And we laughed and laughed and laughed.
That simple, emotive act is my most vivid memory after being intimately involved with the Braintree High School Theater Guild’s production of “A Musical Score”, which was just your run of mill 20 years in the making musical revue containing vignettes of every musical the BHSTG has done.
No big whoop, huh?
And who could successfully pull off such an ambitious, momentous project? A project that was both vanguard and rubicon for the town of Braintree?
Who had the animal magnetism to consolidate BHS performers from the present time to the early 90s? From all corners of the globe? From space and time?
Who could not only convince these people they could still perform but mold these once again shapeless lumps of clay into the stuff of stars?
Who? Whom?
One man: Rolf I. Carlson, who I found myself waiting for anxiously at the kickoff meeting for “A Musical Score” in early May of 2010. Unbeknownst to me, the meeting time had been moved back and hour. So there I was. In Braintree High School for the first time since I went back to take in “My Fair Lady” (which included a tour de force performance by the littlest lady in the room, Lenore Herget).
Me and my salt and pepper beard…and twenty something high school kids who looked at me as if I was Santa Claus or Jesus. Awe and wonderment at this aged fossil.
Taking a step back and observing the situation dispassionately, I was wary I should even be there. Trying to stave off the anxiety and self doubt I approached a group of young theater kids. And they were theater kids, to be sure. The girls dong ballet turns randomly. The expressive audaciousness of the boys.
This was part of the cast of “Bells Are Ringing”, I discovered, the latest BHSTG production. I told them I wasn’t a creepy stalker and they assured me I was in the right place.
Before moving forward, I had to confirm with these people that they were, indeed, high school students. In the “real world”, away from the rigid age based caste system of academia, dealing with all shapes, sizes and ages of people one tends to forget what a group of 16 year olds looks like. The tallest ones came up to my knee. Yes, I am old, as they would be quick to remind us the night of the performance. I am also mighty as a oak, I murmured to myself.
Progressing to the cafeteria, a relic that seemed much more grand at 16, I was struck by the positive signage that dominated the school. The kids must have had self esteem issues because everywhere I looked were reminders that “You’re a Winner” and “Nobody Can Be You As Well As You Can Be You”. Or, maybe they didn’t have self esteem issues because of these signs. They didn’t have them when I attended and I still have self esteem issues. Score one for the signs.
Eventually a shimmering, smiling man carrying a large box appeared in the gloaming. Rolf Carlson. Let’s just take a moment to appreciate what this man has done. A singular talent, he has vision and an unbounded love of theater that has left an ideliobel stamp on everyone he has worked with. He has a deft “people’s touch” and posses the one trait of paramount importance when dealing with high school kids: patience.
As for Rolf himself? The man is either BHS’ answer to Richard Alpert (the “Lost” character, not Baba Ram Dass, although…) or he sleeps in a hyperbaric chamber. My guess is hyperbaric chamber. Save for a solitary wisp of gray hair around his lower temples the man looks exactly the same. But in true Carlson fashion, the graying is more dramatic flair than sign of aging.
You want a challenge? Try taking thirty or so uptight, white suburban kids, an obstinate administration and a shoestring budget and pull off a high quality “Fiddler on the Roof”. Do it. Seriously, I want to see you try.
Back in 1993 I tried out for “Fiddler” frankly because my friends were kind of running the show. Kevin Wyatt, Jason Spratley and others had told me so many great stories about “Grease” and “Little Shop of Horrors” that I couldn’t resist. Little did I know my time with the BHSTG would be one of the best times of my life.
Personally, Rolf was the first adult I ever dealt with that didn’t ask me to be professional. He didn’t ask me to give my best. He simply demanded it from day one and if you weren’t on board, well, we’ll see you in that sweet by and by.
Quite simply, my time as a ward of Rolf was something that would shape me as an adult. For example: “Practice how you play”. A simple concept adopted by the finest athletes, musicians and performers. Something I learned the hard way through Rolf.
