With the drama and upheaval of the past eighteen months thankfully in the rearview mirror, the Summer and Fall of 1993 were fraught-free but frantic. While the steady thrum of Music Services International underpinned my existence, I threw myself into a multitude of personal projects. At various points along the way I wondered if I’d taken on too much and I felt on the verge of complete shut-down. But the joy of performing Lerner and Lowe for the Edmonton Opera was a momentary panacea to the constant demands of the contracts and payrolls and budgets that always, always, started my days. Even away from the calculator and the stacks of paper that occupied all available surfaces in my hotel room, I found myself thinking about a salary formula or some legalese in a musician’s agreement as I sat in the rehearsal hall waiting to make an entrance, little administrative tendrils that would worm their way into the “rain in Spain”. They became the pervasive accompaniment to everything I did.

         This was my third time round with “My Fair Lady” and my first Rainbow-less summer in 10 years. It was an odd feeling as we moved the show onto the immense stage of the Northern Jubilee Auditorium to start the tech rehearsals, “odd” because Calgary has the identical hall (the “Southern Jube”) where I’d been adjudicating only a few weeks earlier. I had to keep reminding myself where I was. Nothing is small in opera.

As can be seen in the photo, we were dwarfed by the sets (the books on the shelves were half as big as we were!) and while it was grand and luxurious it lacked intimacy. However, the production was pretty spectacular. The cast had a lot of friends in it and I had worked with the Chorus folk before. American soprano Lee Merrill was ‘Eliza’, Welsh baritone Eric Roberts was “Higgins’ and Patrick A‘Hearn was ‘Freddie’. Opera conductor Justin Brown was our MD.

It was wonderful to watch all those slightly staid opera singers doing contemporary Musical Theatre and to see the chorus breaking loose in “Get Me To The Church On Time”, so far away from the “formal” sounds they were used to producing and letting go with Kelly Robinson’s wild and wonderful choreography. I wasn’t missing Rainbow.

            Once back home, still lugging about the typewriter and calculator, I settled in again at my office desk, preparing for the ‘Phantom’ Honolulu Tour and trying to maintain order with the growing number of projects Sam continued to pile on me daily. Also in the mix now were two major commitments I’d made.

One was to again produce the “Winnipeg Cares” AIDS Benefit. Trying to come up with a new approach was a trial. We knew what worked for Winnipeg audiences and wondered if we should depart from the “formula”. We decided that, in addition to the proven favorites, something more emotionally relevant to the tragedy of the continuing AIDS pandemic was needed. In addition to the six NAMES Project Memorial Quilt panels (at that time numbering more than forty-eight thousand) being loaned to us, a piece of music that had been written in 1990 by the American composer John Corigliano, was added to the program. “Of Rage and Remembrance” is based on the third movement of his First Symphony and is a memorial to the friends he had lost to AIDS over the years. Conducted by Earl Stafford, it features a male choral component during which names of those lost are spoken with orchestral underscoring. The thought was that those moments would be made personal by the people performing the work.  Finding a chorus of 30-40 men was not easy. Alan Blanchette was a local baritone involved with a lot of choral groups and church choirs, and I put him in charge of getting the singers. Many accepted the assignment at the outset; but, depressingly, when some of them learned what the piece was about and what they would be singing, they dropped out. Their decisions spoke volumes as to attitudes still associated with AIDS.

            The rehearsals were deeply moving. The 32 men we ended up with met the challenge of the very difficult music and, over the weeks of preparations, came to embody the spirit and depth of the piece and of our concert. Many of the singers and Symphony musicians provided names of friends they had lost (as did I) and our tribute was personal and heartfelt.

            There were some bumps here and there in final rehearsals with some folks demanding that they be in the first Act or that they didn’t want to follow a certain performer … all to be expected and, in my best diplomatic style, I managed to placate the “divas” and dispel any tension. Evelyn Hart danced. The spectacular “Rusalka” danced. The Symphony Mozart-ed. Tracy Dahl sang with Bramwell Tovey. Al Simmons made everyone laugh. Randy Bachman rocked. Gwen Hoebig violin-ed. Everyone was happy. The production was astonishing! I stood backstage during the show and marveled at the stunning talent that had donated their time for the cause.  For a small respite, the following morning at the crack of dawn I left for New York with Robbie (Paterson).

