Dan Callaway Studio

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

Page 7 of 31

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:

Rehearsal with Pop-Up Noggin Noise — “Nell” Gabriel Faure

July 1, 2023 /

If your brain is abuzz with activity while you sing, you’re not alone.  

I’m going to give you some insight into what’s going on inside the mental zone while I’m rehearsing with this pop-up video. I’m getting ready for a recital, and you’ll be able to see what’s a-happening in my noggin.  

So take a look. You’ll see, it’s pretty crazy in there.

And I hope that you’ll feel somewhat comforted by our shared neuroses. Enjoy 🙂

Nell (poem by Leconte de Lisle) Setting by Gabriel Fauré

Ta rose de pourpre, à ton clair soleil,
Ô Juin, étincelle enivrée;
Penche aussi vers moi ta coupe dorée:
Mon cœur à ta rose est pareil.

Sous le mol abri de la feuille ombreuse
Monte un soupir de volupté;
Plus d’un ramier chante au bois écarté,
Ô mon cœur, sa plainte amoureuse.

Que ta perle est douce au ciel enflammé,
Étoile de la nuit pensive!
Mais combien plus douce est la clarté vive
Qui rayonne en mon cœur charmé!

La chantante mer, le long du rivage,
Taira son murmure éternel,
Avant qu’en mon cœur, chère amour, ô Nell,
Ne fleurisse plus ton image!

English (Richard Stokes's translation)
Your crimson rose in your bright sun
Glitters, June, in rapture;
Incline to me also your golden cup:
My heart is like your rose.

From the soft shelter of shady leaves
Rises a languorous sigh;
More than one dove in the secluded wood
Sings, O my heart, its love-lorn lament.

How sweet is your pearl in the blazing sky,
Star of meditative night!
But sweeter still is the vivid light
That glows in my enchanted heart!

The singing sea along the shore
Shall cease its eternal murmur,
Before in my heart, dear love, O Nell,
Your image shall cease to bloom!

“A Bit of Earth” from The Secret Garden

June 27, 2023 /

Got to make music with the magnificent James May ? at the end of our studio recital at Boston Conservatory at Berklee.

Jim and I got to work together in LA several times, and you don’t feel more loved, supported, and clearly guided than when he’s at the helm.

Here’s “A Bit of Earth” from The Secret Garden.

I Blame Uta — You got style, and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise

June 27, 2023 /

Before college I read, “A Challenge for the Actor” by Uta Hagen.

I didn’t know how to pronounce her name, but I took notes on all the strange exercises she taught: 

☕️ spending inordinate amounts of time with cups of coffee experiencing smells and feels,

? pretending you were the character before and after you were on stage,

? and writing down all kinds of biographical information that you never even talk about in the show.

Sounded like a lot of work. And I was THERE for it.

She said I should swim and play tennis for exercise. Great! I already did both. 

Then she came for my regional dialect.

She didn’t single me out by twang, but I knew my Surry County drawl wouldn’t fly at HB Studios.

I broke the news to my dad (whom I’d continue to call “Deddy.” They couldn’t take THAT away from me.)

“Deddy,” I said, hoisting a spool of rope onto a high shelf in his warehouse. “I don’t want you to think I’m putting on airs, but I’m going to have to work on my accent.”

He understood, and so I set out to create a composite dialect profile that was part Tom Hanks part Leo DiCaprio (it was the Titanic and Romeo and Juliet year.)

No matter how many flourish syllables I eliminated from words like “there” and my first name, my rolling hills DNA still vibrated.

The vicar at the church I attended in London always greeted me with a hearty, “Well howdy Danny Callaway!” 

While it no longer feels natural to say “win” and “when” as multisyllabic homonyms, the southern spice still seasons my vowels and vocal melody.

Since I’ve lived in lots of different spots, I’ve studied humans with different ways of talking. 

And it made me realize there’s a direct connection there with musical style.

A human usually speaks and moves the way they do because of the sounds and movements they were surrounded by growing up. These become ways to connect and communicate.

When I lived in London, my American dialect stayed in tact. But I changed inflections without noticing it. (So that folks knew I was actually asking a question.)

(It took me three months to understand that a question was being asked in the first place with the Brit pitch down-swoop before a slight rise. In North Carolina, a question was communicated through an upward slide of at least a perfect 5th through diphthong extravaganzas.)

The more folks I encountered, the more I learned that musical style is dialect.

Musical style grows from the soil and soul of a place. 

Reggae, hip hop, British music hall, bluegrass, metal, 80s pop, 1920s crooning, bel canto, bossa nova, Vaudeville.

Each of these style names evokes place and culture. 

The big mistake theatre singers make when they seek to embody different styles is that they focus first on how a style sounds.

What needs to happen is to back up and ask: Who am I? 

My ego identity is going to be very different if I grew up in Black Mountain, North Carolina, as opposed to Caracas, Venezuela. 

Where did this style grow up, and who am I as a communicator of this style?

That’s where to begin. 

This question will change everything because you’ll start to embody the style rather than parrot sounds. 

On a road trip from North Carolina back up to Massachusetts, I studied of a group of men talking around a Sheetz gas pump. Their bodies spoke in Surry County; the way they laughed and moved was like they had time to eat a slice of pecan pie while they guffawed at rude jokes.

I imagined a similar scenario in Massachusetts, and the bodies and voices were very different. Tighter torsos, tenser shoulders, quicker arms and hands. MAYBE time for half a Dunkies chocloate sprinkle donut. 

Reminds me of a dance callback I had for Jersey Boys. I couldn’t get the style down because it was sharp and compact. Not only did it feel alien, it felt wrong in my body. You can take the boy out of Surry County….

So, when you approach musical style AND dialect in any material you work on, ask those questions: Who am I? Where did I grow up, and what are my assumptions about how I relate? Let that affect your body and then see how the voice follows.

You yourself show up with your voice and body based on a whole life’s collection of influences and choices about how you want to connect to the world.

The characters you play and the songs you sing are no different.

And inside of there, there’s the one and only you singing whatever style you’re singing, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing (in whatever dialect that may be).

Love much,

Dan

PS Here are a couple of video highlights from this week: A helpful way to think about your authentic sound, 

and a rehearsal for an upcoming recital. “L’heure exquise” by Reynaldo Hahn accompanied by the terrific Scott Nicholas.

The Truth About Your Authentic Sound

June 22, 2023 /

We mean well, but voice teachers are often sending students off on a quixotic quest to find “their authentic voice.”

Theater singers of all kinds have spent a lot of time on this search for what their “sound” is.

When you’re a theater singer, your job is to embody multiple different ego identities. You don’t want to be a singular brand because that limits the myriad expressions you’re capable of.

Biologically, empirically, and scientifically, you already showed up on the planet with a singular voice that has never been and will never be repeated. Your particular combination of lungs, larynx, and vocal tract is your own.

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