The Gondoliers #2

ROMEO MEETS THE PRODIGAL SON

We – the men's chorus, that is – had just finished our song and dance and were heading off stage, leaving behind several of the principal singers to finish the number. I turned and remarked to Jerry, one of the other guys in the chorus, “It doesn't get any better than this,” a sentiment to which he readily agreed. We in the chorus were performing as flawlessly as we could, the level of talent of the principals on stage was beyond anyone's wildest expectations, the music sounded more infectious every time we heard it, everything about the production was first-rate, and the audience – a full house on that Saturday night – was justifiably enthusiastic. So we weren't just engaging in idle chatter. This may have been the best production of The Gondoliers anywhere on the planet in half a century.

I often try to imagine how things that happen in front of my eyes would look if they were in a movie. If I were going to consider my experience with this production and then create an imaginary version of it for the silver screen – or someone's laptop – I would start with this very conversation with Jerry, and then flash all the way back to an early rehearsal, beginning with a close-up shot of a pair of hands clutching some small sheets of paper. It would, in fact, be the self-same Jerry holding his crib sheets. Jerry has an excellent voice, but he'd be the first to tell you that cannot read music. So what he does when he gets his copy of the score is to copy out our parts onto palm-sized pieces of paper, which over the course of several weeks he commits to memory. Some of you may have noticed that if you remember the words of a song, it's easier to remember the melody; and, likewise, if you know how the tune goes, it's usually easier to think of the words. But what can you do if the baritone part for our entrance on stage in act I goes something like this?

Solo by Antonio: For the merriest fellows are we......

Us: Tra la, tra la, tra la, tra la la la la la, Tra la la la.......

Antonio: That ply on the emerald sea........

Us: Tra la, tra la, tra la, tra la la la la, Tra la la la......

Antonio: With loving and laughing, And quipping and quaffing We're happy as happy can be....

Us: Tra la.....

Antonio: With loving and laughing, And quipping and quaffing, We're happy as happy can be......

Us: Tra la la la la la la la, Tra la la la, Tra la la la, Tra la la la la la la la,Tra la, tra la, la la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la la, la la, la la, la la, la la, la la, la la, la la, la la la la la la la la la la la la la la, Tra la!

How would having the “words” written on crib sheets or stone tablets, for that matter, be of any use to anyone? That's the first thing I thought of when we started rehearsing this opening number: Now what is Jerry going to do with that? Somehow he managed. He even did his mini-solo, But what of us, who one and all adore you? Have pity on our passion, we implore you! with suitable aplomb. I always say, when there's a will, there's a way.

There are two other vignettes that I would certainly want to insert somewhere, somehow into my virtual screenplay. The first took place as I was sitting one evening on the Light Rail on my way to rehearsal. (When the entire chorus was rehearsing together, I would get a ride from and to Ma'ale Adumim with Helen, another cast member, and her husband, who functioned as chauffeur. When only the men were scheduled, I was on my own to shlepp back and forth.) I was sitting, minding my own business, perusing my copy of the score. The train pulled into the station near the Damascus Gate, and I was aware that a group of tourists got on. One of them, a guy about fifty, sat down next to me. Seeing me and my score, he asked in English – in an accent unmistakably German – if I was a conductor. No, I replied, I sing in the chorus of a musical production. What part do you sing? I'm a baritone. To which, he replied, I'm a tenor. What are you performing? Gilbert and Sullivan's The Gondoliers. Sullivan? he inquired. He wrote The Prodigal Son. I sang in that, he asserted proudly. I was the prodigal son. Whereupon he whipped out his smartphone and asked if he could take a picture of the cover of my score to show to the folks back home. He had just enough time to do so, producing an askew copy, before I had to get off at the stop by King George St.

I guess we were even. He had not the slightest notion of who W.S. Gilbert was, and I had never heard of The Prodigal Son. Yes Sir Arthur Sullivan had a life apart from his famous collaborator and had written a whole bunch of stuff that is less than well known today, for example, the song, The Lost Chord, and Ivanhoe, the opera he finally got to write. But The Prodigal Son??? I made some discrete inquiries at the rehearsal. It was not part of Paul Salter's repertoire; Moshe, the resident expert on every patter song from our illustrious pair, assured me that no such piece of music was ever composed. Was the man I had met on the Light Rail delusional? Was this piece of music a product of his distorted imagination, a remnant from his own unhappy childhood? In today's high speed world, anything can be ascertained or verified in a matter of moments. Just go to that expert on anything and everything, Wikipedia. It turns out that Sullivan did in fact write the oratorio in question in 1869, a number of years before he encountered the topsy-turvy world of William Schwenk Gilbert. According to our on-line encyclopedia, “The piece continued in the standard choral repertory until World War One.” (That's the war my late Uncle George fought in.) There have been a couple of recordings in the last twenty years, but if you're waiting for a revival of this piece at your favorite local concert hall, I suggest you bring along a few books to read. Maybe a sandwich or two. A pillow wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

So perhaps there have been a handful of performances of this sadly (?!) neglected work in my lifetime. What would be the chancess of meeting somebody – anybody – who could say that he had performed the leading role? And then, what would be the odds of meeting that person on the Light Rail in Jerusalem in the three or four minutes it takes to get from the Damascus Gate to the center of town? If the world got any smaller, you could fit it into that box I'm always trying to be out of.

And then there's Romeo. Not the lead tenor role in the opera that Sullivan didn't write, but the small “rescue dog” that hangs out with our star soprano, Aviella. Because of this little canine's great appreciation for all things G&S, he got to attend a number of our rehearsals. I should note that our Romeo is not one of these white dust-mops that get carried around all over the place. Our Romeo, must have had a terrier wannabe as a recent ancestor. He is perfectly capable of of self-propulsion and usually arrived at our rehearsal space a minute or so before his co-star, signaling her imminent arrival, something that always brings joy to the hearts of those of us assembled.

Why is his presence, let alone his existence, of any interest to the general public, cano-philes or not? The fact is, our little mixed breed is a star-in-the-making. True, he is somewhat limited vocally, but he can trod the boards with the best of them, especially when he senses encouragement from those humans around. You can only imagine his enthusiasm when he senses that it's his turn to go on. There's the scene at the end of act one when the two gondoliers, Marco and Giuseppe, are about to embark on a journey to Barataria, leaving their two new brides, Tessa and Gianetta, behind. The two women see the need to admonish their husbands to behave themselves when they are separated. Both of them, first the soprano and then the mezzo, get to sing, ...And O my darling, O my pet, Whatever else you may forget...... No one had the heart to tell little Romeo that they weren't referring to him.