            I had been asked to audition for a New York production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s “Iolanthe”.  The audition had been arranged by good friend Dottie Danner who was directing the production and scheduled late on the morning we arrived. “The Nightmare Song” is sung by the ‘Lord Chancellor’ and, as its title might indicate, is a horror! It is a typical G&S “patter song” but on steroids. Usually there is a Chorus that interjects from time to time if only to give the “old man” a chance to get a breath. Not this one. It starts and doesn’t stop for four minutes! Nothing is repeated; there are no little orchestral interludes and, to add to the trial, W.S. Gilbert, in a display of lyrical fireworks, crams a syllable on every beat and, for presumed comic effect, trips up the ear with stresses on the wrong syll-A-bles! The tempo is extremely fast and relentless!

I arrived at the large, dingy, dark hall that was our meeting place and, after hugging Dottie, was introduced to the Producer, a somewhat dour and distant person who gave the distinct impression that he was doing Dottie a favour. Not a good sign. The pianist was sitting at an upright tucked very far away in a corner and, with no preamble, the Producer asked me to begin. A little recitativo section sets up the song (“love, unrequited, robs me of my rest”) accompanied by keyboard continuo. Once that’s finished we’re into the patter.

The pianist started off at a rip I didn’t think was possible to come from a musician’s hands. Why I didn’t stop him and say “whoa, that’s way too fast” is beyond me, but I launched in – at his tempo. The beginning was sort of alright. I could rattle off the first two verses in my sleep. But then it starts getting complicated with a lot a parenthetical thoughts which, at the “normal” tempo, are difficult to navigate and make sense of for the audience. I could feel the sweat starting to form on my brow – it was a humid early September in NYC. There is a momentary stop in the song as the ‘LC’ reacts to all he’s just spewed out, takes a breath, and the tempo gets even faster for the recap. At that point, I knew this had not gone well, so I went for broke and just yelled the last verse, now hoarse and drenched to the bone. It ended and I felt like I was going to faint. The Producer said “thank you” and walked out of the room. I apologized to Dottie and left. Guess I wasn’t going to be working in New York any time soon! I don’t know what I expected. New York was still willing to swallow you up and spit you out. I put it all out of my mind and it was on to the fun stuff.

            This trip with Robbie was special for a few reasons and that was mostly to do with the productions we saw. We were staying with “Uncle Reed” once more so all the Quebec Embassy amenities were at our disposal including the chauffeur at the airport. There were also some perks working for Sam as he had arranged, though our now burgeoning NYC connections, tickets for “Crazy For You” (which, a few years down the road and unbeknownst to us at the time, Robbie would direct and I would perform in for Rainbow Stage … but that’s a story for another time).

While I think I had subliminally noticed it on previous Broadway visits, on this trip I became very aware of a performance “technique” which, to this day, drives me up the proverbial wall. Harry Groener was playing ‘Bobby Child’, the main character. The show had been running for a while and had become somewhat tired and the performances a bit lackluster. But the music and dancing were spectacular. A few scenes in I became aware of how “presentational” Groener’s style was. He would be talking to another character and, suddenly would turn out to the audience to deliver a set-up for a funny line, as if to say, “look at me folks … I’m acting and I’m about to deliver the punch line!” He would get a little smirk on his face; his eyes would glance up to the balcony, look around and when the joke was spoken take visible pride in the laugh. I noticed it with a few of the other characters as well, this breaking of the fourth wall doing a stand-up sort of presentation. Perhaps it was a New York/Broadway thing but it was very off-putting … just bad, self-indulgent theatre, if you ask me. The strange thing is that I usually see it in musicals and rarely in plays.

            While we were riding up a large packed elevator to the top of the Empire State Building to do another tourist thing, I could feel a couple staring at me. “Aren’t you Richard Hurst?” they suddenly blurted out. It took me utterly by surprise. “Um, yes” I said. “We’re from Winnipeg and we love your work” they gushed. I could see all the heads in the elevator turn toward me. “Oh, thanks” I replied as I felt my face start to heat up. “We’ve seen you in a lot of shows. Are you doing anything this season?” They wanted to engage in a conversation! “Uh, a few things” I managed as, thankfully, the elevator doors opened at the top of the building and we stepped on to the landing. “Have a good day” I said as Robbie and I escaped the episode and fell over ourselves laughing. There were still people looking in our direction trying to figure out if I was anyone famous. Well, maybe in Winnipeg a little. We laughed about it for a while.

