Dan Callaway Studio

Feel Freedom. Love your confidence. Be a joy bomb.

Author: dancallaway (Page 7 of 31)

Soccer Folk at the Hyatt Starbucks. And Death.

July 14, 2023 /

Melissa and I stayed at a Hyatt Hotel at the same time as a whole lot of youth travel soccer teams.

There was a Starbucks in the lobby, and since I go into migraine withdrawal if I consume less than 2 and a half cups of coffee, my addicted self was down there first thing to snag my overpriced venti stimulant.

And so were the parental units of these footballers. ⚽️

And I learned: one adult did not represent one coffee order.

Nope.

Yoga pants with the tight ponytail playing tug-of-war with her brow furrow was gonna need

a frap

an iced something with 2 pumps of fairy syrup

a vanilla caramel hazelnut macchiato flat no foam soy oat almond skim situation.

And a large cup of ice.

What? No more gruyere egg bites? Really?

“That’s what ‘sorry, we’re out’ means,” went my brain. “Can we move along so cargo shorts with the backwards Bass Fishing cap can order the 7 complicated beverages that just chimed in on his moblie device?”

If you sense judgment in my tone, you’re right. I’m working on it.

I just couldn’t imagine a world of weekend-after-weekend travel to midsize cities to talk game outcomes in hotel elevators while shelling out dollars for fees, equipment, plane tickets, and hotel rooms. And Frappuccinos.

Sounds like one of the middle rings of the Inferno.

No shade to soccer, seriously. There’s probably a lot of it in my future.

But the commitment to this kind of travel, this kind of money, and your kids freebasing sugar-feine so they can wear their bodies out at back-to-back matches? I mean, when does anybody have time to play Saturday Nintendo Duck Hunt these days?

I’ve been thinking a lot more about death. Just the fact that it’s going to happen. I’m also absorbing the truth that I can’t make more time.

And I still waste it.

To transcend distraction for me requires Ulysses-tied-to-the-mast level intervention.

I’m working on it.

The question is — What leaves you satisfied? And what creates an interaction you’re proud you left behind?

(And yes, that can absolutely happen in travel soccer.)

And what leaves you empty, depleted, and wondering where your time went? Let’s have less of that, please.

The Liberating Truth that Will Change Your Musical Theatre Auditions for Good

July 13, 2023 /

The Actual Way to Audition for Musicals and Stand Out from the Confusion Crowd

I had a shoot-myself-in-the-character-shoe habit back in my busy audition days.

I hid.

I mean, I was physically there. In the room. But I was playing a high-level game of hide and seek.

Only the table people didn’t know.

They thought I was coming in to share my ideas and preparation for a role. Silly.

Nope. Not my purpose.

I wanted to show a teeny facet of my skill set that I felt comfortable about. And then I wanted some wise person shuffling resumes to notice the ember of performance genius smoldering inside me just waiting them to get the bellows and provide the oxygen.

Like Pinocchio’s Blue Fairy, they’d say, “You know, you’re really terrific. The world needs what you have. We’re going to give you a lead role in our show because you’re so good. And when we do that, you’ll finally know that you’re a real boy.”

It never happened that way.

I mean, auditions led to roles, and I worked, but I lost count of the times my soul played possum in the audition room.

I obscured my energy. I didn’t share a clear point of view. I didn’t know what my point of view was.

Performers have this problem. Often, what draws us to the stage is people clapping for us. This was a big magnet for me.

We get the back pats, and so we set out to get more of them.

I did this in life too, always assessing what was going to garner approval from the big people around me. I wanted connection and support, so I paid attention to what got me that.

So, in the audition room in front of a table full of folks you probably don’t know and who aren’t there to develop a deep friendship, the cues for how to get the ‘at-a-boys are limited.

But I still looked.

I mean, I was still trying to figure out how to order in a NY Diner without losing my mind. Making integrated choices about a character’s psychological world was going to be a few years off.

But the problem was that I believed one central falsehood:

It was about me.

I mean, yes, my self-person was the one coming in the room singing the songs, but that’s not what the casting folk were concerned with.

They wanted to know if the B-flat on “Maria” was going wrong because I was sick or because my technique fell apart under pressure.

But it wasn’t about my eternal soul.

It was a simple question: Can this guy do the things we need in this show, and does he seem like a reasonable human to work with? Add to that all the other sausage making that goes into getting a show on a stage, and you see real quick that you’re the last thing they’re thinking about.

It’s liberating info.

And once I had a chance to see a few casting processes from behind the table, it became clear how fleeting an actor’s time in a room is.

