The Roar of the Greasepaint, The Smell of the Crowd

(Yes, that is a real song title - as well as a musical written by Anthony Newelly - we remember him from the oft-parodied 'What Kind of Fool Am I', correct?)

I have missed the giddiness. The excited chatter while we complain about the room chosen to accomodate us (for size, not privacy or lighting). The silliness that accompanies nervous energy. Putting on makeup fit only for actors and hookers (OHA!). Making fun of our Carnival Cruise Lines costumes and feeling strangely sisterhood-ish when they're finally donned. Warm-ups (I love warm-ups - what a great way to get all of my frenetic energy focused). Down time in-between where we get to know one another and sneak peeks at each other's family (no, mine wasn't present, that would be silly. I almost got my daughter there, but it was too long for her to hang out with old people.)

So how did a Barbershop Show Choir in Maine compare to professional theatre in New York? Favorably. In some ways, better. Yes, it's true. I'd have to say the differences were minor. The intention was the same. In some ways, our chorus is much more focused than even Olivier - in certain respects only. It felt the same. It played the same. Only this time...

The backbiting (for the most part) was gone. The challenge to keep oneself from being upstaged by esteem-impaired fellow professionals was missing. Instead, a feeling of camaraderie, acceptance and desire to see each other be incredible was fostered. How can that NOT be better?

Yes, I miss performing. Yes, I miss the spotlight. But, believe it or not, I get to fill some of my own personal spotlight needs by being a part of an ensemble. Because the gals I sing with know when I get it right. They know when I'm amazing and they say "we want that right here, standing with us" instead of "I could have done that better."

And if that doesn't get ya. Riding in a car with 6 other barbershopper girls (OHA!) to the local Pizza Hut for salad bar (and WHY did we order those breadsticks, again?), the windows down, a glorious sunny day, radio blasting...no, not the Beachboys, not Frank Sinatra - not even Barry Manilow. It was one of the top Sweet Adeline Quartets, UnderAge, and we were all singing four part harmony at the top of our lungs. And I'll be damned if I suddenly didn't, for just a second, feel like I was cruising Noland Road with Renee in her Brown Ford Fairmont (with the ooga horn), singing Juice Newton and Hall and Oates at the top of our lungs.

What an incredibly successful day for me. Thanks, gals.