Met Gala

I love a good surprise.   

I’m usually on the giving versus receiving end, so helping surprise a room full of celebrities by showing up on stage with Cher was a delight.

But this time, I got got.

First of all, being in New York on tour in rehearsals for the Met Gala and keeping it a secret from everyone in my world was challenging, especially since the majority of my NY family are in the business. The NDA we signed just to rehearse in the museum was three pages.  We were asked to remove any swag with Cher’s name on it just so that set-up staff working the event could infer nothing.  I’m still not sure from my conversation with Harry Styles backstage before the event if he even knew whom he was introducing. And staying mum was not just a matter of NDA job requirement, it was also about protecting myself.

The thing is, I am a hopeless fashion tragedy, a disgrace to prided homosexual values (however stereotypic), a parade of rebellion against efforts to look fabulous all the time. My gay card was temporarily revoked regularly by colleagues and friends – especially when I was on Broadway.  Compounding the abomination was my tendency to drape large flowy clothes all over what they consider a brilliant frame; this was wasteful.   I reminded them that as a dance captain on Broadway maintaining the show and putting people in it, I was basically always in rehearsal or performing, so why add costume changes?  And I loved winter because layering was essential (and slightly forgiven).   Still, out of love, Motown the Musical friends were the worst:

“No, Jamal, that’s not tight! Those pants don’t even fit!”

“The boot cut is done. Throw those away.”

“You look homeless. Really, you do. It’s not okay.”

“Just don’t wear anything. It would be such an improvement.”

I made efforts to defend myself to approximate the sense that I was wounded by these attacks.  But my lack of shame angered friends even more.

Eric LaJuan, who slayed his Jackie Wilson, Rick James and Billy Gordon roles nightly and would just shake his head in dismay every time I walked into our double dressing room, is in some corner of heaven—designer pants sewn onto his thighs—sipping a drink in disbelief.

Because the fact that I would now be at probably the most highly anticipated fashion event of the year is, well ironic—especially since I scarcely understood its industry importance.

Zara / Top shop options.

Here is how it went down:

In rehearsal for the Gala, Diana Craig Patch, curator for the Egyptian collection at the Met, gives us a crash course in the fragile 1st Century BC sandstone Temple of Dendur, in front of which we would dance but not face squarely while exhaling.  I hug Bob Mackie. I joke with Baz Luhrmann as he stands in for Serena on stage left so that Melanie can incorporate into the rehearsal escorting her to her mark. We space the numbers and then started running things. When I am standing on the platform far out into the house, I spot an impossibly statuesque and short woman below me whose hair brings to mind Anna Wintour. I smile at her mid-step, connecting no dots.

Later, she comes over and thanks us all for being there, honored that we are performing.  She says other things as well, but I am busy berating myself for not processing sooner who she is, for not remembering that she annually coordinates the hell out of this event. I am cutting my eyes up at Eric whose I-told-you-so’s drop down and side-saddle every word Anna Wintour speaks.  

“I just want to know,” Ms. Wintour asks, “what will you all be wearing?”

Now, understand that I am on my knees talking to Cher when she arrives, and although the entire creative team are there, I am closest in proximity. Yet for an answer, she looks dead at me.  Not Melanie, who had the microphone for most of the rehearsal, not Cher or her famous manager who are sweating distance from me. 

And this is the real one, so yes, yes, that was a question, directed to the one person who could scarcely remember the colors of the costumes, let alone reference anything in the lexicon of fashion that would quickly get the paragon editor of Vogue the gist.

“As little as possible, of course,” I say.

Laughter.

Relief.

“That sounds great,” she says.

But I was not out of the woods.  A last-minute change required that I go buy a pair of stylish pants with holes in them, pants that fit. My large open sweater with the hood worked great provided I wore it with no shirt. But now I had the painstaking task of trying to dress this body.

For a number with Cher.

At the Met Gala.

Eric Lajuan is now surely in a full kiki, as I tromp from store to store trying on pants, irritated at how invasive they are, taking pictures to send to Baz Halpin (yes there were two), determined to find more boot options so as not to deal with exposing my Achilles—which is the new style.  I long for the bell bottom to come back.  Has nobody read about Achilles and how Paris of Troy slew him?

I consider this, as well as my healthy level of respect for Anna Wintour, who has taught naysayers the ways in which fashion affects all the business sector industries that consider themselves more important.  This is reason enough to surrender to the task at hand.

