My feelings about getting into “Miss Saigon” were so positive after that first music rehearsal with the Ensemble. The work they’d done in advance had paid off and hearing their sound put me in a great head space. My cast was primo, and we began staging rehearsals hell-bent on making this production something of which we could all be proud. Ah, the best laid plans.

            A lot of pressure was on Rick (Fox), our Musical Director, Vocal Coach and Main Rehearsal Pianist. Nothing could happen without him. Since the show is sung-through – no spoken dialogue – he was at every rehearsal and basically set the tone for the approach. Because there were a lot of huge production numbers involving the Ensemble, we focused on that element for the first few days. It was then I realized that dividing the work load had only been a dream and, practically, was not going to work. We both had to be in the room at the same time. On other shows I could go off with Principals and do scene work while something was happening elsewhere with the Ensemble or secondary characters. But with everything tied securely to the music, I had to change my thinking and it became obvious that time was our enemy. We managed for a while. I would stage a scene physically without the music and then Rick would come in and we would run it. That worked adequately with the lead characters but not with the Ensemble numbers. It was imperative that another rehearsal pianist was required, and once Ken (Peter, our Producer) broke down and decided to spend the bucks, the burden eased … a little. Kimberley Rampersad was our Choreographer and managed to put the wonderful dances together in short order, but I still had to do the staging for the many crowd scenes. And my head started spinning.

            As had been the case with “Joseph”, also a sung-through show but nowhere near as complex at “Saigon”, the stop-start approach was irritating and frustrating. A physical pick-up mid-way through a song was easy enough, but the emotional arcs and story development tracks of sometimes very long numbers would get lost unless we went back to the beginning. I tried my damnedest to make this simple for everyone, but I found folks getting confused by my rushed explanations and by my running around side-coaching as the number was happening. Tensions mounted, and Bobby (Martino, playing ‘The Engineer’) was the first to break. You have to remember that Bobby had played the role all over the world and could probably do it in his sleep.

Late in the schedule, we were upstairs in the theatre taking another stab at the “Bangkok” number near the top of Act Two. Being on the stage gave a better feel of the space we had to fill, and I was happy to take advantage of any time I could get up there. The number has a lot of moving parts – the Tourists, the Hustlers and Street Vendors, the Girls. At center stage, ‘The Engineer’, now in a state of desperation, is trying to earn a living selling the girls with a lot of competition from the ‘Hustlers’. The music is burlesque in nature, rather slow with a lot of instrumental music space to fill visually as he tries to attract ‘The Tourists’ with sporadic sung lines here and there. Giving the Ensemble folks “things to do” and getting them to hit their marks on a certain word during the number was not working and I was running out of ideas. The girls were not giving the right vibe as they tried to be sexy in the doorway of the club. The Tourists and Vendors and Hustlers seemed to be wandering around aimlessly … all my fault for not being more specific in the blocking. It was a mess! And, worst of all, I was starting to get scared.

I have to say that during rehearsals, Bobby was magnificent. His generosity, adaptability and good humour had buoyed everyone, including me. He’d offer suggestions when asked and was always at the ready to try something new. But, as time went on and my imagination wasn’t giving me the words to explain what I wanted to happen, my fear started to affect everything in the scene. The sporadic nature of the lyrics confused the Ensemble. A word or two sung here, little phrases there, all meant to keep them involved and responding, were being missed. The blocking wasn’t helping, and Bobby, playing mostly down center was getting frustrated by those dropped cues mainly because they prompted what he was singing and where his focus was supposed to be. Time and again, someone wouldn’t be in a particular place, and we’d have to go back, over and over again without much, if any, improvement. I was getting angry, and I would scream out “Now!” for someone to make a cross and it didn’t happen. And then Bobby lost it.

I could see it coming as he looked to engage with someone who wasn’t there.

“Stop, stop, stop! I can’t! There’s no one there. There’s no one to work with”, he yelled.

