Stage Blues
In the novel Outro, Ruby Cohen gives up on a
once-promising Broadway career to move to the Northwest and take care of her
troubled brother. She takes her singing to the Karz Bar karaoke lounge in Gig
Harbor Washington, where she befriends the hostess, Channy, and hooks up with
one of the regulars, Harry. When she and Harry return from a Mexican cruise,
she meets Channy for coffee and relates a remarkable story.
Ruby
Everything on the ship had an
artistic theme, and the karaoke took place in the Starry Night Lounge, before
an enormous wallpaper re-creation of its title work. As you might have guessed,
Harry and I went there every night. He had the chance to sic his well-drilled
repertoire on a whole new crowd of swooning females, and I had the chance to
explore an impressive selection of standards and showtunes. I developed an
immediate following among the seniors, who enjoyed swinging and fox-trotting to
my songs.
At the end of our first
evening, our Australian hostess Lani asked me if I was going to try out for the
Legends concert. For the next four evenings, passengers would come to the
Starry Night and sing a song by a legendary performer. If the audience decided
you were the best at that song, you would appear as that performer in a
Vegas-style show before 1,500 of your fellow passengers.
I actually thought of opting
out. The contest was obviously aimed at amateurs, and it wouldn’t be entirely
fair for me to participate. That thought lasted about half a second. If my ship
was gonna have a show, I was gonna be
in it.
One problem: none of the
female roles were from jazz or Broadway. I halfway thought of cross-dressing as
Sinatra, but I chickened out. So began my journey through the popular music of
the late 20th century.
The first night was Aretha,
and the song was “Respect.” I assumed it was about the singing, and I thought I
pretty much nailed it. But then, out comes this perky young Filipina, and she’s
got choreography, for God’s sake. So
much choreography, in fact, that she’s dropping notes right and left. No one
seems to notice, and I’m out.
The next night is Madonna,
“Like A Virgin.” I grew up on that song – hell, I think I lost my virginity to
that song. But I’ve learned my lesson, so I throw in a couple of sexy moves
when I can. However. The next
contestant is this sexy Italian kindergarten teacher from Long Island, and she
throws in the kind of moves that no
kindergarten teacher should ever
know. At one point, she pulls out a classic Madonna maneuver, lying with her
back on the stage while she’s singing. So! Am I going to get the part? No way.
My third chance is Gloria
Estefan, “The Rhythm is Gonna Get You.” I can totally pull off Gloria – I grew up in Florida, after all – and I
prep myself with some salsa and rhumba moves before adjourning to the Starry
Night. But then…
The rowdiest pack on the ship
is this alumni group from Indiana University. They’re easy to spot, because
they all wear red, all the time – massing down the fiesta deck, crowding the
blackjack tables, doing the frug in the Warhol Club. In the swimming pools,
they wear red bathing suits. Nice people, but loud, and the constant red-ness
gives off an unsettling Nazi vibe.
I sing a couple of tropical
warmups – “Jamaican Farewell,” “Girl from Ipanema” – but at nine, when the
contest begins, there’s a rumbling like someone just lifted the gate at
Pamplona. The wide front doors swing open and in rolls the Red Sea, filling
every available nook. As you might expect, they’re here for a cause: a
50-year-old with dried-out smoker’s skin and frizzy hair with traces of several
different red dye jobs. She actually seems quite nice, and she throws in some
decent Cuban dance moves, but her voice is a creaky, smoked-out mess. Doesn’t
matter. When the Red Sea explodes, she’s a winner.
I can’t be the good loser this
time. I wait till the next singer takes the mic, then give Harry’s hand a
squeeze and we make for the back exit. We’re halfway through the Internet café
when a door opens, and out pops our KJ.
“Lani! How’d you…?”
“Every ship’s got its secret
passageways,” she says. “Look. That
sort of shit” – she nods back toward the club – “is a truly unfortunate part of
my job. It happens at least once a cruise. But I want you to know, I know
exactly how good you are, and I know this stuff is all beneath your talent, but I can’t stand the thought of you not
being in that show, and I really want
you to come back tomorrow night.”
“I’m… thanks, Lani. But I
don’t even know the song.”
She hands me a rectangular
object wrapped in wires. It’s an IPod. “You will, if you listen to that. We
usually only give these to the winners, so they can practice for the show. But
screw the rules! We’re in international waters, right?”
