You never know what you’re in the middle of until you’re out of that middle and into the middle of something else … and perhaps not even then. From this distant vantage point I can see that, and while I was happy to have a LOT of work for a long time during those Portland days, I never luxuriated in it as I do these days. One thing led to another which led to another and on and on for years and as my life moved forward I accumulated vast amounts of experience and understanding without really knowing it was happening. I guess it was subliminal knowledge, nestling somewhere deep inside me and bit by bit percolating to the surface of its own accord whenever I happened to need it. But there were obvious lessons that brought me up short from time to time.

I was at the point in my Portland time when I rarely had to audition for shows. I had a reputation of being a “go-to” for character parts (although a “romantic lead” would pop up every now and then – ‘Tommy’ In “Brigadoon”,  ‘Billy Crocker’ in “Anything Goes”, etc.) – and my joy was in doing those roles that made audiences laugh. ‘Fancourt Babberly’ in “Charlie’s Aunt” (picture at right) and ‘Jerry’ in “Sugar” (the musical version of “Some Like It Hot”) come to mind. A guy in drag on stage has always been a surefire way to get the folks sitting in the dark to respond and those two roles were exactly that. Not that I felt “comfortable” wearing a dress but to hear sustained laughter because of something you did or a reaction you had sure was fulfilling.

I remember doing a dance sequence in “Sugar” opposite the late Gerry Morgan, a wonderful older character actor, who was playing my “love interest” (the Joe E. Brown role in the movie). My costume for this dance was a vast hoop skirt and, as part of the choreographed evading of the unwanted advances of Gerry’s character, I had managed, unseen, to hide a chair under the skirt. When I revealed the chair, brandishing it as a barrier to him getting any closer to me at the climax of the number, the audience went nuts. I had never heard that kind of response for something I had done on stage. It went on and on getting louder and louder as Gerry and I held our positions in the stand-off, looking at each other, trying not to lose it ourselves.

I’ve never forgotten that sound. It was a reaction to something which, while calculated and heavily prepared, had become a reality everyone had bought into. On one level it was academic, a case of action, timing and response. But on another level, it resulted in a collective suspension of disbelief and genuine surprise. The sequence can be repeated night after night but is never exactly the same each time. There are times in the Theatre when everything you’ve thought about and rehearsed for days and days combines with the ephemeral psyche of a particular audience dynamic that aligns in just the right way to produce a transcendent moment. But it can’t be manufactured. You have no idea how to recreate it because the audience is the nightly unknown. The “Magic” of The Theatre!

But I digress … a little. Understanding the crafting of Theatre is one thing. Understanding the crafting of Self is something else altogether.

Jack Booch was a Director who had been head of the Theatre Guild in New York and had come to Portland via Los Angeles. He was a diminutive, frantic man who did not suffer fools lightly and always “spoke his mind”, to put it mildly. His tirades were legendary and he had a reputation of, at times, reducing actors to tears – not something that would be tolerated these days. But, at the same time, he was incredibly affable, viciously funny and he did his job very well.

I was cast in the role of ‘Jacques Bonnard’ in Kander and Ebb’s wonderful musical, “The Happy Time”. Ironically, the character is French Canadian (I was born in Montreal) and, needless to say, my accent was impeccable. The role had originally been played by legit baritone Robert Goulet on Broadway so I had a lot going for me, and to top it off, Jack liked me. I look at that picture of me (and that’s my real hair with a bit of a perm) and flash back to the opening number when ‘Jacques’ sings the title song, inviting the audience to enter into the memory with him that forms the basis of the show. I would always (always!) have to control the lump that formed in my throat as the words and music conjured up a sense memory of my youth in Montreal. It would overwhelm me at every performance. Reprising that song at the end of the show would sometimes reduce me to tears. The show sold out night after night and it truly was a happy time. It would be three years later that I would again work with Jack in another Robert Goulet role. Any guesses?

By the mid and late seventies I was totally immersed (and I mean TOTALLY) in The Theatre. I was performing, directing, teaching, running the school, doing radio, television, writing for kids and lived, slept, breathed and ate theatre. Unfortunately, few relationships succumbed to this all-consuming involvement but I honestly couldn’t help myself. The acting and singing roles piled on top of each other as did the directing assignments and the sense of accomplishment and clarity of purpose satisfied every fibre of my being. Directing highlights include two productions of “Godspell”, two productions of “Jacques Brel”, two productions of a staged version of Handel’s “Messiah” with the wonderful Vera Long as my musical director and co-creator (and if you don’t think that packed the houses, you’d be wrong – one of the review headlines read “Hallelujah, a new ‘Messiah’) and a long list of big book musicals.

From time to time, I was asked to work some fundraisers or speak to some civic group and that was always rewarding. But, by far, my favourites were the fundraisers with the Oregon Symphony! I was used to singing with pit orchestras for musicals or with small bands for cabarets and clubs. But singing with a Symphony Orchestra is like nothing else. There is no room for error. Sixty-three musicians don’t “vamp till ready”. As I learned very quickly and very early in my concert career, you come in when you’re supposed to come in!!