He was getting louder and pacing about aimlessly and getting more upset. His voice was cracking, and I felt helpless.

“Everyone … five minutes”. And I went over to Bobby. “I’m sorry you’re having to go through this”, I said.

“We do it over and over with no results” he said, and began to cry.

I moved him off stage and into one of the box seat enclosures just beyond Stage Left. He broke down, the culmination of many days of a building tension and railed at me, not holding anything back. I felt terrible and guilty and inept, but kept trying to comfort him.

“It’s my fault”, I said. “I’ve not attended to the details, and it’s put you in an awkward place.”

He was calming down, but not enough to continue. I said he should go downstairs to the Green Room and take some time and I’d get things in order for him. He left the box seat area, and I went back on stage. I knew most of the Ensemble had been trying not to listen to what was going on just a few feet away from them, but it was apparent they were affected by it too. I told them I would stand in for Bobby and, little bit by little bit, repeating each section over and over again, I patched it together so that it matched what was in my head and, most importantly, what was in the score. It took a while and by the time we finished, I could see Bobby was standing in the wings watching.

I walked over to him. “Should we try it?” I asked him, and off we went. It was a bit ragged, but everyone was where they were supposed to be. We never talked about the episode. It was as if it hadn’t happened, but I was painfully aware that it had, and it preyed on me.

A few days later, in a rehearsal with Stephen (Patterson, playing ‘Chris’) and Trish (Magsino, playing ‘Kim’) I again found myself in another awkward situation. Ground-zero in this show is the fact that it is a “Big Sing”. There is no hiding for anyone. The music doesn’t stop. The singing doesn’t stop. It is the foundation of the piece, the raison d’etre, and the only form of communication. We had been working on the scene called “This Money’s Yours” which leads into “Sun and Moon”, a beautiful duet. But the start of the scene, after a night that ‘Chris’ and ‘Kim’ have spent together, is combative, fraught. ‘Chris’ offers her money, to which she takes offence and to which, of course, ‘Chris’ angrily responds, and it builds into a tense back and forth.

There is a thing, mostly in the Opera world, called “marking”. It’s when a singer holds back vocally to protect or “save” the voice for the “real” thing. It usually happens late in rehearsals and is reluctantly accepted … up to a point. Marking has a tendency to deflate energy, blur intentions and is very hard to work through. We still had a long way to go in solidifying the emotional arc of their exchanges as well as the blocking. Steve had sung full out for most of this work but then started to mark for some reason. I let it go as we were still stopping and starting to get a section set, but once running the scene I needed him to be full bore to see that it all was working. He continued to mark. I finally had to stop. “Steve, I need you to sing out”, I said. “We’re spinning wheels if you don’t give out with ‘Chris’s’ retaliation to ‘Kim’s’ accusations. He took great umbrage at this and went on a saved-up rant that took me by surprise. “I can’t keep doing this!” I said just one more and he did it full voice but with an unsubtle pissed-off edge. It wasn’t quite where I needed it to be, but I didn’t want to upset him further and I let it go. He stomped out of the room without saying a word, and we were done. These altercations were piling up. This wasn’t the last.

Things continued to take shape, very gradually but securely, and we finally moved up to the Theatre. With the set now being in place, another element was taken care of. The work we did with the cast moving set pieces as well as the huge bamboo wall sections paid off. The transitions were flowing smoothly. Lighting was gradually being added and the effects were wonderful. Even the most complicated scene in the show – “The Fall of Saigon” and “The Evacuation” – was done, but it had taken forever to detail. There are few things more difficult than trying to get a riot scene look like a riot. Everyone has to be on the same wave length, thinking and feeling the same thing and being aware of each other, where they are on-stage, where they are in the music, when to sing and when, as a group, to rotate the huge chain link fences from “outside” to “inside” the Embassy grounds, from being “in front of” to being “behind” the barricades in a matter of seconds, all the while maintaining the fear and desperation that propels the scene. But they did it! We’d worked on it forever in the rehearsal hall and, once on stage, had taken a lot of time to confirm every moment. The only things missing were the Orchestra and the full soundscape for the scene.