“Oh
Lani, I…”
“Oh Lani nothing! Do your
homework, young lady. Whoops! Song’s over. Bye.”
She’s back through the door
and I’m left floating in flattery. We retreat to the arcade, where Harry and I
work out our frustrations on a combination jukebox/electronic drum set (mostly
Led Zeppelin) then on to the Matisse jazz lounge for martinis. When we get back
to our cabin, I find a mysterious package on my bed. It’s a DVD of the Legends
concert from a previous cruise. Somebody really
wants me to get this part.
Which is Britney Spears –
“Hit Me Baby One More Time.” I never liked it much, but the next morning, when
I strapped on the IPod and tried it out, I was surprised to find out how well
it suited me. Britney has this deep, low pocket that she slides into, and it
seemed to wrap around my voice like a form-fitting dress. After it scratched a
few grooves into my synapses, I tried out the DVD and studied the moves of the
ship’s dancers. (I ignored their Britney, who was
Aunt-Zelda-sings-at-your-wedding awful.) If I could work a little of the
choreography into my audition, it would give me a nice edge. I pushed our bed
to the cabin wall and put myself through some paces. It was pretty sexy stuff;
I caught Harry peeking from the bathroom as he shaved.
The costume was a cinch. I
picked out a short pleated skirt (intended for some imaginary night of
dancing), shiny black shoes that might pass for patent leather, and white
knee-high stockings. Then I stole Harry’s white dress shirt and tied it above
my bare midriff. Voila! The classic parochial slut, and we were off to the bar.
Little do I know, I have
become a cause celebre. The regulars are pretty cheesed off about the Red Sea
incident, and impressed that I am now risking four-time loserdom. A group of
Japanese tourists has migrated to the front row for the sole purpose of
cheering me on. I am the 1980 U.S. hockey team, the 1969 Jets. When I begin
with Peggy Lee’s “Fever” (designed to work up my “sexy”), the crowd lets out a
practice uproar.
Come audition time, I’m up
first, and I guess I’m better than I expected. I have wisely inserted my dance
moves into the generous spaces between the vocal lines, so I can concentrate on
one task at a time. Rolling into the ending, I strike a pose at each of four
beats, raking a hand along my skirt and over my hair as I arch my back. The
place goes nuts.
But then, out comes my competition,
and I have every right to be nervous. If you didn’t tell me otherwise, I’d say
it is Britney, this 19-year-old
chicklet with legs up to Canada, an utterly fantastic ass, nice rack, big
Hollywood lips and a head of hair that rains down in thick ribbons of
blondeness. She’s a fucking shampoo commercial. The music begins, she vamps to
the front of the stage and out comes this voice like an LP played with a
concrete needle.
Game over, right? Don’t bet
on it. Because Britney II has an entourage of fratboys, and it’s almost as if
she’s offered a night of carnal pleasures to whoever yells the loudest. On the
first vote, in fact, the ovations are too close to call. But this only serves
to piss off my fans even more. A short, bespectacled man jumps in front of his
Japanese peers to cheerlead, and when Lani’s hand pops open over my head I am
blown backward by the loudest, scariest sound I’ve heard since a Navy air show
on Whidbey Island. I am deafened, I am adored, and even a pack of horny
fratboys cannot match it. Lani brings the mic to her mouth, declares “I think
it’s Ruby!” and my fans burst forth in a fugue of coyote yips. My life-long
dream of playing Britney Spears has come to pass.
By now you’re probably
wondering about my talented boyfriend. Unlike me, Harry was no slut for every
passing star. He wanted only to be the King. Even though the part of Elvis was
the final male audition, making this an all-or-nothing attempt, he would
consider no other. As it turned out, his loyalty was richly rewarded – because
nobody else tried out. Harry was summarily crowned, and asked to sing “Hound
Dog” as proof of his prowess. He was excellent, of course, but I gave him a
whack on the butt nonetheless, for the gross inequity of our respective
situations.
We spent the next day
kayaking – and perhaps that’s another reason I got so attached to it. We
paddled within the glow of victory, and I could barely hear the sounds of
frigate birds, motorboats or waves on rocks with “Hit Me Baby One More Time”
playing interminably through my head (without, I might add, the assistance of
an IPod). That afternoon, I discovered what a small, magnified community is a
cruise ship, and how quickly word of my travails had spread. My biggest fans
were the seniors, who relished the fact that someone who sang their songs could beat a teenybopper at
her own generation’s music. Strangers would shout to me in the corridors – “Hey
Britney!” “Karaoke girl!” “Go get ‘em, Ruby!” – and whenever we came upon my
Japanese posse, they weren’t happy until I hugged each and every one of them.
