✦—✦—✦•
Hammersmith Apollo had a section called the Pierce Rooms. It was owned and operated by Richard Pierce. Clearly, he seemed to be close to the big wigs of the Apollo Theatre Group because he had managed to convince them into letting him build a studio smack dab in the middle of the theatre.
Originally, the technical room had been nothing more than a storage space for props and costumes, but under Pierce's machinations, it had been transformed into a proper studio. Mike Dixon had sold us on the idea of recording there in much the same way Pierce must have sold him on using the Pierce Rooms for the recording studio in the first place.
"Monitors to see the stage, a couple dozen steps between here and the stage," Dixon kept repeating.
It was thrilling—my first time in a recording studio. The room was massive, designed with the novel idea of capturing theatre performances in a controlled environment. Singers had their sheet music stands and microphones arranged in neat rows, much like during the sitzprobe. The full orchestra wasn't present, but we had a backing track of some of their recordings to guide us.
"Look, it's state-of-the-art stuff," Dixon pointed to the monitor.
It was indeed advanced. All of the other screens within the theatre were these thick white monstrosities. This video monitor was the newest craze everywhere — a flat-screen Plasma TV.
"£5000 for that," England said with a shake of his head.
"Each," Dixon said, giving the double video monitors a gentle slap.
Turning around, he gave us a look an excited puppy would have. Dixon's entire job was to get us in position to perform the songs as Leslie had written it. But that could've been done by England, his real responsibility was to put on the cast recording. As soon as this recording session (or sessions depending) ended, we would hardly see each other again.
"Thank you everyone for giving me the best you can; it has been an absolute pleasure working with each and every one of you talented folks," Mike said with a bobbing head.
"No worries, mate," John said with a chuckle.
"Come here." Mike opened his arms wide and went to hug John.
These two hadn't seen each other eye to eye. John had his own version of I've Never Seen Anything Like It that he just didn't want to modify. But they would remain professional and friendly now that they were over the hump.
"Hey, you trying to choke me, man?" John complained.
"Thanks." Mike ignored the banter and shot a meaningful look at John.
Turning back, he laid out the game plan. The idea was simple: video monitors would be directly connected to the cameras filming the stage. It would allow us to get cues and be synced to the performance as a whole. Flat-screen TV, live feed, and remotely synced musical theatre performance — we were pioneers of future technologies. Terminologies used by Dixon to explain his vision could've been off the brochure or a tech magazine. He had never needed to sell us on the idea in the first place; we were excited about it from the get go.
Dixon went to the booth to sit in front of a massive analogue console. Plasma TVs may have been 5K each, but that thing was probably worth 100 big ones. Some of the nerdiness that Dixon was throwing off the walls had stuck to us. Seriousness of the studio lifted it even higher. Our vocal practice involved a lot more honey and steam than usual. I drank a nice chamomile tea with a dollop of honey and ignored the madhouse of sounds around me. Older actors didn't like doing vocal warm-ups together with the rest of the cast, but today they were enthusiastic and led the warm-ups. Unfortunately, we all had our own voices and octaves; the madhouse of harmony went on until we were content and confident with our instruments.
Dixon tapped on the glass surrounding the booths. He pointed at the headsets around us.
When I put mine on, Dixon's voice sounded out clearer than in real life.
"Does everyone hear me? Thumbs up for affirmation." I gave him a thumbs up.
Problems started from there. A few dud headsets, a few replacements, or just those who didn't feel comfortable with the large and clunky headsets and needed to be told how to put it on. When our first take started, we had to stop to sync the company on stage and us in the studio. The next real attempt finished with us annoyed as Dixon fiddled with a million things, radioing in instructions for audio engineers or stagehands.
Five more swift failed attempts later, Steve, who was directing the stage, came into the studio booth. I had my headset down, so I didn't catch the first part, but when I put it on, I could hear them as clear as crystal.
"—just do it," Steve said. "You've got it all wrong. It's pointless to sync the performances; the ensemble is getting killed out there. Try doing a dance where you had partners but now there's no one. Lead actors are all in here; they're needed on stage so others can play off them."
"But this is what this room is for. Look how fancy the stuff here is." Dixon gestured over to the plasma monitors, clunky but awesome-sounding headsets, and the giant desk/recording console.
