“They’re Playing Our Song”

After spending a few summers at theater camps, I decided that I was ready to direct a full-fledged Broadway musical at our local community theater. The whole gimmick of a community theater is to pick a show that will automatically draw an audience. Something big with name recognition. Something that people will have heard of before and be comfortable with.

Hello, Dolly!

Annie.

Fiddler on the Roof.

You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.

For whatever reason, I decided to direct They’re Playing Our Song. Except for the title song, the show was a bit of a disappointment on Broadway. Most of the people in Centralia had never heard of the show. But something about the musical made me think I could pull it off. I was sixteen. What did I know?

The plot involves a lyricist and a composer who fall in love. But that wasn’t what really drew me to the piece. There were three “alter egos” that danced behind the main characters. Something about that seemed cool and edgy to me. So They’re Playing Our Song it was.

I had started to hear from more season veterans of the community theater that I should prepare myself for a very poor turnout. After all, I was doing a seldom heard of show in the middle of the summer. People liked to go on vacation of play baseball or fish in the summer. They weren’t too eager to sit through amateur productions of musicals they’d never heard of before.

I prepared myself for meager crowds.

When I brought this up to Dad, he asked if he could help out with publicity for the show. I was a little wary of the idea. He would probably come up with some embarrassing way to promote the musical. I could see him suggesting that I walk the streets wearing a sandwich board sign or that I sing selections from the show to his patients as he poked at their gall bladders. But I was too busy to think much about it. I was a very serious sixteen-year-old musical theater director. I even carried a briefcase.

Let Dad handle publicity if he wants to.

A few days later at rehearsal, someone stopped me and asked if I’d seen the newspaper. They handed me a copy of the Centralia Sentinel and at the bottom of the page was a tiny box that read: 24 Days Until They’re Playing Our Song opens at the Centralia Cultural Society.

It was the craziest thing any of us had seen. I kind of shrugged and embarrassingly said, “My dad…” as if that should explain everything.

No one had heard of marketing a community theater production like that before and the more people questioned me about it, the more I’d just throw up my hands or roll my eyes and spit out my mantra, “My dad…”

Each day the number in the add got shorter and I found myself agonizing over such earth-shattering details as how to get the actors to sing and change the set at the same time or who was going to get to do the comedy bit with the bedpan in the hospital scene. And did anyone have a car we could use for the musical sequence where the characters drive to Quogue? Also, where is Quogue?

As opening night grew closer, a huge blinking sign was set up in front of Dad’s office in town. It was located on one of the busiest streets and advertised dates for the musical. Again, members of the cast where stopping me and asking if I’d seen Dad’s latest publicity stunt. It was clear that people thought the sign was so tacky that it would probably keep people away from the show, just on the principles of good taste.

Somebody asked, “Was that your idea?”

Again I hung my head and mumbled, “My dad…”

At last the tiny ad in the newspaper read: 0 Days Until They’re Playing Our Song opens at the Centralia Cultural Society.

The set changes were still taking too long, some of the cast members had stopped talking to one another and I had discovered that my assistant director had tried to coach the actors behind my back. On top of that, older members of the theater company kept reminding me that I would probably have very few ticket buyers.

“You should have done The Fantasticks! Everyone knows The Fantasticks!”

Feeling miserable and defeated, I arrived at the theater at 7:30 on opening night. There was a small crowd outside the building. I assumed that someone had forgotten their keys and rushed to unlock the door. To my amazement, the door swung right open.

People weren’t waiting for the doors to open, people were waiting in line. The place was so packed we had to add extra seats and some of the audience members were forced to stand in the back.

I stood there in disbelief, realizing for the first time how important it was to have an audience. The size of the crowd blew my mind. I suddenly heard someone say, “That ad in the newspaper made you feel like you might be missing something really important if you didn’t show up. I wonder who thought of that…”

Someone else said, “I drive by that blinking sign twice a day. I finally decided, ‘Alright, I’ll go!’”

My father knew the real secret to show business: if doesn’t matter how you got people in the seats as long as you got people in the seats.

I watched as several of the seasoned community theater members entered and looked around at the crowd in amazement.

The ones who had warned me to expect a poor turnout.

One of them pushed his way through the crowd and said, “I’ve never seen this many people here in my life! Where did they all come from?”

The same words that had been coming out of my mouth for the past few months made their usual appearance. Only this time the shrugging and the embarrassment was gone. This time they were filled with respect and maybe even a little pride.

“My dad.”