That night’s dinner was a formal-dress affair, and when I entered the hall in
my jade-green sequin gown, they applauded
me. It felt like some wacky Fred Astaire musical, and I ate it up like crème
brulee.
You might expect Harry to be
taken aback by all of this, perhaps even a little jealous – he was Elvis, after
all. But Harry was precisely the opposite, confident enough in his own talent
to understand that my four-part battle had become something extraordinary. He
had a permanent goofy grin plastered to his mug, and he never tired of telling
everybody that he was sleeping with Britney Spears. I think he was also proud
that everybody else was finding out about his talented girlfriend, and excited
that he would finally get to see me in my element. It didn’t hurt when the
Japanese contingent would bow down in mock worship and chant “Ellll-vis!
Ellll-vis!”
The show was actually pretty
easy. They had done it cruise after cruise for God knows how long, and had it
carefully programmed for shaky amateurs. After donning our costumes (available
in three different sizes), we adjourned to the “green room,” which was really
just a small landing next to this metallic, Navy-looking stairwell. Harry’s
Elvis costume – the white Vegas jumpsuit – seemed to turn him into the class
cutup, and he went around punching holes in the tension. He turned to Melanie,
in her early-Madonna see-through dress, and said, “I hate to mention this,
honey, but we can see your underwear!”
I also remember our lead showgirl, Holly – she of the perfect six-foot body –
using the stairway rails to stretch in ways that would probably send the rest
of us to the hospital.
Playing the youngest of the
icons, I had to wait an interminable amount of time before my escort, a lovely
gay dancer named Geoffrey, came to whisk me away. We braced ourselves beside
the entrance, elbows coupled, listening for the cue in Britney’s intro (I
believe it was the word “vixen”), and then he gives me a tug and leads me to a
star at center stage. My job is to sing the song without straying from that
star, lest I trip up one of the schoolgirls in my “posse,” but of course I’m
after brownie points. Britney II and her fratboys have every right to be
suspicious about the way the same moves I used in my audition are matching up
with those of the dancers. The audience just knows, instinctively, that
something about my performance is “tighter” than the others. I jolt into that
same four-pose ending and freeze with my troupe, taking a loofah shower in the
sound of 3,000 hands. It is indescribably sweet.
Geoffrey comes to fetch me
back, and we stand in the wings as Harry does his stuff. He definitely has the
best production values in the show: the classic 2001: Space Odyssey intro, followed by a verse of “Hound Dog,”
followed by “Jailhouse Rock” with a half-dozen twirling babes in Ray-bans and
Capri pants. He throws in a couple of leg-waggles and sings his usual
excellence, eliding one forgotten phrase with what he calls the Elvis Mumble.
Holly Perfectbody comes to
lead him off, and then comes a surprisingly touching elegy: a spotlight on an
empty stool as we listen to clips of Sinatra talking about his life. Michael, a
journalist from Seattle, comes out in a tux and short-brimmed fedora to sing
“My Way” in a voice eerily similar to the original. As the orchestra wells up,
the rest of the legends return, and our escorts walk us through a simple
choreography. We take our final bows (more loofah, pass the shampoo) and run up
the aisle to a nearby lounge for photos. I was tugged away by Harry, who
continued talking like Elvis as he kissed away a major portion of my makeup.
“Hey Priscilla, wanna
celebrate?”
“And what do you call what
you just did?”
“That’s just preliminaries,
bebe.”
“Well first we’d better
return these getups.”
He ran a hand under the hem
of my plaid skirt. “Sure they wouldn’t let you keep this just a little longer?”
I had no choice but to squeak
like a Mouseketeer. “Mr. Presley! You bad, bad man. I’m gonna tell Colonel
Parker on you.”
“I’m pretty sure he’d be on
my side. Meet me in the Mattress Lounge?”
“That’s Matisse, you
pedophile.”
“Pee-doh… Whassat?”
“Jerry Lee Lewis.”
“Oh! Uh-uh-huh.”
Harry held my shoulders,
keeping me still with those blue eyes, and spoke like Harry again.
“Seriously, Ruby. You were
incredible up there. I never dreamed you were that good.”
