Dan Callaway Studio

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Category: Audition Advice (Page 4 of 6)

I’m Sorry and Other Gifts — a theatre moment I’ll never forget, and why you gotta keep singing

March 8, 2022 /

I’ve been working with a student on a song from High Fidelity this semester called “I’m Sorry.” Or “Laura, Laura.” I don’t know which is the official title.

The first reminds me of the dramatic strains of The Platters’ 1954 hit. That’s not the one we’re working on. But side note for your own research—The Platters recorded some great tunes.

The song I am talking about, I first heard in a staged reading of High Fidelity back in LA, geez, like 12 years ago produced by Musical Theatre Guild, the terrific company I was a member of.

You may know the film starring John Cusack which was based on a Nick Hornby novel. Musicals and their provenance, I tell you.

Aaaaanyway—By Act 2, the lead guy, vinyl record store owner Rob, has a Damascus Road experience and realizes how his constant side-glance to the bigger better thing took his gaze off of the invaluable love in front of him.

It’s a pretty rock ballad, and my student, Nick, sings it great. I keep yelling at him to take out gratuitous riffs, but if I were as good a riffer as he is, I’d put too many in, too.

I told him how I’d never forgotten this one moment at the Alex Theatre in Glendale, California.

After all the boollshit this guy puts his ex-girlfriend, Laura, through, he finally sees it, looks right at her, and tells her all he’s done that hurt her and their relationship.

And this is why I’ll never forget the moment in the theatre.

Will Collyer, the actor playing Rob, and Robin DeLano, the actor playing Laura, stood downstage center. Will looked right into Robin’s face, standing profile to the audience and just sang the whole song right to her.

That was the blocking–look at her and sing the song.

I’ll never forget it.

After the lesson teaching the song that day, I had to throw up a social post reminding the director, Richard Israel, how that was such a special two-plus minutes.

It was heartwarming to read all the comments from friends who remembered that moment, too.

You got a memory like that? A sweet-savory morsel of theatre experience that arrives like a surprise chocolate box when you hear a certain song?

That’s soul medicine. It’s beauty. It’s gratitude, and it’s us recognizing us in each other.

Just imagine how things might look different if we were able to do more of that.

All this to say–what we get to do matters to folks.

More than one student has come into the studio this past week wondering how their pursuit of being a musical storyteller matters in the face of the unbelievable suffering happening in the world.

I wonder the same thing.

While we’ve learned in the last 2 years that getting to stand on a stage in front of people depends on a ton of things going well, it doesn’t mean that what we do is frivolous or a luxury.

When Will stood on the Alex stage and sang that ballad to Robin, he opened his heart and shared the deep healing that happens when we tell another human that we understand how our actions hurt them.

To stand in that place with open hands and ask another human to forgive you is a gift.

To hear someone say, “Yes, what you did hurt me, and I’m going to erase that from my ledger over here,” is Tiger Balm for your heart.

And when we forgive each other on stage singing beautiful melodies with stick-to-your-feels images, all that music and poetry psychs out the stubborn, cross-armed bridge troll in our brain, and we start to set our hearts a little freer.

I mean, you’re a musical theatre nerd. Haven’t you asked yourself if you woulda said you gave Valjean the sliver candlesticks like that low-voiced priest did?

This question–do we keep singing while the world burns?–also brings up our universal human need to practice comparative suffering.

I teach another student who received a challenging medical diagnosis just before starting his studies at the BoCo. When I ask, “How you doin’ today?” he’ll often respond, “Aw, could be worse. People are going through much more.”

Yes, both statements are true. 

And then I remind him that just because the guy next to me is a triple amputee doesn’t mean I don’t hit the cut on my hand with peroxide, Neosporin, and a Paw Patrol bandaid.

I’ve been trying to hold my weeping at the news footage of the Ukrainian father sobbing at the head of his 16-year-old-son’s murdered body together with the deep gratitude, guilt, and relief I feel when I tuck my boys into a safe, warm bed at night.

I can’t imagine his suffering, and looking right at it shows me that the grace my life overflows with is something I want to cherish and share.

Telling musical stories matters, and the way you tell musical stories matters. The way you show up to sing one day could be that heart and honesty morsel someone saves for a devastating day. 

Because remember, there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan
 

ps The YouTube algorithm delivered a moment of healing beauty and grace to me this week. I was about to ignore and go to the next doom news video, but it started before I could intervene. 

