Stephen Sondheim
There will be many remembrances, stories, tales of all kinds on the passing of the musical theatre titan Stephen Sondheim.
Mine is quite simple.
I rubbed shoulders with him backstage at New York City Opera when performing a solo in Sweeney Todd.
We never spoke and he never gave me a note, for which I am either grateful or remiss: the composer being legendary for being particular about how his lyrics were sung. He was God, while I was merely a voice in the second act.
Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd. His skin was pale and his eye was odd. He shaved the faces of gentlemen who never thereafter were heard from again.
The entrance was terrifying.
I had to come from far upstage behind a firewall that had a center door, couldn’t hear the orchestra, and stood in the dark with the stage manager while awaiting my cue, her flashlight illuminating Sondheim’s score like moonlight on a turbulent sea. When it came, I shot through the door, walked quickly downstage into a pool of light as a set piece moved off right, connecting with the conductor and singing my part.
Quite a few times, however, the set piece didn’t move as planned, and I had to find the light and conductor, adjusting the space and pacing, my heart pounding the whole time.
I never missed it, but held my breath every time.
Sunday in the Park with George, Follies, Pacific Overtures, and Into the Woods; I saw them all on Broadway—each work a deeply felt experience, at once moving and Real. I am still in awe—the hair on the back of my head standing on end every time I hear the rising chorus of “Sunday.”
RIP Great Master.
“Art is craft, not inspiration.”
Photo Credit: Fred R. Conrad/The New York Times