Again, this was liberating.

Trying to guess what someone wants is a road to crazy town. In the audition room and in your relationships.

I mean, if you know your friend loves Magnolia Cupcakes, and it’s their birthday, you know what to do.

But trying to crack the code so you can win the approval prize is never a great setup. It tells the one you’re trying to please, “You’re above me, and you control my wellbeing.”

Nobody wants to be in charge of that.

The other thing this does? It makes what you’re offering cloudy. Instead of a clear proposal, you’re wasting time with the equivalent of, “It doesn’t matter to me. What do you wanna do?”

Instead you can take the risk to say, “Let’s go for Thai.”

They maybe looking for Ethiopian that day, but at least you made a bid. And who knows? Maybe they hadn’t considered how delicious a Panang curry might taste.

And think about what your brain does when someone says, “Oh, I’m fine with whatever.”

You’re immediately annoyed at the cognitive load you have to take on.

So, when you go into an audition, answer a question. Have an opinion. And prepare the hell out of demonstrating how you’d solve the problem.

Michael Kostroff says, “Always take care of them. Never ask them to take care of you.”

That sums it up.

Make your offer clear. If you’re confused, they will be, too, and as a smart marketing person said a long time ago (and like it or not, if you’re auditioning, you’re marketing) “a confused mind always says no.”

Worth the Soul Toll?

July 12, 2023 /

My taste in music’s like my taste in cuisine.

My favorite food’s a cheeseburger. WITH french fries. Bring me ranch dressing for dipping? Heaven.

I love risotto, boeuf bourguignon, any iteration of potato, omelettes, biscuits, and BUTTER.

I want it to be rich, satisfying, comforting, delicious, and I want it to be worth the time and effort to prepare it.

I want cooking it to be a joy.

This is why I subscribe to the Joy of French Cooking school of music making; I’ll have my ballad in a nice béchamel, please.

I could never pierce the meaning of 20th Century atonal musical (or anything that sought to deconstruct.)

While I empathize with the need to howl at the chasm in the early 20th Century, I still need cadences.

And if I’m going to work my ass off to learn a piece of music, it better fill my soul and make an audience go “yuuuummmm” and say, “My compliments to the chef.”

We have a phrase in our house — soul toll.

We bandy it liberally, apply to myriad situations, and even musicalize it.

It describes end-of-day emotional dysregulation (child and adult), traffic, shopping at Market Basket on a Saturday, and stoplight texters. (Of course, I’ve never done that.)

So, when it comes to life choices, the question becomes, “Is this worth the soul toll?”

Just because you have that block available on your calendar doesn’t mean you have adequate soul units to fuel that activity.

So I invite you to use this Q when you face choices.

Another way to ask this was something I heard Marie Forleo say: “Is the juice worth the squeeze?”

Caveat: not every lime in your life is going to yield ample zing to your G and T. Some you just have to squeeze, be glad you bought the Bombay Sapphire, and then take a nap.

But where you do have agency, check in with your soul tank, and get all Mary Oliver with yourself: What are you gonna do with that one wild and precious life?

Whatever you choose, I recommend butter.

Quick! Get Off the Highway!

July 11, 2023 /

We took a long road trip last June, and there was a major backup in Pennsylvania.

We’d driven through three big slowdowns (Connecticut!) and a rain torrent of biblical proportions, so we were beat.

Our very last wait-with-the-big-trucks event turned out to be the rubberneck side of the real event.

A crash on the other side created a dead stop for miles. The state police just shut the highway down at one point and detoured traffic. This caused another miles-long backup.

When I’m on the smooth-sailing side of the highway whooshing past a phalanx of furrowed headlights, I feel a mix of “oof so glad that’s not me” while I scan my recent traffic experience to see if my karmic balance means I deserve this turn to drive gridlock-free.

9 years living in LA tells me the answer is a perpetual yes.

But you get all kinds of mixy feelings when you go by a traffic event like this. You pray everyone in the crash was ok. You feel bad for the folks whose trips just got hours longer. And then you really feel anxious for the cars farther down the road doot-da-dooing at 75 mph straight toward an impending wall of stop.

The uncomfortable collection of feelings you get — feeling bad for folks while having no agency to do anything to help anybody — that’s a good check that your empathy’s on line.

And when you’re faced with gridlock (because no matter how many traffic karma hours you’ve logged on the 405 Freeway, you’ll still face gridlock), you can make another plan.

You can figure out how to wait well. I mean, there are podcasts now.