I kissed him thoroughly and
sent him off to the men’s dressing room with a slap to the hindquarters. He
gave me a pistolshot with his fingers, said, “Thankyou. Thankyouvermuch,” and
joined James Brown in a march backstage.
Between chit-chatting with
Aretha and Gloria (silently forgiving them for beating me), receiving my
compliments from Geoffrey (“I had you picked out as a pro from square one”) and
swapping back into my civilian clothes, I was the last one out of the dressing
room. When I came back out on stage, the theater was profoundly empty. I have a
superstition that goes, Any time you see a mark, hit it, so I ambled up to the
star and buried its east and west points under my pumps. A burst of short-term
memory washes over me, but it flutters away like a riverbank of butterflies and
I arrive at a wall of sadness, as if my veins have all gone indigo. A surge of
gravity yanks me seaward, but I fight it, pressing down on that star and
turning my legs into treetrunks, letting the tears do what they may.
“Everything OK?”
You could forgive me for
thinking it’s God – a gruff, booming baritone emanating from stage left. I
twist from my star to discover a large man in a double-breasted navy suit. He
seems to be in his mid-fifties, balding, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard,
but he exudes a virile energy – executive bouncer, high-class Mafioso.
“Stage blues,” he says.
“You’ve hit an emotional peak, and now the moment’s gone. It’s all downhill
from here – but at least it’s a tall hill.”
I perform a few eye rubs to
clean the slate.
“No offense, but who the hell
are you?”
He lets out a guffaw on a
single note, like the ones produced by opera singers during party scenes. “Haw!
I’m Albert Camarelli, and I’m quite a fan. You are a marvelous singer.”
“Thank you, Mr. Camarelli.”
“Please. You can call me Al.”
“Al.” I take a second to scan
the empty seats, trying to put a name to my symptoms. “But you’re wrong, Al.
I’m familiar with stage blues. I’m a… professional. And I’m wondering why I had
to work so fucking hard to get this
stupid, shitty little part.”
“There are no small parts,
just…”
“Oh save it, Al!” And here I
am, crying again. Al comes over and places a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry. Shouldn’t throw
cliches at a pro. Would you like to take a walk with me on deck? Just for a few
minutes?”
This seems a little forward,
but Al’s aura emanates benevolence.
“You should know,” I say,
“I’m already taken.”
He smiles. “Everybody knows
that. You and Elvis are the golden couple. He’s pretty good, too. Nowhere near
as good as you.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Honey, there’s jazz and then
there’s the easy stuff. You’re a jazz
singer.”
I turn and do a little
squeegee job on my face.
“You’ve heard me sing jazz?”
“All week.”
“And I’m a jazz singer?”
“Most definitely.”
“Okay, Al. Let’s go for a
walk.”
I take a last, doleful look
at my star before following Al up the aisle. The elevator opens on the forward
pool area, populated by a few late-night drinkers and a chain-smoking teen in a
Ramones T-shirt.
“Britney! You are hot, honey.”
“Thanks,” I say.
We walk a few feet more and
Al says, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
I flash him a secret grin. “A
teenage boy just called me ‘hot,’ Al. What do you think?”
“Haw! Mind if I puff a
stogie? It’s a Cuban, so it’s now or never.”
“Nah. Go ahead.”
Al turns away from the
breeze, cups his hand and lights up. I wander toward the railing, eyeing the
low strip of Baja California, a handful of lights popping from the darkness. Al
joins me, proffering his prize.
“Care for a puff?”
“Sure.” I twirl the tip in my
mouth and take a drag. The smoke carries a rich coffee edge, plus something
unexpectedly sweet, like a good port.
“That is lovely,” I say.
“You’ve done this before.”
“I’ve got a friend who smokes
Swisher Sweets.”
“Egad! On purpose?” He takes
it back, tips the ash into a designated container (installed after balcony
passengers down below found themselves being attacked by flurries of gray snow),
then works the end into an orange glow.
“So! Ruby. Would you play
some word association with me?”
“Sure, doc.”
“Gershwin.”
“But Not For Me.”
“Straighten Up and Fly
Right.”
“Nat King Cole. The trio
years.”
“Vocalese.”
“Take a famous instrumental
solo and apply lyrics to it. Created by Lambert, Hendricks and the incomparable
Ross.”
“Lush Life.”
“Ooh! Billy Eckstine. Smokey
stuff.”
