climbing hydrangeas.
A V IKING HELMET is never very comfortable and this one weighed heavily on the head of the Brooklyn soprano whose voice echoed to the empty gallery of the Bijoux Theatre. She clasped herself in a strange self-embrace as she screeched out her song. The brass breastplate she was squeezed into might have had something to do with her agonised tone, as her lips trembled and her tongue wobbled for all it was worth at the back of her throat.
âVelia! Oh, Velia, the witch of the wood...â
She had the kind of voice that breaks wineglasses and eardrums. It wasnât a dreadful voice, but it would be fair to say that it was in the no manâs land somewhere between pretty terrible and awful. But she had guts. With a voice that bad, you need guts. She was what music teachers call a tryer. She ploughed into the second verse of her song unaware of the special kind of torture she was inflicting on her audience.
The occasion was the audition session for Lena Marrelliâs Show. Lena had stormed out, as she had done a thousand times, and her producer, Oscar De Velt, had said it was the last time she would walk out on him. He had said that before, of course â almost as many times as Lena had abandoned the show.
âLet her go,â heâd said. âI donât need her.â Oscar De Velt had been putting on Broadway shows when Lena Marrelli was in pig-tails. She still was in pig-tails, but he always omitted this fact from his thoughts. Her floppy red ringlets and precocious talent had paid for his silk shirts and velveteen jackets and his apartment overlooking Central Park for too long for him to see things clearly. Every time she quit, he set up a new casting session. Amongst the pros it was regarded as a bore and not to be taken seriously. But to the hopefuls, the first timers in New York, the dreamers, the ones that didnât know the ropes, it was their big chance.
Oscar De Velt, dressed like every Broadway producer, went through the charade of pretending to look for new talent. Slumped in the third row of the stalls, his arm dangling over the back of the seat and his hand-stitched boots propped up on the row in front, he shouted at the acts to be auditioned. He had a rather nasty, smart but spotty secretary who had even more disregard for personal feelings than he did. She would rebuke the cracked sopranos and squeaky tenors with a mouthful of abuse that sent many a hopeful packing back to their home town.
âNext!â
That evil word that says so much to the plucky, but talentless, auditioner. It may only be a little word, but it can be interpreted a million different ways. âNextâ could mean, âThank you very much, you are extremely talented and will surely go far, only youâre just a teeny bit tall for us.â On the other hand, it could mean, âGet off the stage quickly â your ears stick out, your voice sounds like a cat whoâs caught his tail in the door, your knees are as bandy as a viola playerâs and youâd do a great service to showbusiness by taking a job in a laundry.â
âNext!â Oscar De Velt yelled once more. This time, a conjurer came out and brushed down his dress suit rather too many times and took immense pains to put up the stand for his tricks. The metal legs were a little wobbly to begin with, but he tried to hide his nerves by persevering with the troublesome brass joints. The long line of auditioners waited impatiently for their brief chance for Broadway immortality. The conjurer cleared his throat most politely and walked to the footlights to deliver his hopeful showbusiness broadside.
âGood evening. I am the Great Marbini, illusionist to kings. I have been privileged to have obtained second billing at theatres in Missouri, Polar Bluff and Norfolk, Nebraska, and will now perform for you a trick only before seen by the crowned heads of Europe. I will produce from this hat not one rabbit,
A V IKING HELMET is never very comfortable and this one weighed heavily on the head of the Brooklyn soprano whose voice echoed to the empty gallery of the Bijoux Theatre. She clasped herself in a strange self-embrace as she screeched out her song. The brass breastplate she was squeezed into might have had something to do with her agonised tone, as her lips trembled and her tongue wobbled for all it was worth at the back of her throat.
âVelia! Oh, Velia, the witch of the wood...â
She had the kind of voice that breaks wineglasses and eardrums. It wasnât a dreadful voice, but it would be fair to say that it was in the no manâs land somewhere between pretty terrible and awful. But she had guts. With a voice that bad, you need guts. She was what music teachers call a tryer. She ploughed into the second verse of her song unaware of the special kind of torture she was inflicting on her audience.
The occasion was the audition session for Lena Marrelliâs Show. Lena had stormed out, as she had done a thousand times, and her producer, Oscar De Velt, had said it was the last time she would walk out on him. He had said that before, of course â almost as many times as Lena had abandoned the show.
âLet her go,â heâd said. âI donât need her.â Oscar De Velt had been putting on Broadway shows when Lena Marrelli was in pig-tails. She still was in pig-tails, but he always omitted this fact from his thoughts. Her floppy red ringlets and precocious talent had paid for his silk shirts and velveteen jackets and his apartment overlooking Central Park for too long for him to see things clearly. Every time she quit, he set up a new casting session. Amongst the pros it was regarded as a bore and not to be taken seriously. But to the hopefuls, the first timers in New York, the dreamers, the ones that didnât know the ropes, it was their big chance.
Oscar De Velt, dressed like every Broadway producer, went through the charade of pretending to look for new talent. Slumped in the third row of the stalls, his arm dangling over the back of the seat and his hand-stitched boots propped up on the row in front, he shouted at the acts to be auditioned. He had a rather nasty, smart but spotty secretary who had even more disregard for personal feelings than he did. She would rebuke the cracked sopranos and squeaky tenors with a mouthful of abuse that sent many a hopeful packing back to their home town.
âNext!â
That evil word that says so much to the plucky, but talentless, auditioner. It may only be a little word, but it can be interpreted a million different ways. âNextâ could mean, âThank you very much, you are extremely talented and will surely go far, only youâre just a teeny bit tall for us.â On the other hand, it could mean, âGet off the stage quickly â your ears stick out, your voice sounds like a cat whoâs caught his tail in the door, your knees are as bandy as a viola playerâs and youâd do a great service to showbusiness by taking a job in a laundry.â
âNext!â Oscar De Velt yelled once more. This time, a conjurer came out and brushed down his dress suit rather too many times and took immense pains to put up the stand for his tricks. The metal legs were a little wobbly to begin with, but he tried to hide his nerves by persevering with the troublesome brass joints. The long line of auditioners waited impatiently for their brief chance for Broadway immortality. The conjurer cleared his throat most politely and walked to the footlights to deliver his hopeful showbusiness broadside.
âGood evening. I am the Great Marbini, illusionist to kings. I have been privileged to have obtained second billing at theatres in Missouri, Polar Bluff and Norfolk, Nebraska, and will now perform for you a trick only before seen by the crowned heads of Europe. I will produce from this hat not one rabbit,
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