Rick had continued to do a super job getting all the music prepared and I was so grateful to have such a collaborative and patient partner in this process. It was always a highlight of the schedule for me to sit alone in the house and listen to an Orchestra play through the score for the first time. I thought back to the first “Les Miz” Orchestra rehearsal all those years ago just before the show’s Winnipeg engagement and subsequent Tour. Like that experience, hearing the “Saigon” music played by an Orchestra after weeks of only a rehearsal piano was utterly thrilling. Sam had assembled the city’s A-list musicians (and some folks from out-of-town) and they were all challenged for the three hours, totally focused and responding to Rick’s baton. The following evening, the Sitzprobe (sitting and singing with the Orchestra) had taken the Cast to a new level of excitement. The sound was incredible!

Like the falling chandelier in “Phantom”, the helicopter in “Saigon” had become emblematic of the show itself. I wasn’t going to let that be dumbed down and at the outset had insisted to Ken that he spare no expense in making the prop as realistic as possible. So I was over the moon when I saw it for the first time. In a test with the lighting effects as it descended from high above the stage I couldn’t have been more excited. It looked real! All that remained was to add the propeller sound and we would be done.

The first time through was without the cast. I wanted to get the sound cue organized from the start of the helicopter’s arrival to the landing. We began timidly. It worked alright but the volume was much to low. I wanted the audience to feel the “whump” of the blades in their chests, so we did it again. The Orchestra took off with the filmic, gut-wrenching underscoring, symphonic, grand, expansive, using the “Why God, Why” aria as its thematic foundation; the helicopter descends and the sound got louder and louder as I kept stabbing at the air indicating to Greg, the soundman, that he should increase the volume; I was in the middle of the house looking toward the stage, feeling the sound pounding in my chest just as I wanted when suddenly I saw Rick gesturing wildly from this conductor’s podium at the front of the pit; I could see his mouth moving but couldn’t hear him. I gestured to Greg to cut the sound and as that happened Rick’s screaming voice cut through the sudden silence “… hear the Orchestra!!” I immediately knew he couldn’t hear the 20-piece Orchestra arrayed in front of him.

“Shit, Richard! That’s too loud. I can’t even hear the Orchestra!!!” He was still yelling, angry. I ran to the aisle and down to the pit.

“Sorry! Sorry!” I said as I arrived at his position. “I just wanted to hear what it sounded like. We’ll take it down, but it needs to be loud for the effect.”

“If you can’t hear the music, what’s the point of us playing?” he said, still a bit breathless from trying to get my attention. So we did it again, this time with the cast, and managed to get the right balance. The combination of the passionate music, the Army guards yelling orders and the desperate Vietnamese screaming to make their escape, the physical chaos, the music and the sound of the ‘copter blades was almost overwhelming and incredibly real. It all worked!

But now I had pissed off Rick in the process. There would be one more.

The tech runs, while tricky from time to time, were pulled together and the show started to sound and look magnificent. There were some lighting effects that took my breath away and the Ensemble’s Production numbers were as I’d pictured them in my head. Our Principals, once the Orchestra took the place of the rehearsal piano, were stunning in every aspect of their performances. I was approaching The Beyond in my admiration for and pride in their work.

Near the top of Act Two, there is a number called “Bui Doi”, a Vietnamese phrase meaning “dust of life” and refers to the children the American GIs had left behind when they returned to the States. ‘John’ (Kevin Aichele), now back in the U.S. has organized a group of veterans to raise money for those abandoned children and he sings this gripping anthem with the men of the Ensemble. It’s a Big Sing for all the guys but in particular for ‘John’ with some stratospheric notes for a Baritone – Ab’s and a strike at a Bb at one point. Kevin’s glorious sound anchored the song throughout the rehearsals, and it always brought a lump to my throat whenever he sang it. During the tech runs, I noticed that he was having some issues with being consistent in getting to those upper notes. While I wasn’t too concerned I kept an ear on it.