Of course, my private fashion odyssey proves worth it – the surprise Cher unleashes on that camp-clad room of celebrities is epic. While we wait, I teach Harry Styles how to pony  backstage right side where we warm up - he learns quickly! Soon after, Lady Gaga and dancers from the hit show Pose stand by so that she can introduce them.  In their blue and green catsuits festooned with keychains, key rings and keys, they turn it. I understand a few of the keys may have sailed into some of the camp drag in the audience, but it seems entirely appropriate for gay house culture to smack our consciousness any time it can.

Then, as is the case with “special appearance” gigs, the variable come fast:

Serena is stunning.

The stage is slick as hell.

Tracee Ellis Ross looks amazing. Flirt with her.

Watch your boss because stage left is slickest.

What did we decide for this non-shield alternative here?

EPHRAIM SYKES???

JAWAN JACKSON??

This is the moment I get got. Surprise!  Two family members from Motown the Musical along with others I love from the close knit black Broadway tribe, make themselves known to me.  They are here no doubt because of they are amazing as The Temptations in Ain’t Too Proud. So no it is not handsome RuPaul or ecstatic Sarah Paulson or real marvel(ous) avenger Naomi Campbell who surprise me.  It is my talented friends who are there to witness me at this fashion event.

I gag in high definition.

When it is time for me to leave the stage and trek to the platform at the edge of the audience my friends accost me.  We have a quick, hug festival reunion, temporarily leaving the Met Gala and entering the bliss of comfort that only comes with this kind of familiarity.  

Word to the wise: when an icon is on stage, everyone does everything they can to get close.  We are as far away from it as possible at the platform, so the bulk of my audience are the dancers from Pose. I could not have asked for better.  Never in my career was a developpe a la seconde into a back fall more necessary.

I finish the number, exit, make the costume change into our black for If I Could Turn Back Time and come back to stage.  Because we were added at the last minute, the dancers are thinking about blocking. I am no exception. Even with 17 years of hearing the song in shows, I work to bring it to my consciousness.  Punch on turn, back and time. Peace out on reach, the and stars. Switch positions on key cues…

I dash past the many celebrities at the King Arthur-style table on house right to make it to the platform for the end of the number when I realize that Serena is not on the corresponding side of the party; she is where I first saw her stage right.  This means Melanie cannot escort her on to the stage.

After Cher leaves, I fly past the King Arthur table, run up the stairs, sprint across the stage to the other side and jump off of it to land in front of Serena. 

I extend my hand.

“I got you.”

She comes with me up the stairs.  Crisis averted.

There is a misconception that because you perform at the Met Gala you are attending the Met Gala.  It’s hogwash.  The minute we are done, we are whisked to the green room to get out of costume and beat the parade of Escalades and Cadillacs getting stars out of the building.

I peel off the Top Shop pants, cursing (and missing) my Broadway family and friends.  

Then over a very strong margarita, I work out how to tell this story.  I am wearing a large, blissfully comfy pair of black sweat pants…

Hits

 The irony of being in the original cast of a show like “Motown the Musical” is that although we helped re-create Hitsville on stage every night, I had to leave the show before I was able to visit the real one.   Further irony is that the tour of another legendary musical icon put me in Detroit, home of the house where Berry Gordy made history.

            Even the Uber cab ride had symmetry. The driver happened to be a black man in his 60’s who, long before realizing his gospel calling, auditioned at Hitsville for a recording contract.  I didn’t have to tell him how to get there now.

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Jamal flipping outside of Hitsville U.S.A.

            A large party of teenagers, maybe twenty or so deep, were being ushered into the museum by their chaperones when I arrived.   Figuring it would be a good idea to let them get sorted first, I waited until all admission had been paid before learning that tours happened every half hour on the hour and sold out frequently.  The only one I could fit on (and still make it to the hotel in time for show call) was at capacity with the young ladies.

            “No worries,” I said to the ticket window agent. “I probably don’t need the tour, I was in the show on Broadway. But it’s still worth it to come.”

            I cruised the store instead, excited to see a few "Motown: the Musical" t-shirts that are still being sold in the lobby of the Lunt Fontanne Theater now.  Just as I positioned my phone to take a shot of a shirt I wish cast members had access to back home, the woman from the window tapped me on the shoulder, explained the no-photo policy in the gift store too, and insisted that I join the tour.

            “Since you were in the show it would be criminal not to see this.”

            I stood in the back of the small theater packed with the teenagers, a few of them wondering about the tardy interloper.

            The tour guide, an almond-colored woman named Peggy with skin much younger than she, gave us an extraordinary, rapidly paced but careful trek through the life of Berry Gordy, crash coursing us in his father’s print business and grocery store, the $800 loan from the family account and the corresponding paperwork framed on the wall, the Gloved One’s 1983 introduction of the Moonwalk along with the encased glove he donated.  To listen to an oral version of the history I was once endowed with the responsibility of presenting on stage every night was fascinating.