It was during the dress rehearsal for “Fiddler” within the scene in which Motel the tailor, played by Neil Langille, is proudly showing off his new sewing machine. All the townspeople, including myself as Reb Mordcha the Innkeeper, where there to “ooh” and “ahh”.
In the midst of congratulating young Motel we all slapped his shoulders and shook his hand. I thought I would be funny by putting my arm around him and, in a friendly fashion, calling him a “little prick”.
It was in the midst of many others talking but nothing got by Rolf. He brought the rehearsal to a halt, came up on stage and chewed me out. He asked me if I was going to say that during the show. I gave a meek, “no”. He then asked me, if I wasn’t going to do it during the show, why am I doing it now. I had no good answer, other than that I was the prick, and stood there like the clueless teen I was.
I’ve gone on to do other plays, as well as perform hundreds of times in bands and I always kept that lesson with me. He indoctrinated that into me so well that I find myself getting fed up with others who take a nonchalant approach toward rehearsal.
None of that crossed my mind, though, when I saw the Facebook message about organizing this event and I volunteered immediately. I told Rolf I would help him organize and direct the “Fiddler” and “Pirates of Penzance” portions of the show but would not be actually, you know, on stage. Ohh, God no.
Wrong. Rolf pretty much told everyone if you signed up, you signed up to be on stage. He didn’t cajole. He didn’t goad. He didn’t implore. You don’t want to be on stage? Well, back to that sweet by and by.
I suddenly had a pit in my stomach. A pit that was shared by other cast members. In speaking with Lynne Geoghan, we agreed that is sounded so easy and fun on Facebook. But now we were going to do what? Sing? In front of paying customers? And do steps?
Facebook, you tempestuous fraud.
I digress, but as 90% of the organizing for the show was done on Facebook, Nick Stevens and I dubbed this show Facebook: The Musical. Carry on.
Back to the meeting. As I sat there, awkward, old and trying to look somewhat matoor, as Marcia Brady would say, if not cool in my “work” clothes I was thrown a life preserver named Sarah Emond.
Finally, another slack wearing, black bag carrying adult to swim with in this sea of youthfulness. I had never met Sarah but we bonded instantly, probably because we were the oldest folks in the room, save for Rolf.
As we sat there Rolf ran down the shows in reverse chronological order, and then dropped the bomb that said order would be the order the night of the show.
Not only were we to perform for paying customers, but we were to be the closing numbers. I set my feet in the sand and braced for the horrible, “Waiting For Guffman” type performance that my crew was sure to proffer.
Then in walked a pair of angels from my past: The sisters Hassan.
Ameera Hassan greeted me with her huge smile and customary silent laugh and my fears were somewhat allayed, as this rambunctious, infectious talent was part of both of my portions. At least one of us would look good.
Trailing her was older sister and BHSTG founding member Nora Hassan. There is only one word to describe Nora: Wise. She is like a female, theatrical Yoda. With these two on the team the clouds began to part in the rainstorm in my head. They were raring to go and we immediately started planning our rehearsal schedules.
Not all were so eager. After being handed scripts and a cast roster I immediately contacted my crew. They were ready to go, save for one wayward individual who shall remain nameless. Turns out his mother had signed him up to perform. I left a voice mail running down the details and received the following text message I: I signed up for WHAT!?! I think we all felt that way at one point, with only ourselves to blame. Shame is a hell of a drug.
I went about contacting my crew, which consisted of said Hassans, Liz Mawn Psaros and her incubating child, theater professional Tim McShea, former newscaster Amy McHugh Erickson, modern day flapper Tori Antonino, film star Danielle Perry, two time mother Lynne Geoghan, television personality Nick Stevens, the enlightened Father James Cuddy and Andy Kimball, the only player to perform in each of the first four BHSTG productions.
Screw you Vince Neil, this was a real motley crew.