Norman Leyden was a world-class clarinetist and arranger who had worked with Glen Miller during the war years and had recorded with everyone from Sarah Vaughn to Tony Bennett and Harry James and had eventually been appointed as Associate Conductor of the Oregon Symphony. He was also the “POPS” conductor and doing those various fundraisers was how we met. To top it all off, he was really classy and a really nice guy!

Because I could switch between a legit sound and crooning, he decided I fit the bill for concerts featuring music from the old radio show “Your Hit Parade” or of individual theatre composers like Richard Rogers, Cole Porter and Irving Berlin. My partner in these concerts was invariably the great Ardyth Shapiro, a tiny, vivacious, silky smooth mezzo who could do the same thing I did vocally. We covered ALL the bases! We’d perform in Portland and then take the concert up the road to the Seattle Symphony for a couple more performances. Norman’s incredible arrangements had been created specifically for Ardy and I and it was all very heady.

But it was our Irving Berlin program that “got legs” and took us all around the U.S. over a two year period! Whenever I heard Norman’s voice on the phone, I knew we had another date – San Francisco, Denver, Baltimore, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Buffalo (put the word “symphony” after each of those cities) and on and on. We’d arrive in the new city, get settled into the hotel, have a bite to eat and head out for the single afternoon rehearsal with the orchestra. Norman’s arrangements were so inventive. His arrangement for Berlin’s “Isn’t This A Lovely Day” began with a huge “storm” for the orchestra before settling into a lush string bed as I sang “The weather is frightening, the thunder and lightning seem to be having their way”. It was so musically perfect and set up the lyrics on every level. I miss Norman. He passed a few years ago at the age of 96, amazingly conducting his own 90th birthday celebration with the Oregon Symphony and actually made his “debut” with the Hollywood Bowl Symphony playing his clarinet at 95! I can only hope!

In between all this orchestra activity, I found myself in Seattle once again, this time at The Cirque Dinner Theatre, again with Jack Booch and again playing a Robert Goulet role – ‘Lancelot’ in “Camelot”. I was really nervous about this one as I would be playing opposite one of my all-time idols, Howard Keel (Google him if you don’t know who he was)!! By this time, Howard was 60 years old but still going strong (he was on a bit of a hiatus from “Dallas” and this was a favour for Booch whom he’d known for a long time). On the days off during rehearsals and the run of the show, I would drive the two hours back to Portland to take care of business and end up watch tapes of his great movies – “Show Boat”, “Kiss Me, Kate”, “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers” – and have to pinch myself to realize that I was staring into this mega-star’s eyes every day! It wasn’t a dream!

Howard was a huge man! He was 6’3” with immense shoulders and a barrel chest (the perspective in this photo from the show is a bit wonky … he wasn’t THAT big). He could be intimidating by just standing still. But we hit it off a few days after beginning rehearsals. I was sweating bullets as I got up in front of the cast to sing “If Ever I Would Leave You”, the iconic song from the show. I knew Howard had sung it many times before in concert, on TV and recordings, and there he was, sitting with Jack, waiting. I launched in and because we’d rehearsed the scene leading up to it with our ‘Guinevere’ (Darlene Anders), I had a grounding of “where” the song was coming from in the character and the folks sitting in the rehearsal room simply disappeared. This wasn’t an audition but rather a confirmation that I should be playing the part. It went off pretty well and they all applauded at the end of it. “Whew”, I thought to myself. Howard got up and came over to me during the break, put his hand on my shoulder and said “That was wonderful” and walked away.

In the days to come as rehearsals got more intense and we became more comfortable with each other, our chats turned to our journeys (his great and long, mine not so much). At one point I began to talk about feeling inadequate because I’m so short (I’m 5’7”). His face darkened. There’s no other way to put it. “Don’t ever say that again!” he shouted at me. “You have a great voice and you act well. Your height has nothing to do with that and never should. So you just change that attitude right now!” and he left the room. Jack, who was sitting at the table just looked at me with a slight smile and raised his eye brows. “Any questions?” That was a lesson I’ve never forgotten. Ironically, a few years later I was auditioning for an agent in New York. After I’d sung a few songs for her, she looked at me and said “You’ve got a six-foot-three voice caught in a five-foot-seven frame. You’re going to be a hard sell”. I didn’t go with that or any other agent.

I’ve chosen the path that Howard set for me. That lesson of being who I am and how I am has never left me both in the Theatre and in Life, and if that doesn’t suit someone, it’s their problem, not mine.

The year and a half that followed was filled with more acting and directing assignments, but something deep inside was niggling at me. There was a sense of complacency settling in (which now, from this perspective, seems to me to be insane – why would anyone give up this total and fulfilling immersion) and I felt there might be other opportunities elsewhere, namely, New York. I don’t know, even now, if this was ego or anxiety. When I talked it over with Isabella, she told me that I should follow my heart but also complicated my decision by saying that she hoped I knew that she had been grooming me to take over the Theatre after she retired. But I decided to leave anyway.

The community threw a “Roast” as a farewell. I still have a tape of that love-filled evening and have watched it a couple of time since that long ago event. Mercy, that was a wonderful time! But my sights were trained on the future and what it had to hold. Ah, the illogic of youth!

NEXT: New York, New York!