets?

I’ve been using Summer Loving, the well-loved ensemble from Grease, as an example of how this is nightmarish.

Suppose you wanted to assign the parts to a group.

Girls: Tell me more, tell me more
Girl One: How much dough did he spend?
Boys: Tell me more, tell me more
Boy One: Could she get me a friend?

In a shared space, I’d have no trouble getting people to sing this. Part of what I’d do is I’d make eye contact with the people who are supposed to sing, while I bring out their parts on the piano. (That is, playing their notes louder than the rest of the accompaniment.) I might even conduct by nodding my head. But my cast is too big to fit on the screen, and of course there’s no two-way eye contact. Sound can’t really come from two different microphones in two different places. Suppose one singer sings a wrong note. How can I determine who the culprit is?

So that’s a taste of the task of musical director in rehearsal. But the main thing I’ve done since we all crawled into our respective caves March 13 is write new songs for the two new musicals slated to open in June. On March 23 came the inevitable news that one would be postponed until October, thus lifting the pressure to complete it. But before confinement I’d led the pace that kills. Two whole scores to write; two new shows playing the same month: Who does that?

Steve Trzaska, star of one of the shows

All of 2020, so far, I’ve been impressively productive. And, in my mind at least, I’d shift gears, facilitating creativity. When one show threw up roadblocks, I’d turn to the other. When that show posed a knotty problem, I’d announce, not lying, that I needed to attend to the other. There was much work to do, and work got done.

I’m writing these words in the middle of the night, and I’ve battled insomnia throughout these dreadful times. I don’t think explanation is required here: anxiety about the future, especially since my wife and I work in the entertainment world – hell, I’m shocked anyone can sleep a wink. But I keep pads by the beds, and not an hour ago I was dreaming of a song. It was in the key of B, and I can see the shape of the melody. And getting up in the middle of the night is a quiet time – my daughter is never quiet. It’s a breeding ground for creativity; I’m determined to make good use of every minute.

On the nightstand pad right now is a song called I Got a Goal; it’s for the postponed musical. And the song is joyous, a giddiness borne of truth. I feel blessed to have these projects, and to have, for the time being, a job. I keep hearing of people with too much time on their hands. And of course there’s that soul-crushing rumor that Shakespeare wrote King Lear while in quarantine from a plague. Nobody’s Shakespeare. We should feel free to do nothing, or come up with a show that’s not as good as Lear. Or shorter.

Elizabeth and Wayne

You might think I’d have enough time on my hands to write obituaries in advance, which is something newspapers traditionally do on slow news days. And so many of the musical theatre writers I admire are so old, you never know when I’ll need to rush to publish one of those sad things. But the five old dudes who immediately come to mind – Sheldon Harnick (95), Lee Adams (95), John Kander (93), Charles Strouse (91) and Stephen Sondheim (90) – will be celebrated in all sorts of places when they go. You don’t need me to eulogize such obvious heroes.

On April Fool’s I learned that the current pestilence has taken the life of a musical theatre writer I had a great deal of admiration for, Adam Schlesinger (52). I don’t know a whole lot about him, and he only had one musical on Broadway (so far, there are at least two in the works). Then it occurs to me that you’ve probably never heard of him, and that makes him more worthy of discussion than the well-known nonagenarians listed above.

Schelsinger’s measure of fame derives from a different field, as one of the clever folk behind the much-admired rock band, Fountains of Wayne. Their song, Stacy’s Mom, made a splash in 2003, and got a Grammy nomination.

When I heard he was writing a Broadway musical, I had my typical reflex. I loathe it when rock stars decide they’ll try their hand at the theatre. It’s so plainly stupid to me, the notion that the ability to create a pop song means you’ve some idea how to craft a song for the stage. They’re such different animals.