"It doesn't matter. We never rehearsed to do a performance in two different rooms. I've got an idea, actually…" Steven trailed off, finally noticing all of us wearing headsets and watching them as if we were tuned in to EastEnders.
Steven's voice caught for a moment before he shook himself. "How about we use it as a way to double up on tech rehearsals and studio time?"
"That sounds— Hey, don't touch—" The feed cut out on our headsets.
We all had disappointed expressions, but then it was like watching a silent film. Mystery made it feel even more like soap opera. Dixon's eyes seemed to tell the tale — he had been convinced the longer Steven spoke.
Eventually, it was decided that we would go between the studio and stage, with principal voices remaining. Michael England helped Dixon get a rotation done, and we were off to the races. All the mishaps and challenges had cooled our excitement so much that we finished the first three songs without needing a second take. I was then promptly kicked out of the recording room and told to join the stage for the songs I had no singing parts. Five musical numbers later, I was kicked off the stage to join the booth for Fabulous Places. That was the entire experience of my very first album recording. All that work with Dixon allowed us to rehearse exactly the way Dixon the Producer himself wanted. My role after the first few songs was just to act as an ensemble backing vocal. My only other time in the studio was me being called later that day to re-record a few of my backing lines and also another version of my solo part in Doctor Dolittle, the titular song.
The Pierce Rooms had been built to provide the best acoustic environment for a theatre production — microphones placed in the right places to allow the capture of orchestra in the most layered and optimal way. The best place to record the birth of my music career, yet I had been in the studio for less than an hour, and most of that was spent listening to Dixon fuss over his fancy equipment. Shame. As Nain dragged me home, I was excited about hearing the cast album when it was released. I would collect all the memorabilia I could from the Dolittle. I would cherish it more than my UKMT medals, more than memories about my favourite books. It was special in that acting was something I could call truly my own.
—✦—
Monday, June 8th, Jermyn Street
Off the beaten path of London's most famous Savile Row was Jermyn Street. Less than a mile away, it was designed and built in much the same way as Savile Row. In fact, it looked more luxurious than famous Savile Row, with all kinds of luxury brands littering the street. Still, Nain assured me the prices here were more suited to our economic state.
Manfredo Rossini - Suits, Alteration, Hire.
When I saw that sign, I begged Nain to go in there. The names seemed resemble mine and my agent;s, and it would be wrong to pass by without trying the place. At our entrance, an old man in his seventies stood up from a divan. The way his knee seemed to make a popping noise with each step made me feel guilty enough to purchase from him.
"How can I help?" he asked.
"I would like a suit to wear when I meet the Queen. Hire would be best. Growing boy and all," I said with a smile.
"Meeting the Queen, are we? Well, we can all dream." He gestured to one section of the store, leading us.
"We actually are," Nain rebuked. "Front row seats at the Lyceum. Queen Elizabeth II and the Prince Charles of Wales will be there."
"Don't forget, Earl of Chester," I said in my natural Cheshire accent.
"Ah! Will you go into the royal boxes then? I might have to get you solid golden suit," the old man joked.
"Cheap will be just fine, thank you." I replied with a grin.
"Julie will see us; your Grandad will be wearing his old tweed jacket. I need at least one person to look the part," Nain said with a deep sigh.
"Do you have tweed jackets?" I asked.
"Of course—" the old man said, then laughed as I rubbed the spot Nain had just stung me on. "I'm Manfredo. Welcome to my shop. We dress you for the Royals, bien?"
Nain actually let me try on a tweed suit in a sage green colour. I always loved how my Grandad looked at times; the old-timey feel looked ironic on someone as young as me, cloth cap made me look like child laborers of the past. Nain liked a stone-coloured Donegal suit because the wool didn't look as rough and thick.
Manfredo went to the back, returned carrying a garment bag, and pulled out a new suit.
"What is this?" Nain asked, her eyes already admiring the fabric, her fingers soon following to feel it.
"Herringbone, Signora," Manfredo said with a small nod. "Silk-striped waistcoat, pinstripe trousers."
I tried to sneak a look on my tiptoes, but Nain was too captivated and in the way.
"Here, try this on," she said, turning to me.
"The jacket is tailed," Manfredo added with a smile, and I finally got a full view of the three piece suit.
A grin spread wide across my face.