(Sometimes when the 5 Freeway was at a standstill, Melissa used to just go see a movie.)

Or you can take an alternate route.

A few weekends ago, Melissa and I went to Gloucester and Rockport, and Interstate 95 around Boston was a wicked clustah.

So, we took the scenic route through the towns outside the 95 perimeter.

It took an hour longer than waiting in traffic, and there were whoops-turn-arounds. But passing hydrangea bushes and town squares was a better plan than staring at concrete highway dividers.

So, just because you can’t do anything to help the folks on the other side doesn’t mean you need to turn off your mirror neurons or calculate some cosmic system of traffic experience fairness.

And when you’re the one who’s got to wait, you can find the best way for you to wait well or make a pit stop at the Louisa May Alcott House.

And look how beautiful Rockport, Massachusetts, is.

Stop Hitting Yourself — Music Abuse, we’ve all done it. Here are some ways to recover.

July 10, 2023 /

I used to hit myself in voice lessons.

Freshman year of college. I couldn’t sing a passage that was beyond my vocal ability, and I sounded like a mule dragging an overfilled tobacco sled to the tune of something that might’ve sounded like “Donna non vidi mai” from Manon Lescaut.

I’d sing a wrong note. I’d crack. It’d sound terrible in my head.

And like a reflex, I’d smack my right thigh like a Dickensian cop truncheoning truant orphans.

Richard Cook would sit balletically straight on the piano bench and look at me with wide, concerned eyes.The cogs in his brain must have turned the little bingo decision ball in the “above my pay grade” answer box.

Voice lessons were times when I wanted

✅ the right answers (consistent impressive hight notes, duh)

? the exact prescription for creating the right answers

? better ability than my competition

? approval from my teacher and peers

? stunning vocal ability so that I could then accept myself

? to tear down and eradicate every vocal fault I had and only sound like a perfect star of a singer

?️ to keep my voice contained in a safe manageable place where I could control all the correct, impressive, exact, superior, applause-inciting, approved, and fault-free sounds I would consistently make.

It was a mess in here.(I’m pointing everywhere.) And that shit hurt.

This is why I tell the pedagogy students at the BoCo: singing just happens to be the modality we get to work in to help folks heal.

The way I tried to use singing when I was 18 was music abuse.

Here’s why.

?‍♂️ Exercise is good for you. When you use exercise to comparing yourself to your treadmill neighbor, it disconnects you from its healthful purpose.If you’re in yoga class thinking, “Damn, I can Trikonasana so much better than that inflexible shaky pants over there,” you may have missed the point.

? Nutritious food is good for you. If you’re eating your kale and pumpkin seed salad with a splash of lemon juice while a seething judgment of the folks going into Dunkin Donuts across the street boils in your liver, you may be injecting more free radicals into your system than the antioxidants in that kale can mitigate.

? Spiritual practice is good for you. But if you’re like, “I’m pretty sure I meditated and prayed longer than all these jokers in this planning meeting this morning,” you may be missing out on some of the soul benefits a gratitude list can offer.

We do the same thing with singing.

We ab- (the Latin root means away) -use it.

We take it away from its natural and healthy purpose and turn it into a means to tell ourselves the story of better-than.

Because of loving teachers, caring friends, artist peers, plus the privilege to be a teacher, I saw examples of how singing can transform you and those who listen.

I learned

? Singing’s an always-moving thing, and the moment you try to pin it down and box it, you’re dealing with past tense.

? So many things can be true about the free ways you can sing. And once you think you have a tool figured out, you’ll find it doesn’t apply to everything you want to use it for.

? A singer can sound flawless, and you can notice that you just don’t care. If singing’s not connected to an open heart and a commitment to be generous, it’s lifeless. And we can tell.

?? Approval and applause feels good, and their effects evaporate like morning fog. You have to find a deeper purpose for making music, one that brings satisfaction to your individual soul and one that makes you proud of the trail of interactions you’ve left behind.

You have to embrace yourself before you can embrace your voice.

Even if you’re making technically stunning sounds, if you don’t have space and compassion for yourself, no amount of virtuosity is going to earn the grace you need for you.

There’s gold in what you call your vocal faults. And when you get curious about them instead of angry at them, they have a lot to teach you.

and

Your voice is all of you.

It creates itself from the very essence of you being alive — your breath. And it has the power to reconnect the broken pieces like golden vocal Kintsugi. (Thanks Kevin Wilson for this illustration.)

If we could see the energy and vibrations surrounding and coming from us, our minds would be blown on a James Webb Telescope discovery level.