            “Fool Moon” is an “entertainment” created by Bill Irwin and David Shiner, two fabulous physical mime comedians. We had seats down front on the side and before the show began, a stage manager approached Robbie asking if he would be willing to be a part of a skit concerning a camera. Without any in-depth explanation, Robbie was given the prop camera and asked to play along when the “bit” started. I think it ended up with “our” film being exposed and the camera being destroyed in the process of the skit, but the audience was convulsed by the antics that ensued, as was I. The back of my head hurt from laughing so hard. A great evening of brilliant craft and, this time, playing to the house was what it was all about.

            Luckily, we managed to get standing room space for “Angels in America – Part One”. Transfixed is the only way to describe the experience for both of us. Ron Leibman was playing the role of ‘Roy Cohn’ and the barrage of words and imagery and emotion was unrelenting. The fact that we were standing at the back of the orchestra section was irrelevant. We were enveloped by the story and the performances. We saw “Tommy” … mostly for Robbie … another spectacular production, very loud and visually stunning. We got tickets for “Beau Jest”, a play by James Sherman, which, again unbeknownst to me, I would appear in a few years later in Winnipeg. Did a Circle Line Boat Tour around the island, ate Nathan’s hot dogs and watched some of the Labor Day Parade. I love travelling with Robbie because we talk … non-stop … about everything … and he’s just so easy-going. But, once again, it was back to the real world and into the thick of the second project to which I’d agreed.

The Pantages Playhouse Theatre opened in 1914 as a major vaudeville venue, part of the Pantages 86-theatre chain, and was used for every kind of local and touring production until the Centennial Concert Hall was built in 1967. Over the years, it had seen the likes of Charlie Chaplin, Jeanette MacDonald and George Burns and Gracie Allen. In 1983 it was designated a National Historic Site. Surrounded by pawn shops and bric-a-brac stores the city had decided to clean up the area in a major way. All the stores on Main Street were torn down and the Theatre was given a substantial renovation that took almost a year to complete. I had been hired to create a show to celebrate the theatre’s history and the re-opening of the space.

Preparations had been in the works for months. The committee had given me free rein as to the style and character of the show. Since its advent was as a vaudeville house, I decided that we should take our cue from this variety format and assemble local artists to represent the various performance styles through the years of the Theatre’s history. It was an opportunity to showcase some of the great “non-professional” artists in town. Some acts were ready-made; there were a couple of actors who frequently appeared as ‘Laurel and Hardy’ for community organizations; another who played ‘Charlie Chaplin’ for parties and fundraisers; I coerced my friend Debbie Maslowsy and her brother Jerry into doing some ‘Burns and Allan’ radio routines; I persuaded singers Joan Stephens and Chris Enns to portray Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy singing “Indian Love Call” (“When I’m Calling You’”) – he onstage, she in the balcony. There were a variety of comedians, dancers, choirs and musicians to fill out the evening. I was the host.

There was a bit of wrangling, however. The vast majority of the evening had been predicated on acoustic performances, which is to say, sans amplification. For a goodly number of years, enhancement (microphones and amplifiers) were not used in the theatre. It was a trial getting people to divest themselves of those sound crutches. But I got around it a little bit by persuading some of the acts do their bits as a radio broadcast with a stand-up “radio” mic acting as minimal “sonic enhancement”. That worked fine. The usually surly stage crew was incredibly patient. Our stage management team took everything in stride leading up the final dress and, almost uncharacteristically, was incredibly encouraging and willing to make concessions for extra time demands.

The evening was dazzling. While ticket sales had initially been worrisome, on the night it was a packed house – 1,200 people in a festive mood. There had been an outdoor pre-performance event in the warm, late summer evening, with a pipe band, an antique car parade and some of the performers busking and entertaining the arriving patrons on the brand new plaza in front of the theatre. The new lobby was beyond anyone’s expectation. A few speeches by the civic leaders were made and everyone filed into the house for the show. There was an air of celebration and excitement backstage. Our entertainers were raring to go especially now that they knew how big the house was. I walked out on to the stage with the audience still chattering and getting settled as I started my introduction.