—✦—
The Price household drove the reliable old "Maroon" Vauxhall to Shaftesbury Avenue. I walked the street like a true gentleman as fitting my posh suit. The five-minute walk turned into ten as women flocked around me. I had a bright smile, and my hair was styled in messy waves. I wore what is called a Morningwear Tails, type of suit that had fallen out of fashion. Only the royals wore it now, a cute kid could pull it off when meeting anyone. I was both cute and meeting the royals, a perfect occasion.
My Nain wore her very best — a dark full-length gown with a black sash with silver highlights. We matched almost perfectly, save my trousers being dark blue. Grandad wore his Sunday best — a cloth cap and tweed jacket. With the weather, he no longer wore his woollen shirt, but his baby-blue shirt matched nothing the rest of us wore. He did not look dressed up at all. But for Clive to have put on his church clothes; meant he paid the Queen enough respects.
Nain had a different outlook. For her, this day was the most special. She adored Julie Andrews, of course, but she was also the sort of person who thrived on royal drama. Princess Diana had died the previous year, it had broken Gladys' heart. Now Nain was buzzing with excitement about attending a tribute concert on June 27th — coincidentally the day after my birthday. There was a time I feared saddling my grandparents with moving away. Now, I knew Nain loved London more than anywhere else she lived before.
The women charmed by my cute looks disappeared into the crowd as we neared the Lyceum Theatre. Last time I was here, my mum was taking me to see an agent. Today, there were barriers around the place, black cars blocking the footpath. Royalty Protection Officers were all around, preparing for the Queen of England's entrance. Photographers and reporters had their cameras and microphones pointed towards the arriving audience as if warding evil. Photographers took photos of my grandparents and me, then a reporter blocked our path asking if we were celebrities. We said no, and they scoffed, completely dismissing us. Change from the attitude from moments before to after was jarring.
We had arrived early as per the host's instruction. The Lyceum had only one entrance; the Queen's entrance required space and safety. I think I imagined glamour when I daydreamed about going to the biggest event in the West End in recent years. Instead, we were searched and had our names recorded by the Protection Officers. We felt less like cows for slaughters once we were through to the reception hall; Nain paid it no mind.
"My God, is that Dame Judi Dench?" Nain asked.
Both me and my Grandad looked to where Nain was pointing, seeing an older woman who could be Julie's older sister or mother. It was weird that she was only one year older than Julie; years had affected them in different ways.
"Could we go say hello?" Nain asked, looking around shyly.
"Why not?" Grandad said with a shrug.
Right as we started walking towards Dame Judi Dench's direction, a few poshly-dressed people got her attention, and they exchanged greetings. Dame Judi even hugged one of the women in the group.
"Drapia!" Nain cursed, which was Welsh for drat.
"Come on, maybe Julie Andrews will introduce us later." I said, laughing. Nain started to move automatically as I held her hand and led my grandparents towards the souvenir stand.
We bought the programmes for the show, a tradition for theatregoers. Nain bought opera glasses for a pound.
"To see the Queen." She explained.
I admired the hand-drawn artwork on the programme, it featured Cameron Mackintosh and the girl on the poster of Les Mis. I still hadn't seen any plays in the West End; but it would all change today, Mackintosh was putting on various numbers from his most famous plays with their original casts or famous celebrities. Could I perform in front of the Queen when it was Leslie's turn to be celebrated?
My eyes roved over the songs in two acts the concert would have. The overture was from Cats! But the very first song being sung was Food Glorious Food! How small was the world? My first ever school play, my first ever West End show, my first ever job in a "West End" production. The song was the start of it all.
Nain grabbed my hand, jerking me to a stop.
"Cameron Mackintosh, that's him, right?" Nain said, pointing at a man sitting at a desk and signing programmes.
He wore a Scottish kilt with white knee-high socks, looking like a schoolgirl. The table he sat at needed a tablecloth because I could see the man's hairy thighs. The only thing stopping any indecency was the sporran, a metal pouch that protected his dignity and others from trauma. I hadn't known he was Scottish — the name hadn't clued me in somehow. But then again, I barely knew the man. Being behind the stage didn't make you popular to normal crowds. This was to be my first-ever concert/musical I went to — a tribute to the career of a legend — and I would only discover his works today. At least I could be happy that it was a charity event for the blind.
"Let's get it signed like those people are doing," Nain said. She showed no sign of her earlier shyness.