While you may not open-palm slap yourself like 18-year-old me did, I invite you to be curious about the ways you might inflict punishment instead of offer understanding.

Singing is a healing path, and when you’re committed to being whole-hearted and walking it, folks who hear you will wake up to the hope that healing is possible for them, too.

Here’s your invite — get in there and heal. (It’s scary, unfamiliar, it hurts, and some of it really sucks, so don’t be alarmed.)

But it’s a life and death situation. There’s only one you, and we need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

Stop Shit-Talking Gen Z

July 9, 2023 /

I have a front row seat of a Gen Z microcosm. And I’m full of hope.

My students love. They support and encourage. They include.

They also show up. They open their hearts and do scary stuff every day.

They also work their asses off.

Black Widow (names changed to protect the awesome) worked two doubles on the weekends to knock out that Boston rent while running events like the choreography showcase — equivalent to a full time job, on top of classwork.

She also did every crazy thing I asked her to do in the studio and kept practicing when she didn’t know if the thing she wanted to change would change. (It changed.)

Captain Marvel said no to a low-paying summer gig so she could work 2 restaurant jobs and sock away cash to have a base in outa-control, exorbitant NYC.

She weathered a vocal injury, surgery, and showed up when her voice wasn’t cooperating. One of the hardest things a singer can go through.

Wonder Woman was financially on her own. She paid her own bills, took extra classes, and railed against the school machine when stupid rules kept her out of other extra classes.

When I offered bonus lesson time in the studio, she signed up first.

She’s also kind, compassionate, and resilient. And I trust her with our boys.

Gen Z’s got grit-filled empathy wizards, and we’re lucky they’re coming up.

They’ve seen the hierarchical emperor’s new clothes, and they want to work together with equity and respect.

Every generation’s got assholes. I’ve been a representative in my own cohort.

And there are terrific, creative, flexible, loving humans in their teens and 20s who want to contribute, heal, and help. I get the privilege teach them.

They’re here with us now, and we’d do well to encourage them and ask what they’re noticing instead of posting on Facebook about how they need to put down their phones.

The Impossible Bedtime Test

July 8, 2023 /

I have a herculean test set before me.

My task?

Completing the bedtime oral hygiene ritual with our four year old without losing my mind.

Every evening just after 7pm it shakes down.

Jammies are on. ✅

Older brother is off and away with his brush-with-Elmo electric tooth scrubber, and then I approach the younger one with the Captain America analog device ? he’s demanded requested.

My heart rate speeds, and my blood pressure spikes like I’m in the dentist chair when the hygienist asks, “Is your BP normally that high”

“All right, Jude. Here you go. Let’s see how FAAAAST you can brush those toofers!”

As if I’d just said, “Time to sort these monochrome beige beads into this craft organizer while we eat this over-boiled asparagus,” Jude stiffens his body rigid as rebar, turns his head, and clenches his jaw shut.

And here’s where I fail. every. damn. night.

“All right,” I say. “I guess you want all those germs to crawl all over your teeth tonight and give you cavities. Suit yourself. I’m not fighting you on this.”

I’m a liar. And a terrible manipulator. Of course I’m fighting him on this.

“Noooo!” He wails in abject dental abandonment.

I return.

“All right. Let’s see how fast you can…”

Ramrod straight goes the body again.

Physical force sometimes gets the job done, but this child is shockingly strong, and we only emerge from that situation physically and emotionally depleted.

Last night Jude looked at me in my face and flung his Captain America tooth brush over the starboard side of his bed.

I didn’t reactively lose my shit (!).

Some prefrontal cortex regulation must be taking hold at age 45.

“Oh, I notice that you threw your toothbrush. Hmmmmm. I wonder how you’ll brush your teeth. Looks like all those germs will be crawling all over your toofers tonight.”

“Noooooo! I don’t want cavities!”

And so ensues a dance of codependent reactivity and 3rd grade manipulation skills (on my part).

And we haven’t even gotten to floss and mouthwash.

We finally work it out. (“Callaways always work it out,” we say.)

But the problem? Like Hercules, it’s my lack of mental and emotional resources and, frankly, my temper.

I shouldn’t have to meet this 4 year old where he is. He should just do what I say. What’s hard about brushing teeth?

Reality is — it is hard for him at 7pm.

And maybe I can take my 41-year cognitive advantage and use that to put us on the same enamel cleaning team.

Taking just one rubber spatula of emotional reserve from the dregs to come alongside him instead of fighting against him will pay off big time in connection, calm, and actual task efficiency.