Being the worldly and sophisticated bunch we are not all were available for rehearsal. Even for those of us in the Braintree area who could make the all the rehearsals were going to be pressed for time, as the show was a mere three weeks away. Some of my performers wouldn’t be in the area until days before the show. One couldn’t even make the dress rehearsal. No big deal, we were only singing. Umm, right?
We pressed on with who we had and never looked back, unless it was to monitor the activities of the babysitter-less children that were brought to rehearsal.
At the initial rehearsal, as we milled about in the Braintree High Robotics room (a feature added after my departure) Rolf strode in and made a beeline for the piano. Before I knew it, sections of the dark matter in my brain that hadn’t been illuminated in years were suddenly alit with memories as Rolf began our vocal warm-ups.
Mee-Waa, mee-waa, mee-waa, meeee. Okay, I remember that. Easy enough. Just a 1-3-5-3 with the major scale. We can all handle that.
Next came the Lo lo lo lo lo lo lo’s. Now were getting our hands dirty. Really stretching out those vocal chords into positions not held for years.
Then a song. An itinerant song from deep in my past. A song that is burned into the brain of every BHSTG member. A song that would be the Grand Finale the night of the show.
It was the epic and enigmatic “Have You Seen The Ghost Of Tom”, and as Rolf played the song higher and higher up the keyboard I felt my voice loosening up and hitting notes and thinking: maybe we can pull this off.
That thought was quickly and ardently put out of my mind as we tried to tackle “Doctor of Divinity” from “Pirates”. Just a complete shit show, especially at the end. However, hope was born anew as Amy stepped to the forefront to belt out the frilly, trilly Maaaa-a-a-a-a-a-a-bel part from “Poor Wandering One” like the songbird she always was.
The “Fiddler on the Roof” script, thankfully, was not as vocally challenging as “Pirates” and we were able to get through that if not with aplomb, then at least with our dignity in tact.
And so went the rehearsals for the next two weeks. Slowly we added competence to the group performance. Rehearsing without Rolf, harmonizing even occurred. But, as BHSTG founding beacon Christian Potts told me, “harmony is what you make of it,” so maybe it was all in our heads. Sans Rolf the rehearsal to joke ratio was about 1:4.
The next two would be held with Rolf on stage and it was my job to come up with some blocking, which I did.
As I guided my crew through my ham-handed direction, Rolf jumped on stage and, like a true director, changed everything.
I’ve directed a number of short films in college and film school, but I learned more from Rolf in the following fifteen minutes that I did in both those institutions.
With an innate feel for movement he know how to give the audience a premium experience. His feel for the correct way to walk, talk, emote and express in a given musical is truly phenomenal. From Russian Jewish townsfolk to Argentinean Politicos, he knows how they move and what moves them.
This is where it got scary though: He added steps.
For “Tradition” he had us entering from opposite sides of the stage doing a crossover step. For “To Life” he added a toned down, Jewish kick line and more front-side-back-side steps.
For “Sunrise Sunset” a song about beginning, endings and the passing of time I proposed that Liz give birth at the end of the song. She was game. Her child was not. BHS custodians couldn’t have been happier.
Now were ready for dress rehearsal. The rehearsal started at seven o’clock. My crew was one of the last to go. What to do to pass the time? Work on the choreography? Nahh. Sharpern our harmonies? Nahh. Drink? Why, yes.
One cannot capture the joy of drinking in one’s old high school with impunity unless experienced for oneself. Getting sideways glances from teenagers and custodians and security guards we, or at least I, tried to mask it at first. That ended when, with a opened can in my pocket, I walked out into the hall to make a phone call. All the attendant shuffling about caused the can to fizz over and I looked like a walking Depends commercial.
As the night got later more drinks flowed and we all got a little buzz on which, believe me, could only help. I’m not trying to put anybody down or impugn anybody’s talent, but as I sat in the auditorium and watched some of the other groups fumble through their performances the same way we had been a calm came over me, which, again, was probably the alcohol.
