Late in the evening I had an impromptu conference with the Artistic Director. I also had an organic cheese puff. Or maybe 3. Hey, he offered.
The topic of conversation was our leading man, who was struggling with the high notes in one of his songs. The solution was obvious: change the key. Our director, a voice teacher by profession, was convinced the actor could become comfortable with the high notes in time. She’s probably right. And I can probably run a six-minute mile to keep pace with our assistant stage manager. But not before we open in a week and a half.
AD agreed to order the music in a new key. I heard that the actors were almost up to my next cue, so I hustled to the piano. I went back to his table during the next dialogue scene. He held out the bag of cheese puffs. I declined with thanks. What I really was seeking was advice about another song, in which four actors sing backing vocals to a featured performer. They’re supposed to sing these vocals–in high, tight harmony–while dancing up a storm. They’re perfectly good dancers, but none of them actors is a high tenor.
“Can you thin out the harmony, or have them sing in unison?”
“That’s exactly what I want to do, but I wanted to hear you say it.”
After our Act II run-through, I gathered the guys, demonstrated a new vocal part, which they sang effortlessly, with great confidence, and great relief. I worked with the leading guy, too. He understood why I wanted to make the change, but he felt like he was letting us down. I did my best to convince him otherwise. We like him. We like his acting, his ease on stage, his chemistry with the leading lady. And we like his singing. His vocal mechanism just isn’t ready to sing those high notes, any more than I’m equipped to cut my mile time by almost half.
Looking back at both of these songs, I probably should have insisted we make the changes even before the first rehearsal. But none of us wants to do less than our best. Even if the composer won’t be in the room, we want to honor her intentions. We want it to be as it should be. We want it to be perfect. But the perfect can be the enemy of the good.
She has this problem at work, too. She and her colleagues were, by their own admission, A students who felt awful if they didn’t score 100% on every test and get all the extra credit points. Often as not, though, their not-quite-perfect work is better than someone else’s A. They’ve taken to calling themselves “The B+ Girls.”
I put some rotini in a pot of water just off the boil, turned off the heat, and ran an errand that took longer than I expected. The noodles were a little softer than I’d meant, but I’m okay with that.
B+ Pasta Salad
Combine in a large bowl:
1/2 lb. rotini (or other curly, the better to hold dressing) pasta, cooked in salted water then drained. Don’t beat yourself up if the pasta is a little past al dente.
1 carrot, in smallish pieces.
3 ribs celery, or thereabouts, sliced somewhere near thinly.
1/2 cup pepperoni—but salami would do, or even ham—sliced or cubed.
1 hard-boiled egg, chopped. Don’t even try for a perfect dice.
1/2 cup mozzarella cheese–sliced or grated or in little balls. Fresh if you have it, but don’t make a special trip to the market.
6 peppadew peppers, roughly chopped.
1 cup marinated mushrooms–and don’t give a moment’s thought that you didn’t marinate them yourself.
3 cups spinach, rinsed, dried, and torn or sliced into pieces.
Toss with:
1/4 cup viniagrette dressing (from the back of the fridge), augmented with
a little brown mustard (any variety you grab), and
a splash of olive oil.
Add pepper to taste. (Between the pasta cooking water, the dressing, the pepperoni, and the mushrooms, you won’t need salt.)
This is best after a night in the refrigerator, but if you need lunch in a hurry, it’s pretty good right away. And certainly better than takeout.
Dinner at the Country House 