Monday, November 10, 1997
Starving, artsy student finds scene waiting for rush tickets
COLUMN: Love of plays, musicals spurs groupies’ school-girlish
actions
By Cheryl Klein
The sun is coming up over Bunker Hill. From my seat on the cold
cement outside the Ahmanson Theatre, I watch downtown Los Angeles
wake up. It’s the day after Halloween, but that night seems like a
long time ago. The hills to the east slowly become distinct in the
chilly morning light, and I squint at them, trying to get some sort
of smog-drenched, quintessential L.A. picture out of it.
But no luck. They’re beautiful and surreal in these wee hours,
in sync with my other impressions of my surroundings. My
American-literature professor pointed out that Raymond Chandler
painted Bunker Hill as the worst part of Los Angeles, a
larger-than-life symbol of moral rot. So here I am, downtown at
6:30 a.m., an hour I’d normally rather not see in a neighborhood
where I normally wouldn’t be. This morning, everything is a
dichotomy, and I try to get philosophical about it in my half-sleep
stupor.
I’ve been here since 5 a.m. Originally, no less than eight
enthusiastic friends expressed interest in camping out for rush
tickets to "Rent." Then our 4 a.m. departure time rolled around. My
fellow theater freak, Stephanie, and I are the sole survivors after
others weighed the merits of sleeping in against seeing Doogie
Howser sing.
And we’re prepared to be here for 13 hours.
Trying to blink away my half-hour nap, I study the
blanket-shrouded figures on either side of me. Soon, I learn that
the group ahead of us is roughly half of the UCLA Musical Theater
Workshop. Well, at least two of them are members. And the people
behind us, decked out in UCLA sweatshirts and plaid pajama pants,
live in Sproul Hall. When they hear how long the wait is, they
break out into a freshman-like gale of laughter and agony. You can
leave campus, but you can’t really escape UCLA, I ponder.
Maybe it’s appropriate. On some level, this is a rite of passage
for me, an affirmation that my college experience is taking shape,
growing contoured and colorful, if a little quirky.
In high school, I was never a person with a scene. Two of my
best friends wrapped themselves in thrift-store chic and lusted
after the Beastie Boys. I’ll always have a soft spot for the
Adidas-clad funky monkeys, but I’d never camp out for tickets to
one of their shows. My other best friend went the R&B route,
seeing how closely she could morph herself into Janet Jackson, the
janet years. I shrugged myself into cultural blandness.
But then college happened. And theater happened. Or first,
perhaps, I met people who based friendship on more than similar
tastes in music. I was free to find out what my own tastes were and
then discover that, wow, there are at least two or three other
people in this world who think music is at its best when it
features multiple singers, an emotional storyline and the phrase
"original Broadway cast recording." (Although – and I have to throw
this in – does anyone but me find it horribly oppressive that there
is almost never a "West Coast cast recording"?)
It’s just past 10 a.m. now. The sleep deprivation-induced
drunkenness is starting to set in and, suddenly, playing barefoot
in the California Plaza fountain seems like a great idea.
A janitor strolls our way. He smiles. "This is recycled water,
so they treat it with chemicals. If your feet start itching, that’s
why. You should probably wash them afterward."
Nice thought, but the only bathroom is a cramped one-stall
number in the bowels of the parking structure. I find myself
falling back on an increasingly frequent comfort. "This is so
Bohemian," I think. "We’re starving, artsy students camping out
with other artsy students in the heart of the ‘hood. Oh, the things
we’ll do for art! We’re like Mark and Roger and the whole
funky-dressed ensemble when they sing ‘La Vie Boheme!’"
I congratulate myself on owning a leopard-print jacket as my
inner theater major allows me to skip about shamelessly and sing
tidbits of my favorite songs from the musical. Stephanie joins me.
The nearly empty plaza evokes a certain freedom, although it hits
me that I probably won’t smell too good by the time they open the
theater doors. And, Bohemian as I try to be, large-scale theatrical
productions by default cater to a somewhat elitist clientele. I’m
getting a little wrapped up in my scene, I think, reveling in its
outward manifestations and forgetting why I’m here in the first
place.
Because I love this play. I love musicals and this musical in
particular. I repeat this to myself several times firmly.
The dichotomy motif strikes again when a couple who strolls in
around noonish tries to talk their way to the front of the
line.
"I hope they know that if the matinee can hold two more people,
it’s going to be us," I tell Stephanie bitterly. "They’ll just have
to wait for the evening performance."
I can feel a dormant competitive edge surfacing. A voice in my
head shouts, "Wait! This musical is about love and sharing and
being altruistic because everyone is dying of AIDS! ‘No day but
today,’ remember?"
The voice loses. Stephanie and I make it into the matinee.
We try to wake ourselves up by drinking $2 Cokes from the cafe
outside the Ahmanson, sharing a coveted patch of shade with two
middle-aged women. One is quiet. The other is as loud as her
outfit, a green plaid dress accented by a necklace that gives the
impression she is being choked to death by a large rhinestone boa
constrictor.
"I don’t like this show so much," she drawls. "I saw it in New
York, and I didn’t like it so much. But I have season tickets, so I
thought I’d come again."
Give them to me, dammit, I think. I smile and nod.
She chaws the charbroiled meat on a $3 kabob and leans closer.
"And you know what I noticed?" she hisses in a confidential tone.
"There were a lot of gay people there." She waves a hand
dismissively. "But that’s New York."
"I like the music though," she continues. "And isn’t it so sad
how the creator died, just before opening night? AIDS, I
think."
"It was an aortic aneurysm," I tell her.
Age-ist as I feel, I’m glad we don’t have to sit next to her. I
love sitting just feet from the stage, in the first two rows
reserved for rushers. I love making occasional eye contact with the
cast and being able to see the details of their sparkly jeans and
high-heeled boots. I love the fact that the girl in front of me is
singing along, her ponytail bopping passionately, overall-clad and
completely oblivious to the button-down, button-lipped crowd around
her.
After the show is over, Stephanie and I jot madly,
school-girlishly on a scrap of paper, "Another great performance –
you made us cry! Viva la vie boheme!" I flick it onto the stage,
blush and follow the crowd out of the theater.
We circle Grand Avenue to the stage door where we wait with the
other groupies for autographs. The ensemble trickles out. Mark
LeRoy Jackson is adorable up close, and the guy who plays the
villain is ultra-sweet. The Musical Theater Workshop crowd fits
right in as they chat with the cast about the Business. They’re
perfect, I lament. They know how to say everything I want to say.
They’re flattering without being too gushy, they’re observant and
hip and cultured. I am a mousy pseudo-Bohemian clutching my program
in the shadows.
"But we wrote a note," Stephanie points out. "We’re writers. We
have to express ourselves that way."
I give a big "Aahh," and we both laugh at the allusion to our
endless hours at The Bruin.
But secretly, I like the explanation. I ponder that this is the
first time I’ve ever asked anyone for an autograph and let the
blaring soundtrack push all my hypocrisy and shyness away on the
car ride home. I’ve found a scene I’d camp out for, a scene I’d
embarrass myself for. I wiggle my toes inside my oh-so-Bohemian
boots. Maybe it’s a scene I’d even get foot fungus for.
Klein is a third-year American literature and culture
student.