            I tried to remain incognito in this group so as not to disrupt the tour. I was doing fine until Peggy led us in “Rockin’ Robin” so that we could experience the value of bathroom acoustics that led to Gordy’s innovative recording studio rigging.

            I had been singing full belt on stage every night with Cher, singing like nobody could hear me (because they couldn’t) during the last minute of “Believe." So Rockin’ Robin was cake.

            Two of the young ladies turned around with that look, the one that happens when someone recognizes decent pitch and a smidgen of training.

            I shut up instantly.

            Then Peggy asked them about Diana Ross’ “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” The young ladies sang the song well and knew all the words better than I.   One of the chaperones explained that this was the junior high school portion of a group of music students who would perform a full-scale Motown concert in a week.

            What are the odds?

            But by the time we got to the Hitsville lobby, where secretary Martha Reeves' appointment pad still sat, I worried I would need to leave early.  I introduced myself to Peggy and explained that I was in the Broadway production and loved her tour, and not to take my exit as a lack of interest.

            “Thank you so much,” she said. “What show are you doing now?”

            “I’m here with Cher. The show is tonight, which is why I have to dash soon.”

            “Well then I’ll see you tonight on stage!”

            You’re kidding.  What are the odds?  “That’s fantastic.”

            “There’s not much left of this,” she said. “If you’re still around, do you mind if I acknowledge you?”

            “Not at all.”

            With the same seamless flow we had enjoyed the rest of the time, Peggy segued her Studio A description into a discussion about Berry Gordy’s legacy continuing on Broadway. The students were excited to know that there was a performer from the show around, and that they…suspected all along?

            “I knew you were in a show!” one of them said. 
            "And then I heard you make comments, and I thought he's really knows his stuff," another said.
            Had my interior monologue made it out of its haven? 

            Then I figured out it was just a residual of this quite surreal feeling of having moved on from the musical without leaving the family or the legacy in the least.

            I took several pictures with the students outside in front of the Hitsville sign before realizing that I could not leave without taking a solo shot.   After all, here I was, marveling at the sturdiness of the tendon connecting where I am now with where I was a few months ago. It needed to be captured, and in a way that my extraordinary Motown dance colleagues would never forget...

            But the kids had already boarded the bus, and they were the only ones born with the necessary in-brain microchip to capture with a phone the shot I had in mind. A lovely woman named Dishonda stood with her good friend and agreed to try.

            I showed it to her one time.

            It takes 1.8 second to do a standing back tuck.

            Yes somehow, Dishonda caught me upside down, mid-flip smiling at the camera. Twice.

           So the Hitsville serendipity had gone further: although she had no training in it whatsoever, her father is a noted photographer. 
           The entire experience, as well as this picture with the Temptations seeming to present me, was affirming. It reminds me that my purpose in Motown was spring water clear and carved specifically with me in mind, despite the fact that singing is not (as my co-dance captain Dionne put it) really my ministry at all.  It cemented for me that my tenure there was and is still important, and that my foray back to Cher touring is right on time.  It made the day as brilliant as the blue on the Hitsville marquee. 
           And, as promised, I saw Peggy after the concert. 

Umbrella

 We train our bodies for years and years to obey whatever challenging, sometimes dangerous instructions we give them. We fight to make things happen that should be reserved for other bodies, like those of cheetah or gazelles for example, or perhaps a snake/elephant hybrid, all so that we can manage simple and impossible things on stage for the delight and transformation of a person’s life/soul/spirit. 

            Unfortunately, props don’t invest in the same training. They do what they want, behave as they feel, mis-listen to our needs, fold their arms in defiance.   Investigations of how they work do not prove lucrative—for those of us not blessed with the good karma of prop handling magic, things go wrong.

            I am one of those people.

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Photo Courtesy of  John Wren

            I’m not sure if Sumayah is hostage to my bad prop karma or sabotaged by her own, but what’s clear is that umbrellas are not her friend.

            The first time it went wrong in “Burlesque” during tech rehearsal, her prop umbrella, which is rigged to not close shut all the way (since there is no time in the choreography to fiddle with the sharp button on its stem), wouldn’t open either.   We both rendezvous off-stage right near the stairs, me to make an entrance, her to grab her umbrella and re-enter. During the tech, she couldn’t find her umbrella because someone we have yet to identify moved it to a position on the stairs.