During a break in one of the final tech rehearsals, I went outside for a smoke. It was warm for a February evening in Winnipeg, comfortable enough to be standing outside without being bundled up. I was in a great mood because the show has settled in and there was little more I needed to do – it was looking and sounding incredible. After a few minutes by myself, Kevin came out for some fresh air. We chatted back and forth exchanging some observations, and I asked him how he was feeling about his work. “Pretty good” he said. “Still a few things to work on”. I don’t know what possessed me, but I said “Yeah, but your approach to those Ab’s in “Bui Doi” needs more support”. As soon as it was out of my mouth I knew it had been the absolutely wrong thing to say. There was a moment of silence. He looked at me and said, “Go fuck yourself” and walked back into the Theatre.

How could I not have registered his vulnerability at that moment. Kevin and I went way back to the days of “The Wave”, and we’d become friends over those years. I knew very well what a great voice he had, it’s rich tone and faultless vibrato. This was a major blunder on my part. We didn’t acknowledge it that evening. In fact, we never acknowledged it and I bore the weight of not apologizing for years. I don’t know why I never apologized. I was profoundly embarrassed by my lack of compassion in those few moments. He was struggling and I ignored it. Our exchange had fallen deep down inside me, landing like another rock onto the pile of my insensitivities over the previous weeks.

The production opened to great praise, and the Cast was justifiably lauded for their work. I was happy for that. “Miss Saigon” would be one of my proudest yet saddest experiences. And the sadness lingered.

It was still with me as I headed off to New York for the Opening Night of “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” which we were contracting (yeah … MSI was still anchoring my day-to-day life) and I was dazzled by it. The car (“Chitty”), which was the signature of the show, was a marvel. As in the movie, the musical features an old jalopy that can fly. How they were going to do that on stage was anyone’s guess and I was excited to see the effect. It didn’t disappoint. I’d taken my niece Samantha and her boyfriend Eric with me, and we were sitting in the third row on the right side of the center section. In the show’s Finale, the car, now loaded with the lead characters (Raul Esparza and Erin Dilly and the kids) singing out “Chitty’s” praises, miraculously sprouts wings and lifts off the stage floor! From my vantage point – and I was close – I couldn’t see how it was being done. The stage was dark (it was a night scene) and I kept looking under the car to see a gimble or hoisting arm of some kind, but there was nothing there! The audience went nuts as ‘Chitty’ floated out over the orchestra pit and then over the front five rows of the house before turning and heading back above the stage and off into a starry night sky as the lights came down. Truly astonishing!

I caught a few other shows – “Wicked” for the first time, in the front row of a life-changing production of “Glengary Glen Ross” with Alan Alda and Liev Schrieber, and “Hairspray” which included a role I vowed to play at some point down the road. And then it was back home.

As I sat watching those great performances, my mind kept flashing back to “Miss Saigon” and those moments mentioned above. Over the years, by using life experience or an imagined connection, I’d always found my way into most of the shows I’d either acted in or directed. My sense of organization and structure had always kept most doubts at bay, but “Saigon” found me increasingly floundering, and I couldn’t understand why. I can remember standing in the middle of staging that crowd scene in the “Bangkok” number, feeling lost, and it frightened me … really frightened me. The complexity of the material and its structure, in particular the music, had subliminally overwhelmed me. The limitations of a time signature turned counter creative and, for the life of me, I couldn’t find my way back to the performers. Bobby paid for my ineptitude, just as Stephen and Kevin and Rick eventually did. I will always regret those moments and still, after all this time, I continue to offer my apologies.

Every now and then, unbidden, unprompted, those memories bubble back up to the surface as they have here, reminding me that they happened … and can never happen again. We all have things to keep us humble.