“Louder” yelled someone from the back of the house. It threw me for a split second and I laughed out loud. I got a bit louder and the audience realized this was the way it was going to be and went completely silent. “This is how it used to be, folks. We’re turning back the clock to experience the authentic connection between us up here and you out there.” They bought into it for the rest of the night and the fact that they really could hear was confirmed by the laughs that came in waves during the comedy acts. Some of the performers decided they were going to indulge themselves with this rare opportunity to play for such a huge crowd and went on a bit longer than scheduled, but no one seemed to mind. “The hook, the hook” kept coming to my mind as I stood backstage urging folks on with windmill arms. The Finale with everyone on stage was beautiful and very touching as we all sang “No Business Like Show Business”. You could feel the history of the building enfolding us. With my best John Barrymore impression, I spoke Shakespeare’s “Our revels now are ended” from “The Tempest” in closing. The response was tsunamic and the crush in the lobby afterward with compliments flying all over the place was reward enough for all of us. “Let’s do it again next year” was a request I heard over and over again. Oh yeah? I didn’t think so!

I put on my Equity VP hat for another Cross Country Check-In with Jeff Braunstein, took a breath, and headed back West for a “Pirates” with Calgary Opera led, once again, by Kelly Robinson. Took another breath and, after a Toronto Council meeting, I was back in the Peg with “A Christmas Carol”, this time, a “musical” adaptation by Canadian dramatist Mavor Moore. I’m sorry. I know he’s a pioneer, an “icon” and a “national treasure” in some circles, but I could find, over the course of this experience, little positive to say about this iteration of Charles Dickens’s classic, particularly the songs. My Journal from those rehearsals days turns up some “observations” which I shan’t go into here. For me, the saving graces were having Robbie, also in the show, at hand for commiseration, and working with “Teddy” Atienza who played ‘Scrooge’. He was a spritely imp of a man, very funny and the antithesis of the character he was playing. One of my roles (the other being ‘Fezziwig’) was the ‘Ghost of Christmas Present’. To give the impression of this larger-than-life character, it was decided that I be costumed in an immense brocaded coat, a huge beard and wig and, encasing my feet, foot-high “cothurni” or elevating footwear. Because of their weight, it looked as if was walking in slow motion … which I was! I had a seven-foot staff rigged with “magical” effects – sparks and flames and the like – operated by pressing various buttons on its shank. Getting through rehearsals was a test of courage and balance because I never knew if the “magic” was going to work or if I was about to take a fall because of the lifts. If I went down, there was no way to get back up without physical assistance. It was a problem that lurked in my head as we headed into the final rehearsals on stage. I only went over once in tech. It was a helpless feeling to keel over like that with nothing to break my fall and I vowed to myself that it would never happen again.

Since the previous years had gone so well, Steven (Schipper, our director) asked if I would give the Scholarship Fundraising speech at intermission dressed as the genial ‘Fezziwig’. With the ‘Ghost’ appearing immediately after the break I had to dash backstage for what constituted a very fast and complicated change from ‘Fezziwig’ to the ‘Ghost’ – wigs, beard, makeup, the whole megillah … and the shoes! By the time I walked back onstage, I was out of breath and somewhat uncentered. I had adjusted to this state during the Previews, but on opening night, with the nerves and energy coursing through us all, I was frazzled and slightly distracted. None of the ‘magic’ worked which pissed me off and made my lack of focus even worse. In making a long, slow cross to stage left and I could feel the hem of the long coat suddenly catch under the shoe. As I took the next step the rest of the hem couldn’t go anywhere and I started to “walk up” the coat. “I’m going down”, I thought to myself. I was about two feet from a leg which masked an entrance and, with the help of the staff, I managed to take one more step grabbing on to the curtain with my free hand. I could feel the entire world take in and hold its breath. This was now Man versus Gravity. The weight of the coat, hopelessly caught under my feet, kept pulling me downward and doubling me over. With all the strength I could muster and realizing that this was now being watched as a sporting event, I held on for all I was worth and pulled myself to an upright position getting back on to solid ground, adjusting the coat, continuing on with the final lines of the scene and making my exit … to huge applause! People backstage still had their hands over their faces when I came off and a chair was brought quickly for me to sit down and remove the offending shoes.

After the performance, Steven rushed up and threw his arms around me. “Thank you for saving the show” he whispered in my ear. “I thought sure you were going down”. “So did I”, I said, trying to sound brave.  The run continued on and sputtered to an end. I thought at one point that this was what hell must be like … doing two of these shows a day for eternity. It rarely (at least for me) happens that one feels trapped in a production, but this was one of those times. “A Christmas Carol” was quickly relegated to the well-thank-God-that’s-over pile and I was about to enter into one of the seminal theatrical experiences of my life.