There are several more rehearsals for our Fringe show. We gather at the musicians' homes. It's very relaxing to spend warm summer afternoons playing music.
Gradually I learn the names of all the Brazilians, and sometimes I muster the courage to say something in Portuguese.
Gabriel decides that he will sing some parts of my song with me. This is a good thing. I've been told that I sing "with a charming accent". This has been mentioned more than once. Does it mean that my Portuguese is really, really bad? I want to get it right. I want to do the song justice.
I begin to refine my pronunciation. I listen to how Gabriel shapes the words; imitate the way he merges the vowels. I watch his lips as he sings.
The song is not very long. To extend it, I introduce some vocal improvisation. The boys add a segment of whistling, then some rhythmic clapping to finish it.
At first I explore the improvisation tentatively. Then I gather some confidence, open it out and "go for it". Suddenly, the song comes together. There is energy and excitement in the air. The musicians start talking about how this is the most important song of the show; it's the title song; the grand finale; the whole point of the show.
So, no pressure then!
I resolve to do my very best. I will memorise the words; not read them from the page. I set about learning the lyrics; practising them during my daily walks, and whenever I have a few spare minutes.
A week before the show opens, we arrange to meet again at Gabriel's city apartment. We will work through the entire show. By this time, the Fringe Festival has already begun. The traffic is terrible, and the parking is even worse. I drive around the city for half an hour, searching for a place to park. I pay for two hours of parking at an exorbitant rate. I should have left my car where it was and walked instead. I arrive late, and they are already rehearsing.
I'm given some scripts to read aloud - an Introduction to the show, and a poem to follow.
Then I sit down and relax, listening to the new music, waiting for my turn to sing. Gradually I become aware that the music has stopped. There is a lot of discussion going on, and it's becoming more heated. I catch words and phrases, but I can't follow what is being said. I notice that the pianist has disappeared. His keyboard stands forlorn, abandoned. There is tension in the air. Quietly, I ask someone for a quick summary. Apparently the argument is about the arrangement of the music and the need for more rehearsal. OK, but if we don't finish soon I'll get a parking fine.
This reminds me of another rehearsal, years ago, one evening when the members of my rock band got into a big argument. It's the classic stages of group dynamics - forming, norming, storming, conforming...
Finally we rehearse my song, and I rush off to rescue my car.
A few days later, the final rehearsal, held at the performance venue, is uneventful. Everyone is friends again.
The show will open in a couple of days. The marketing machine is in full drive and tickets are selling fast.
Gradually I learn the names of all the Brazilians, and sometimes I muster the courage to say something in Portuguese.
Gabriel decides that he will sing some parts of my song with me. This is a good thing. I've been told that I sing "with a charming accent". This has been mentioned more than once. Does it mean that my Portuguese is really, really bad? I want to get it right. I want to do the song justice.
I begin to refine my pronunciation. I listen to how Gabriel shapes the words; imitate the way he merges the vowels. I watch his lips as he sings.
The song is not very long. To extend it, I introduce some vocal improvisation. The boys add a segment of whistling, then some rhythmic clapping to finish it.
At first I explore the improvisation tentatively. Then I gather some confidence, open it out and "go for it". Suddenly, the song comes together. There is energy and excitement in the air. The musicians start talking about how this is the most important song of the show; it's the title song; the grand finale; the whole point of the show.
So, no pressure then!
I resolve to do my very best. I will memorise the words; not read them from the page. I set about learning the lyrics; practising them during my daily walks, and whenever I have a few spare minutes.
A week before the show opens, we arrange to meet again at Gabriel's city apartment. We will work through the entire show. By this time, the Fringe Festival has already begun. The traffic is terrible, and the parking is even worse. I drive around the city for half an hour, searching for a place to park. I pay for two hours of parking at an exorbitant rate. I should have left my car where it was and walked instead. I arrive late, and they are already rehearsing.
I'm given some scripts to read aloud - an Introduction to the show, and a poem to follow.
Then I sit down and relax, listening to the new music, waiting for my turn to sing. Gradually I become aware that the music has stopped. There is a lot of discussion going on, and it's becoming more heated. I catch words and phrases, but I can't follow what is being said. I notice that the pianist has disappeared. His keyboard stands forlorn, abandoned. There is tension in the air. Quietly, I ask someone for a quick summary. Apparently the argument is about the arrangement of the music and the need for more rehearsal. OK, but if we don't finish soon I'll get a parking fine.
This reminds me of another rehearsal, years ago, one evening when the members of my rock band got into a big argument. It's the classic stages of group dynamics - forming, norming, storming, conforming...
Finally we rehearse my song, and I rush off to rescue my car.
A few days later, the final rehearsal, held at the performance venue, is uneventful. Everyone is friends again.
The show will open in a couple of days. The marketing machine is in full drive and tickets are selling fast.
No comments:
Post a Comment