Now it was our turn. First up was “Pirates” and finally having our Pirate King, played by Father James, we turned in a scintillating performance. Tim, Andy, Tori and I made a fine and salty bunch of briny Pirates and we “arrghed” our best “arrgheds” as Cuddy jumped onstage like Leaping Lanny Poffo.
We got some laughs from the people sticking around to watch, which was comforting, but the real moment from this rehearsal was the audible hands-on-heart gasps I saw from those in the auditorium when Amy laid down some more Mabel. Girl is Mabel.
Now I was just hoping the other groups could keep up with us. I mean, we’re not here to show anybody up, and after Lynne stomped on my foot during the waltzing section of “Pirates” I was sure that wouldn’t happen. Karma is a bitch.
After getting through the rest of the dress rehearsal some of us decided we weren’t inebriated enough so we hopped on over to a local watering hole. There, we were introduced to a new and scary term of which I still don’t know the exact definition.
A rather saucy and sauced up female approached our table. She seemed to know some of the girls there but I had never seen her before. She had a cubby face and a 60s hairdo. She looked like Caroline Rhea’s daughter if she was hit in the face with a frying pan. She was so drunk she had that thing going with her eyes where they were popping and spinning randomly, like when Woody Woodpecker got hit in the head.
I was wearing a buttoned down shirt which showed a tuft of chest hair at the top. She proceeded to eyeball it and comment to me that she wanted to get into my “bear cave”.
This could mean many things. Was she referring to my aforementioned chest hair? Did this in some way mean my anus? Did she merely mean she wanted me to take her home?
I didn’t even want to know and, as we were leaving, she approached again so I quickly put my arm around Ameera, referred to her as my wife and slipped out to the parking lot.
As we said our good-byes, Bear Cave and her friend came stumbling out the door trailed by three balding, white haired men in slick suits. The two groups began a dialogue, the finest snippet of which was Bear Cave saying “Didn’t I see you on a billboard?”
We quickly made the decision that the man in the shiny silver suit was a local politico. Some sort of a Councilman or Selectman we surmised. But this Selectman was none too selective, as Bear Cave sunk into the passenger seat of his car. Her friend was squired by another one of the gentleman and they rode off into the night. Summer loving, had me a blast…
As I awoke the next day my slight hangover was trumped by the anticipation of the upcoming performance. The show was a sell-out, just like anybody who graduated BHS post 1996. Zing!
I jumped in my trusty, rusty truck and made the pilgrimage from Allston to Braintree for the umpteenth and last time in the past few weeks. I had to be there around noon as Nick, the male lead for “Fiddler”, hadn’t been able to make but the first rehearsal and we needed to go over, well, everything.
The previous evening Rolf had instructed us to wear black with solid colors. I foolishly misremembered that I had black shoes. Oh well, there would be plenty of time for shoe shopping on this hectic day, right?
I arrived at the BHS to find the place buzzing with activity. Many of the other groups were putting the finishing touches on their acts and we got down business as well.
After rationalizing that we had gotten our acts down as well as we could us “old people” commandeered the prop room, another amenities denied my class at BHS.
We had to go to that horrid Boston Costume place or sift through Goodwill racks for our costumes. Glittery vests, wigs, forestry, various hats and props. These kids had it all at their fingertips. We had shit. And we walked five miles to school, uphill both ways.
As we planned on more drinking and didn’t want to explicitly corrupt minors, Amy posted a sing on the prop room door that said “Reserved for Grease, Little Shop, Fiddler, Pirates and Hello Dolly. She was merely trying to protect the virgin eyes and reputations of the little ones, right?
One prudish ingénue, upon seeing the sign, slammed her hands to her hips and stomped one foot on the ground in anger and protest at the sign. She huffed and puffed and looked ready to explode.
“The old people are drinking,” she gasped as she stormed away. I decided to take down the sign so as to avoid a cold war.