It’s the same when the part of you that’s 4, 7, 13, or 45 is trying to get a need met by demanding a very specific tooth brush method.

If you meet you with curiosity instead of “do what I say,” chances are there’ll be room for collaboration. Even if the agreement is “let’s grab a snack and a nap.”

You’ll still lose your shit sometimes and say stupid things like, “All right, I’ll just start reading to your brother, then.”

But you’ll become more aware of what you’re doing.

And you’ll loosen up. And then you’ll have the presence of mind to say, “I’m agitated in my body right now. I’m gonna stand over here and take a few deep breaths until I calm down.”

Then you can try again.

When you bring the toothbrush with the intention to work together rather than to dictate terms, things go better. Your 4-year-old may still resist, but you’ll be curious and tired and pissed instead of just tired and pissed.

And a little more open. And that’s usually better.

And it’ll help you on your next test. Because you will have one.

Leave Behind a Trail You’re Proud of

July 7, 2023 /

I want to publish a novel, write a musical that gets produced in a beautiful way, and a play, too. I want to publish books on singing and healing, teach workshops in New York and London, host retreats in the country, help theatre singers with tool-packed videos, sing recitals, write and produce a one-person show, and share what’s helped me with as many folks as want to hear it.

I think?

I wanna be a loving hubster, a sturdy and present dad, a good son, a ready friend, and a contributor. Oh, and do a solid job at work.

Thing is — the list in paragraph one sounds satisfying and worthwhile (and something my ego would like on the CV), but I don’t know what I expect the list to do. And I don’t know what I hope to experience by checking off novels, plays, and books.

But I admit something turned over in my brain on birthday 45.

If I live to 90, that’s half way. And time feels more like a speeding train than a gentle stream.

I believe I’m an eternal soul, but I want this finite timeline to be rich and to invest love into the world. I want people I meet to experience beauty, healing, and hope.

I’m one little billionth of a billionth, and I want my atom to count.

To count means to add up to something and give something substantial, rich, and nourishing.

Can two things be true here? A trust in life’s unfolding (fifteen years ago I had no idea where I’d be today) together with an urgency to know what my task is and fiery energy to share it well.

Share.

That’s the word that always comes up in my guts when I pray about this.

What am I supposed to focus on?

Share.

So, that’s what I’m doing. Sharing this with you. And I include you in my prayer — that your life will unfold with delightful surprises and that you’ll have the wisdom to collaborate with them.

(Today’s my younger son Jude’s 4th birthday. I didn’t know if Melissa and I would get to have any children much less the surprise of our little tender tornado.)

End of the day, whether it’s a play, a book, a lesson, a class, a blog, a joke, a meal, or a word of encouragement — does the way I interact with you leave behind a trail that I’m proud of?

That question helps me relax and trust the place on the timeline I’ve been blessed to be surprised by.

A Look in the Rear View

July 6, 2023 /

I got a rear view mirror concert yesterday.

Our 5-year-old was giving full lip sync commitment to Frozen II‘s “Into the Unknown.”

(And somehow he even knew to pop that tongue out on Idina’s high screlt.)

He squinted his eyes shut, widened his mouth into cheek-ache smiles, and flung ice crystal geometry from his fingers.

He’s a mirror to me. I don’t know how God crafts souls, but ours share a blueprint.

He flings himself into the world with tenderness, trust, and abandon, and I can’t help but see little me in parallel stages.

It’s healing and painful.

He grieves hard, too: learning the grownups had ice cream after he was in bed, brother-altered art projects, and Duplo accidents incite Greek tragedy-level keening and Shakespearean vengeance.

These glimpses teleport me back to fragile and open child me.

And how illogical and unfair my ego’s been:

Why didn’t you put a stop that? And that?

Why couldn’t you be normal? You cried over broken cookies.

If you didn’t talk so loud and cartwheel everywhere you went, kids wouldn’t have called you sissy.

Any trip to our early timeline with demands for adult-level agency, advocacy, and violent shut-down is a visit to prison.

We look at our little selves through bulletproof glass; and soon the furrow in our wounded adult brow means the kid part of us just stops picking up the phone.

What if we realized the jail is as imaginary as the one Noah and Jude put me in on the couch when they play police?

And what if instead of laying down cruel and kooky demands on our souls when they had small bodies and wobbly brains, we opened our big person arms and asked, “Can I give you a hug?”

There’d be a lot less owning and destroying in your YouTube video suggestions.

And here’s a song you can sing and make big gestures to:

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