            As planned, I had grabbed the other umbrella to give to Ryan as I enter, since she has less time, and I watched Sumayah in horror search for her prop.

            “Where is my—I set it right here before this run!”

            “It’s right there,” I said, mid Fosse step fluttering my hand toward the stairs.

            This helped her none, of course.

            Determined to be a better friend during the actual show in front of people (18,000 of them in Phoenix, to be specific), I grabbed both umbrellas out of the holster and handed one to her when she ran to get it. 

            In the hasty world of quick entrances and exits and props, there is little time for "Thank you."  So I accepted the general smile of her aura about this consideration.

            The split second was decimated by the revelation that her umbrella stem was broken. When it got broken, how it broke, whether it tried hara kiri because it was done with us, we don’t know.  Just that it was broken.  And that when she pulled the handle, it detached from the rest of the stem.

            Sumayah then proceeded to go out with her very abbreviated prop and work the short stem like a pro.  She kicked her legs over it, pretended it could actually provide the kind of shade it was really meant for vs. the kind it was giving.  She pushed it over her head as if it were “Wade in the Water” high vs. just off her ear...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7huPVXNwOEM

     
       I had to stop looking. Because you see this is when the demon of laughter commences to take you out of your show.  All I could think of is how she had a shady umbrella. Ella. Ella. Eh, eh, eh.

        But then, the next night, I picked her up and swung her down around my waist, and my hat fell off, and I thought she maybe caught it in her other hand perhaps (desperation)...
 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgtNhrVtDkw

            Karma. Prop Karma. 
            And an oversized hat with an attitude...

Popcorn

At the time, I could come up with no good reason to order a large popcorn instead of the medium or the small, especially since I had whisked myself solo to watch Roman reputation be torn asunder cinematically for the second time this weekend.  Who was I fooling? I had even less business seeing “Pompeii” than I did ordering popcorn to satisfy my inner FB - if you don’t know what that stands for in this case, it’s safer you not know it applies to me.

           The woman behind the counter must have known. Maybe she saw my desire, my instant recollection of the downtown Phoenix AMC’s version of butter from my gluttony with it during “300: Rise of the Empire” a few days back. Now, I asking if the butter was self-serve, as if I didn't know.  She said yes.

            A beat.

            “Would you like me to dump half of it out so that you can butter it through?” she added.

            I nodded, embarrassed about my transparency, and then had the nerve to be sparing in my application—twice.

            By the end of the 98-minute festive disaster flick, I took the half of the bag of popcorn that I did not (and knew I wouldn't) eat, gathered it by its neck and sauntered the five blocks back to the hotel.

            Downtown Phoenix is quiet at night.  It's lonely, save a light wind with no particular destination, nor hurry to get there.  Lovely buildings, unblemished pavement.  And absolutely nobody on the streets. This night, I saw not even a random homeless person, odd since there was no abusive weather to hide from.

             Then one particular homeless man in a wheelchair made me understand the rulings of my gut.

            He had a long, clear face framed by gray hair that looked less matted than simply age appropriate.

            “Do you happen to have any change?” he asked.

            There was a casual tone, nothing ominous, desperate, or duplicitous in it. He did not appear high, drunk or mad at the world for his circumstances. The whites of his eyes showed none of the dramatic hope I had just witnessed in “Pompeii,” but they lacked expectation.

            “I don’t,” I said. “But I do have half a bag of popcorn.” I grabbed one last handful of popcorn and then extended the bag to him, knowing absolutely he would take it. “It’s good.”

            “Thank you sir.”

            I understood in that moment why I ordered the large popcorn, and it relieved me to have listened to the divine instruction instead of shooing it as bad judgment. Turns out, it was not mine to make.  God had plans, and I was the executive vessel.

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             I know, it's crazy, but go with me on this one for a minute. The payoff is often invisible: the times that the car doesn’t hit you when it could have, or when the brown recluse is diverted elsewhere, or when the cancer you never had the displeasure of knowing about dies first. Surely, these are balances for our right-doings. I am thankful every day for the thousands of times my life, my career, my loved ones are spared.  

           But rarer is the instant gratification in understanding my compliance with God’s good will had tangible, visible effect: this time a homeless man in a vacant downtown connected with the one passer-by who had food. Yes, he asked for money, but I'm sure it's because he didn't know I had food; Lord knows there is almost nothing open in downtown Phoenix after ten that he could have used the change for. 

           Other than perhaps popcorn at the movie theater. 

           The rest of my walk was slower, more relaxed even. And now it was okay for me to admit my appetite for disaster[ous] flicks. 

            And [fake]buttered popcorn.