Shortly thereafter, a pair of 17-somethings entered the room and came to the back where we were all imbibing. “The old people are cool” one of them offered. I guess if you have to be called old twice in the span of 10 minutes its better to end on the “cool” note.
Now it was about four o’clock, one hour before the start of the reception and I was still shoeless, if not longer clueless. Father Cuddy, on yet another beer run, and I sped across the street to Burlington Coat Factory. It took me 45 seconds to locate the proper pair of shoes but the size 13 box only had one shoe in it. Luckily the display model was a size 13 so I threw that in the box. Mistake.
There was some confusion at the register but I talked my way through it. Back at BHS, I slipped on the shoes. The display model one seemed a little tight. I checked the size, 13 all right. Still, something seemed off. Upon closer inspection I discovered the shoes, while nearly identical, were slightly different. This difference was mainly in the sole but still, I was basically wearing two different shoes, which seemed to make sense.
I changed into my suit, a slick black number with a lime green shirt, fixed my hair and I was ready for the reception. Set up in “The Pit” were bulletin boards displaying various photos, playbills and other media from each show.
This could have been an exhibit on the evolution of media. Wrinkled playbills, yellowed photos and stained clippings from The Braintree Forum dominated the early shows. As you moved further and further into the future the quality and number of photos increased exponentially. These Digital Age kids had an unfair advantage, and that includes the aforementioned Robotics Room and Prop Room. But that’s they way we liked it!
As audience members poured in Rolf indicated it was time for a group warmup. After taking us through the normal vocal paces he jumped into another song I loved but had long forgotten. The energetic “I Am Psyched To Do This Show Tonight”.
After warming up Rolf gave a touching and rousing address in which he called us “the classiest thing {he’d} ever seen in Braintree.” After what I had witnessed with Bear Cave the night before, I quickly agreed.
Rolf also notified us that not only was the show a sellout, but that extra folding chairs had been set up around the auditorium and that standing room tickets were sold, both of which were, technically, illegal. We would be fine as long as the Fire Department didn’t show up, Rolf offered.
Or, if there wasn’t a fire.
After Christian presented Rolf with a gift from the cast we were ready to go. Well, I was ready to wait three hours. What to do, what to do?
Drink. Before I knew it there were multiple 30 packs, a six pack of Trader Joe’s wine and, god bless Amy and Liz, six pizzas. When you get involved in something like this, especially the day of the show, you often get so caught up in the moment you forget about bodily functions.
I spent the next few hours periodically checking in on the show and catching up with old friends who came to take it in. It was quite a cross section of individuals and not a moment went by when someone wasn’t cackling at something.
Nick, our Tevye, being the showman that he was, decided to don a fake beard. Funny, here we were 17 years removed from “Fiddler” and I was still the only man in the cast with a real beard. Hit puberty fellas, it’s a great feeling.
Looking like a ZZ Top reject, we went about trimming this monstrosity. The moustache was especially gnarly and as more and more of it was trimmed away Nick’s lips began to peek out. Only Liz heard when, at this point, I said it looked like “a 70s vagina.” It was probably for the best that nobody else picked up on that.
Later on, at the after party, somebody asked Rolf what he thought about Nick’s beard. Rolf waved his left hand in the air, as if too shoo the memory away, and said “there always had to be one cheesy thing in every show.” Always the professional.
As our time got nearer and nearer we seemed to be getting looser and looser. I took in Jeff Candura’s dynamic performance in “How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying” as well as “Hello Dolly” from the wings and was ready to get up there myself. The crowd was primed. The players were lubed up. This was going to be, well, something.
Whether it was Rolf’s guidance or the alcohol, I left all my inhibitions aside and bounded on stage with the rest of my fellow pirates. The performance started out smoothly and triumphantly, as our Pirate King grabbed the audience by the throat and didn’t let go. Later on, one on the younguns would comment to me that “Pirates” was her favorite one because she could tell we were having fun up there. How right you are sister.