But Adam Schlesinger beat those odds. He had a knack for delivering punch lines, in pop, special material, Broadway and Hollywood. So, the first song of his you might have heard was the sprightly title song from the Tom Hanks-directed movie, That Thing You Do. And my mind goes to how the writing assignment must have looked. First, you’re working for the best-loved of Hollywood stars, here directing his first feature. The plot involves a small-town band that makes it to the big time in the early sixties, all on the strength of a single number which you’re going to have to come up with. It must embrace the time period, be exactly the sort of merry pop that could take kids far in those palmier days. And the audience has to buy it, that is, truly believe that this is a good-enough song to be a ticket to the top of the charts.

Me, I get familiar with songwriters’ names when I see them at the top of a piece of sheet music. So, one day, someone put on my piano something from a new musical that had not yet opened on Broadway. It bore the memorable title, Girl, Can I Kiss You With Tongue? and was utterly hysterical. I knew two things: I wanted to see the rest of the musical, and I should memorize the authors’ names because they were so clearly up-and-comers.

The lyricist on that was one David Javerbaum, who, at the time, was America’s chief jokester, as head writer for Jon Stewart’s Daily Show.

And the Broadway musical, Cry-Baby, was based on a John Waters film. This was quick on the heels of Hairspray, a much-heralded hit based on another flick by the insouciant Baltimorean. Here’s the thing: I can’t stand Hairspray because I think most of its songs attempt to be funny, and fail. Cry-Baby is a mess: much of it meanders and it’s ultimately unfulfilling. But the quality of its comedy songs is at a very high level. The most famous number sends up Willie Nelson’s Crazy to literal extremes. Screw Loose became, for better or for worse, the most popular female comedy song for auditioners.

Broadway musical audiences didn’t adequately reward Schlesinger and Javerbaum, although the latter had a hit play some years later that included the former’s music. But Daily Show networking led the team to write the songs for an intentionally old-fashioned Christmas special Stephen Colbert did in 2008, and they made it to #1 on iTunes. It’s fair to say this wouldn’t have happened if they weren’t so expertly crafted. Much as the world loves Colbert, it’s not his singing that attracts fans.

The worlds of theatre and television smash up against each other once a year when CBS broadcasts the Tonys. Often, the host will launch into an original opening number, and these must be funny both for a Broadway audience and a general TV-watching audience. Another tall order, and boy, did Schlesinger and Javerbaum deliver.

 

If you’re someone who enjoys musical comedy material on television – I’m afraid that doesn’t describe me – you may have caught any number of his witty ditties on a show called My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. Which reminds me that a friend of me told me an older sitcom he enjoyed was going to be turned into a Broadway musical, The Nanny. I thought this was a terrible idea, the sort of show I’d surely avoid, until I heard Adam Schlesinger was composing it. That immediately inspired confidence, as did the presence of the best director I’ve ever worked with, Marc Bruni.

Speaking of shows that sound awful until you realize Schlesinger’s on the creative team, there’s a new musical based on an auto-biography called The Bedwetter. Now, as it happens, I’ve been hard at work on a show loosely based on a performer’s upbringing and he, too, wanted to reference the same childhood affliction. Parallel challenges. I hope I’m addressing it in a way that doesn’t make you go “ick!” But I’ve every confidence Adam Schlesinger found the funny. He always did.

Palm Sunday

To commemorate the first holiday in spring, I thought I’d write a few words of praise about some randomly-chosen musicals you might not have heard of. With greenery in bloom on my mind, I’ll start with…

The Secret Garden

Based on a classic of juvenile literature, The Secret Garden is about British people doing a bunch of oh-so-British things. For instance, having a beautiful garden but keeping it completely walled-off, so nobody can see it – what could be more British than that? Nothing makes a musical hum like watching plants grow, as any Little Shop fan could tell you.

And, of course, somebody’s going off to India, because a colonizer’s got to colonize; am I right? And some horrifying off-stage mishap makes our heroine an orphan. Poor Mary has to go live with an incredibly rich uncle, and there are colorful servants. Of course the virtue of keeping a stiff upper lip through all this hardship is another veddy British theme, and how can you not love Mary? She just lost her parents! Have you no heart?