Al stops and turns because he
thinks he’s got a meaty one.
“Mack the Knife.”
“Merry little tune about a
serial killer. Kurt Weill, for The Threepenny Opera with Bertolt Brecht. They
told him the show needed a prologue to explain the main character; on the way
home, he heard a trolley playing that familiar three-note motif: doo doo doo doo. Famously recorded by Louis,
Ella, Frank and of course Bobby D. Weill also wrote Moon of Alabama, recorded
by the Doors, and September Song.”
“Um, uh…” Al is running out
of steam. “A Small Hotel?”
“Rodgers and Hart. Al? Are we
playing Jeopardy?”
He comes to some kind of
decision and snaps his fingers. “No. You’re it,
Ruby.”
“So we’re playing tag?
Yaknow, I’ve really got to meet Elvis in the Matisse…”
“No!” We’ve arrived at the
aft swimming pool. He waves me into a chair. “Just two more minutes, I swear.”
I take a seat as Al heads for
the bar. He takes out a key and opens a cabinet, then returns with two glasses
and a bottle of champagne.
“Al! You’re gonna get in
trouble.”
He gives me a wink. “It’s all
right. I’ve got connections.” He pops the cork, fills us up and raises a toast.
“May you never have to sing Britney Spears ever again.”
“You devil! You have come up
with something I cannot refuse to drink to.”
Al sits down and arranges his
legs until he’s comfortable, then he leans forward and laces his fingers.
“I’ve been watching you all
week, Ruby. It takes a real connoisseur to know how good you are, and I knew it
after three seconds. I spent the rest of the week making sure that I wasn’t
hallucinating. You have this ability with a song, to mold it, craft it like a
fine sculptor – and God forbid, have a little fun with it. What you don’t have
is this godawful need to flatten out the tone and sap out all the warmth.”
“Like Diana Krall?” I ask.
He laughs. “As in, makes my
skin Krall. No. You have this marvelous old-fashioned sensibility that never,
ever should have gone out of style. Actual vibrato, actual phrasing – call it
torch singing, or vocal acting. The seniors appreciate it, because they grew up
with it, but only two people on this fucking ship understand precisely what
makes it work, and they’re both sitting at this table.”
I smile and take another sip
of Al’s very good champagne. “You know, Al? As long as you’re not some highly
articulate stalker, I could get to like you.”
“Haw! That’s good, because
you might be seeing a lot of me.”
“Um… Okay. Why?”
“I’m the vice president of
this cruise line, Ruby. I’m also the entertainment director. We get a lot of
older passengers on our Alaskan cruises – people who still know and love the
great songs. For that and my own purely selfish reasons, I’ve decided to set up
an old-fashioned jazz club, just like the ones you would see in one of those
old Astaire movies, and fit it out with a small orchestra and a singer. And I
want you to be the singer.”
Channy
That’s about the time I lose
it. I slam the table with both hands and yell “No!” spilling half my coffee and
alarming the couple at the next table.
“Yes!” says Ruby. “I start
next month.”
“That is incredible! That is…
Oh! Oh Ruby!” I circle the table to give her a hug, and then I grab a handful
of napkins to sop up my coffee. It’s amazing how quickly my thoughts revert to
my own selfish needs.
“But… Does this mean you’re
leaving?”
“Not at all. The cruises are
out of Seattle. A week on/week off kind of thing.”
I feel a little dizzy, awash
with joy. It’s true – empathy is a workable drug. But I’ve got one more doubt.
“Is this… Is this enough for
you?”
Ruby tents her fingers. “I
believe the quote was, I will no longer chase a dream that doesn’t chase me.
Well honey, this particular dream stalked me for a week and then toasted me
with champagne and Cuban cigars! And I think by now I’ve got a handle on my
basic needs. I need to stand in front of people and sing to them. If it’s on a
cruise ship, an entire country away from Times Square, then so be it!”
We both relax into our
chairs, chewing our perfect bread. Ruby lets out little aspirations of wonder
left over from the Mexican Pacific. Then she snaps to and raps her knuckles on
the table.
“Oh, Channy. Me me me! I
completely forgot – did you hear anything about Kai?”
Don’t think I’m not tempted.
I have huge, carnivorous creatures crawling inside of me, and if I don’t expose
them to the light of day they will eat me alive. But I am not about to rain on
such a spectacular parade.
“Nope,”
I say. “Haven’t heard a thing.”
Photo by MJV
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