But fun can only go so far. Sometimes you need to knock the audience on their asses, and that is exactly what Tim did as Frederick. Tim threw a vicious left hook with his “Oh, Is There Not One Maiden Here” gyrations and crooning, and Amy finished them off with a right uppercut of a performance of Mabel. The audience needed a standing eight count.
Applause abounded and I took my spot on the opposite side of the stage for the “Fiddler” group entrance. With Tori on my left and Ameera on my right I knew I was in firm, supple hands. The entrance was stoic, powerful and poignant, until that beard made an appearance and laughter ensued. Much like the Rainier Wolfcastle film “Help, My Son Is A Nerd”, “Fiddler” is not a comedy.
Nonetheless, Nick killed during his rendition of “If I Were A Rich Man”, which lead into a resounding and hearty “To Life”. Next up was my personal favorite song, “Sunrise Sunset”, and as the song begun I could see Liz trying to coax her little one out. She was ready to burst and couldn’t be more proud but, alas, the moment was not meant to be.
As the song bubbled to a froth we all gathered center stage around Nick and our female lead Nora to sing the last verse. This was my favorite part because I got to use all of my basso profundo in hitting the last note.
As we were supposed to be morbid, I laid my head on the shoulder of Father Cuddy, leaving a puddle of sweat the size of the BP oil spill on his right shoulder. A small price to pay for helping craft a moving theatrical moment. The real price to pay was $10, which was Cuddy’s dry-cleaning bill.
All that was left, for me, was the Grand Finale, and grand it was all every cast member leapt onstage for the “Grease” number “We Go Together”. It was moving and touching and epic and sloppy and all together awesome.
Now the fun started. The previous night Rolf had organized us into 16 groups and then again in 32 groups. We were going to attempt to bring Rolf’s vision of a successful round of “Have You Seen The Ghost Of Tom” to fruition. Could we pull off this momentous undertaking? We all wanted to, for no other to please Rolf on his night.
The round of 16 started. Its rather hard to tell if the round is “working” while performing it. Its’ hard enough keeping yourself and your group in time but we seemed to pull it of with some level of success.
Now on to the round of 32. I was in group two, so I had an early vantage point and could monitor the tightness of the round. After singing the song three or four times Rolf began stopping each group. It was like vocal dominoes as each group dropped off with the last lyric of “no skin on”.
As the groups were whittled down the tightness ensued and it was one of the best pieces of music I have ever been a part of. We pulled if off with grace, composure and the generosity of a forgiving audience. The whole show was a fabulous success.
Afterwards, at the Pizzera Uno cast party I looked around. I took it all in and found myself among mothers, priests, actresses, gay couples, students, teachers, physical therapists, performers, writers, financiers, publicists and any and every other type of person Braintree has to offer. This made me proud to be part of such a diverse community and this closeness amongst diversity is the lasing legacy of Rolf Carlson.
Without his leadership and vision I would not have been a part of this wonderful and wondrous community and I thank him dearly for his dedication to the students.
Every town in America deserves a Rolf. But we in Braintree know the dirty little secret: we have the only one. This man is a rare breed and I couldn’t be happier that he was delivered to Braintree.
I sincerely hope Rolf continues his work with the BHSTG if only because I want future students to have the same experiences, learn the same lessons, make the same life long friendships and have the same fun as my peers and I did.
I also have one selfish reason for wanting Rolf to continue: I want to be in the 40th Anniversary show. See y’all in 2030!
wn? A title shot against an inferior opponent everyone knew he would beat. Hmmm. Remember the scene in the locker room after LaMotta's dive? I can see the same scene in the Celtics locker room. KG sobbing uncontrollably and wailing "what'd I do?" in Tom Thibodeau's chest. Pierce smashing a chair against the wall. Doc saying "Don't play anymore. Its a a free country, don't play anymore" then slamming the door on the media and yelling "get outt here, get outta here!" Powerful.