But wait, there’s more deaths of relatives to deal with. The uncle lost his wife to some unnamed disease, leaving him harsh and uncommunicative. Don’t you just love uncaring Englishmen? I sure do. But wait, I heard someone crying. Is it the uncle? Is it the other uncle? You see, the death of a sister-in-law also weighs heavily on the widower’s brother. Why? He loved her, of course! Don’t you just love a man who loves his brother’s wife? Sure you do!

Actually, the someone crying was a somewhat lame little boy. He has one of those mysterious diseases that hampers his walking, and he certainly can’t run or play rugby. So, he cries. And here we have the theme of the play, self-pity. Three males pitying the hell out of themselves. Plus Mary. And their depression leads them to do things that, well, simply aren’t cricket. Mary sneaks into that garden, Archy acts coldly and distant. That brother is still expressing how bummed he is that his sister-in-law kicked it. And the other kid isn’t too lame to grouse, petulantly.

Is there no one in this household who remembers how to smile? Well, just when you think all is lost, in come two plucky servants. You might have to live in the United Kingdom to understand this, but the people who can afford multiple servants are generally unhappy, while the working class folk have a better outlook, surely borne of doing good, hard work. One of them has an entire song devoted to defining one odd bit of Yorkshire slang, Wick. You leave the theatre having learned a new word, and can now use it for the rest of your life.

But wait, there’s a deus ex machina to solve everyone’s depression. It’s…it’s…it’s the dead wife, back from the grave to sing a pretty ballad. Turns out, self-pity is not the way to go, but a warm warbling ghost can fix anything.

Miss Saigon

I admit I have a fondness for the rock hits that accompanied the peacenik protests of the American misadventure in Vietnam. One, two, three, what are we fighting for? In listening to those serious-minded threnodies I felt something was missing. And that something was a solo saxophone.

Lucky for me, there’s Miss Saigon, a musical set in the period when the U.S.A. pulled out, and Chris is a soldier who didn’t. He was intoxicated by the titular character and the solo sax wail. (You may be familiar with the plot from the opera on which this poperetta is based, Madame Butterfly.)

The Secret Garden briefly refers to the British military mess in a different part of Asia. But the politics of how so-called civilized nations treat the so-called third world, well, that’s too icky for me to think about. Credit Miss Saigon’s French creators for totally ignoring the morals of an industrial power sending napalm to eliminate poor peasants. Who wants that in a musical?

No, back since the days of Yankee Doodle Dandy, Americans love shows that praise America, and Miss Saigon’s eleven o’clock number is a jokey toast to Uncle Sam. The night I saw it, the pimp singing the song (sorry to use language like that; don’t know what else to call him) actually humped the hood of a Cadillac (sorry to use language like that; don’t know what else to call what he was doing). Ah, America: you crack me up.

Evita

Let’s leave Vietnam and head for another exotic place, one that more successfully broke from the shackles of colonialism. Argentina provides an opportunity for a poor peasant to rise up to the presidential palace. All you need do is sleep your way to the top.

It’s fair to say musical fans love a tart with heart. How did Miss Saigon make her living? Or, for that matter, Sweet Charity, Irma La Douce and that New Girl In Town? Use your sexiness as a weapon, ladies, and you can go far.

So, we have a tart with heart, some befuddled fellow who can’t resist her charms, and a sardonic narrator who stands apart from the action. Ooh, am I still talking about Miss Saigon? Where was I? Oh, yes, Evita, another sung-through romp from London. It relentlessly keeps its focus on those three characters, whereas Miss Saigon has a couple more. And it refuses to ignore the politics. You’ll leave the theatre knowing more about post-war Argentina then you ever expected to know. It’s surprisingly good for you.

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Well, that’s all the time I have for these little-known tuners: Check the date; I’ve got a holiday to celebrate!