Luckily for me, within the first few weeks of my arrival, an opportunity presented itself - interviews were being held for music directors for a cabaret to be performed by students from Tisch's music theater program. Tisch! Bam! I'm totally there! Tisch has some of the best music theater up-and-comers in the country, in a city that practically oozes flawless group choreography and snappy toe-tappers out of its grimy pores. And I'm a great MD for cabaret! It was meant to be! I wrote a long, detailed and completely professional letter to the address given, and waited for my interview.
My first clue that this was not as glamorous (or as well-organised) as I had hoped was that the interviews happened in the student lounge at 9pm at night. Well, we're all busy, I thought. And this is New York, baby! People probably have job interviews at 3.30 in the morning here because everyone is so glamorous and busy that normal business hours are for CHUMPS! YEAH! I'm having a glamorous New York interview... in the student lounge... with two teenagers... what the hell... are you guys even old enough to vote?
But, as they say here, forgeddabowddit! This is New Yooork! Glamorous!! A music directing gig with Tisch in New York is still a music directing gig with Tisch in New York, even if it is being run by Justin Beiber's peers. I showed up to my first production meeting... and was clearly much older than anyone in the room. This didn't really bother me too much, until one blonde little bubble chirruped and giggled her way across the room and asked me, "are you one of the professors here?"
"Ha ha ha! No, foolish child. I'm one of the music directors. I'm a student, like you. Well, actually, not a student like you, since I am 31 and you are obviously the reincarnation of Jonbenét Ramsey."
... is what I should have said. But I just laughed awkwardly and said no, I was from Australia. (This, of course, didn't answer the question but I've learned since moving here that this is the conversational equivalent of jiggling car keys in front of a crying baby, quickly distracting irritating noisemakers from whatever it was they were making noise about).
I should probably have pulled out then. I should have pulled out when they presented me with a stack of music an inch thick and asked me to learn it by the end of the month. I should have pulled out when I showed up to the first rehearsal and there was no piano in the room (and when I asked the producer about this she said, "what do you need a piano for? You didn't tell me you needed a piano.") I should have pulled out when rehearsals started getting scheduled at 10pm on a Friday night, or in church halls halfway uptown, or after one hungover ass of a Sunday when only one out of six singers showed up for a two hour rehearsal. I SHOULD HAVE PULLED OUT. But no! Glamorous New York! Cocktails with sexy Ryans!
At this point I would like to draw you a flow chart of what was apparently going through my head:
Anyway, the day of the big show finally arrived. I dry cleaned my suit, washed my hair, I even shaved. SHAVED. I hadn't shaved for a year. That's how deluded I was that this was anything but a grossly overblown wankfest. But the last shreds of my delusion were mercilessly stripped away when I arrived at the venue and... it was a lecture theater. With a piano that was not only out of tune, but was missing a number of keys. (I thought about saying something to the producer, but I was worried she'd say something like, "why do you need those keys? You didn't tell me you needed those keys!", at which point I would probably headbutt her, and that would put a crimp in the evening's festivities for all concerned).
So I sucked it up. I sat down, played my songs with a big flourish, acknowledged the director's pitiful accolade at the end of the evening ("...and of course, I want to thank the musicians! They've been great!" as though I just some guy that swanned in off the street that evening and begged to play half a dozen hackneyed showtunes on a piano that looked as though it belonged in an episode of the Flintstones, a request that she graciously granted), and left before the audience had a chance to get out of their seats. I stomped through the cold December streets, got on the train and got smashed in my local bar - no sexy Ryans yet, but an absolute shitload of gin martinis.
EPILOGUE: Six months later I received an email from the same group asking if I'd be interested in music directing the next show. I wrote back: "I would rather eat broken glass. Have a nice day".
