THE CENTER DID NOT HOLD
“Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.”
There wasn’t even a whisper about what was coming, so we carried on with rehearsals for Troilus & Cressida as if tomorrow would arrive on time. The play was set in a non-specific time period, so there was a great deal of leeway when it came to the music. The director and I (more on him in a bit) focused on the contrast between the tent-dwelling traditionalism of the Greek encampment, located outside the stronghold city of Troy, and the more hedonistic pleasures inside the city’s walls. The Trojan War was at a stand-still, so the Greeks, led by Ulysses and a reluctant Achilles, grew mean and restless while the citizens of Troy tried to carry on as if an invading force wasn’t parked just out of sight. This lead to the unlikely pairing of traditional Greek music—filled with frame drums, hammered strings, and gasping horns—and Tiki lounge music filled with modern (or at least 1960s modern) cocktail hour strings, flutes and Latin percussion. I got to create an Esquivel/”Mini Skirt” inspired intro where the character Pandarus gets lewd with the audience and then shamelessly reference Peter Gabriel’s Passion: Music For The Last Temptation Of Christ soundtrack on multiple occasions. Sounds both ancient and futuristic fused together in ways I hadn’t expected, but my years working on production music as Khonsu Samurai meant I was able to mix sampled and live instruments faster than ever, and actually have it all sound pretty good, too.
Throughout the rehearsal process, I'm able watch the actors perform in the most unforgiving circumstances —temporary props and partial costume pieces; harsh office lights; a set defined by gaffer tape and spike marks; mix-n-match furniture standing in for beds and chairs—and all of it is plenty enough to inspire me. By the time the cast performed a final run-through in the rehearsal space, I was way ahead of my usual schedule and had the music in fighting shape. I played music cues from my laptop in real time and most of was landing exactly as hoped.
Tech week arrived days later. This is where the lights, set, props, costumes, and sound all come together; everyone feels re-energized and inspired by an influx of the new. Sure, it gets monotonous—plenty of “hurry up and wait” or “imagine what this will look/sound/feel like…once it’s available”—and the days are long. The cast and crew spend 10 out of 12 hours working through the play, cue by cue and beat by beat, and the technical staff typically arrive hours before the cast and stay late for notes. But the clock is ticking; we all know an audience is going to be in those seats soon enough. This is where I do my best work, totally immersed in my job. I thrive in this pressure cooker, solving problems and navigating sudden changes—sometimes crankily, but always rising to the task—in creative ways that didn’t seem possible before we started. I do my part to make this the best show the whole company can create, then leave it in capable hands after opening night.
But this time, things went to hell before it could truly begin.
***
COVID was in the news, but in these ludicrous times, there was no consensus on how dangerous it could be (or would be). Every step to contain it was taken out of an abundance of caution, but the strain was too much for the world and it’s hard to say which was the worst plague: the pandemic or rampant misinformation. In 2020, reality finally split in two; you had truth and you had lies, but it became harder to tell which was which. Since critical thinking (especially in America) was nearing extinction, charlatans were held in higher regard than experts and the “you can’t tell me what to do!” crowd defied every attempt to fight the pandemic. Many years on, some of the advice offered by experts was overbearing and relied heavily on the population surrendering to the greater good, but…I’m getting ahead of my own story.
On March 10th, our state governor announced a ban on gatherings of 250 people or more, lasting until March 31st. The Seattle Shakespeare Company was moving forward with the tech process, even if the show could not be performed safely in front of an audience until April 1st (which turned out to be an epic April Fools joke), but at least we could film the play for archival purposes and press pause until we got back to business as usual.
“Everyone: let’s stop what were doing and meet in the front of the house.” That was our production manager with a foreboding announcement some thirty minutes before the cast arrived for day one of tech. I was in the middle of a soundcheck, lights were being adjusted, ladders on the stage, props being sorted—it was the usual buzz of activity before we begin. But it wouldn’t begin. We were to pack it all up—set pieces, props, costumes, etc.—and strike all the equipment until further notice.
***
In 2002, director David Quicksall and I first worked together on If I Die In A Combat Zone, Box Me Up & Ship Me Home, his stage adaptation of Tim O’Brien’s book about the Vietnam War. David and I became great friends in the trenches of our theatrical war and would collaborate on many staged literary classics for Book-It Repertory Theater, from Dracula and Frankenstein, to Moby Dick and Don Quixote. We also worked on Shakespeare’s plays, most recently the grind house gore-fest Titus Andronicus in 2016. David was the ideal director/collaborator and we did some amazing work together, even if it was never documented beyond archival video. He and I played to each others strengths, stretched our imaginations, and always had fun—even when outside circumstances tried to harsh our vibe—so I’d have to be extremely busy or extremely foolish to say no; I was neither of those things when Troilus & Cressida came along. But now we were sitting in a bar in the middle of the day, drinking beers instead of doing our jobs.
It felt wrong—surreal—after our 18 years of work together, to have the plug pulled before delivering another live production into the world. David and I held on to a sliver of hope we’d soon be back to Shakespeare Land, but the coming days of social distancing stretched on for eternity and, after we hugged and said our goodbyes that afternoon, it would be three years before I'd see him in person again.
As the pandemic escalated, it was clear we may never stage Troilus & Cressida. I mixed the music, such as it was, and sent it out to the cast and crew. The soundtrack would have evolved in the trenches of tech and right up until opening night, but now it was just another artifact from Pompeii, frozen mid-scream. Things fell apart and I was left with this minor testament to an uneasy time.