Take a moment to watch and listen to this Beethoven’s 9th Flash Mob in Tokyo. I may have been shoulder-bounce crying as I packed our picnic lunch yesterday.

pps You wanna learn from a really smart director like Richard Israel? You can! Here’s his website. And here’s where you can find out how to work with him. I recommend. 

ppps You know I gotta hit you with the latest New England cold-ish beach pics. We had a quick day trip out to Nantasket Beach/Hull, Mass. I love being an hour from the water–the ocean’s healing.




pppPs One more thing—I’m prepping for a faculty recital at BoCo Saturday April 9 at 2pm, so mark your calendars if you wanna catch the live stream. Or come to Boston! The school’s open to outside visitors attending performances now. It’ll be the music of Richard Strauss and Stephen Sondheim. I’ll keep you posted!

Thank You, Trauma? ? Your baggage has great news for you.

November 9, 2021 /

Hellerrrr You Brilliant Resilient —

I’m a late processor. Late for what? I’m not sure.

I’m a take-my-time processor. That’s it.

When I was in London, ??my voice instructor would sometimes pour us both a whiskey and ginger before a lesson (in tea mugs).

I remember the end of one session while another was beginning, she sent me to the corner off-licence for supplies. That’s when 22-year-old me learned what a Moscow Mule was.

At some lessons she was sweet as pie, and other lessons she said things to me that made my throat catch, my stomach clinch, and tears sting my eye corners.

I never knew which teacher I’d be seeing that day. And I wondered why I felt stressed biking down to Brixton every week.

A year after I’d moved to NYC, I was walking down Second Avenue when in an 8-part harmony angel choir theophany moment ?, I stopped in my tracks and said out loud, “Sylvia was an alcoholic!”*

I just thought all Londoners drank that much. I did bartend in a pub, so I had plenty of evidence.

But yeah. A little slow in the evidence assimilation there.

As I tell you that, a list of dodged bullets runs like a dang-that-was-close news ticker through my young adult years.

You see, for various reasons in my childhood, my mind learned to file potentially painful information in the “Process Much Later” file. ?

While this has caused problems (ask the active paperwork inbox in my still-unpacked studio), it’s also brought benefits.

I’ve navigated scenarios so chaotic that if you proposed them in script form to Lifetime TV, they’d tell you to bring them something realistic.

My brain created all kinds of back door exits in response to life traumas that are very handy escape hatches when I encounter crap-tastic circumstances.

Don’t get me wrong. My lil-Dan coping mechanisms have wreaked their share of havoc.

Thousands of dollars worth of therapy and credit card interest later, I’m here to tell you I’ve come to a spot where I can usually meet my psyche’s brilliant survival tactics with understanding and gratitude.

They even work in my favor sometimes.

Big emotional event?–My mind organizes the ordeal into the deal-with-later file, and I know one day I’ll let the snot and tears dribble. But today I may just have to pay bills.

What are the things that little you did to cope that keep showing up today?

Did you know that your voice tells you about these kid skills too?

?Tongue tension, for example, is often a belief that you need to press back your expression because you might have run into negative consequences for letting out your feels.

?Pharyngeal constriction (intense whispery/constrained feeling) can link to earning love through meeting a perfectionistic/impossible standard.

?And hypofunctional phonation (not enough breath energy for a vibrant sound) can shine a light on areas where you’ve judged you don’t deserve things.

I remind myself, and I tell my students that these things are all tryina help you.

Your tight tongue is protecting you from the danger your expression got you in in the past.

Your constricting pharynx is trying real hard to keep you doing the things that get you love and acceptance.

And that stingy air flow is keeping that story alive about not deserving nice things so you don’t have to grieve over the years you’ve ID-ed with the deprivation that got shellacked on you as a kid.

I’ll often ask a student to pause and meditate into the spot that’s not doing what they want it to do.

They have a little conversation with their tongue root or their pharynx, and just like when you ask anybody a genuine question with the desire to understand, those parts of the body speak up.

When we can meet the parts of ourselves that seem to be getting in the way with empathy and compassion, we learn a lot.

I guarantee you it’s a lot more effective than shouting, “JUST RELAX!”

This week I invite you to notice the patterns little intelligent you cooked up to survive, and maybe give your baby psyche some props for their resilience brilliance.

When we invite these things to share their stories with us, they can mellow out, and they can even integrate themselves into some healthy adulting if we can partner with them in a gentle and conscious way.

And remember, beautiful you with your intricate assortment of survival skills, there’s only one of you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.

Love much,
Dan

ps *re: my London story, names have been changed, and I still talk out loud to myself on city streets.

pps here’s the bar where I worked in London. The Havelock Tavern. Still there in Brook Green. I enjoyed working there, and it’s where my love of cooking started.

It’s Always a Prius ? — A shoutout to the hybrids — and encouragement that it’s worth it

October 19, 2021 /

Hey There DMV Daredevil–

I drove to NYC this weekend to teach and see some of my former student supahstahs be fabahlahs at 54 Below.

On my way down Interstate 84 through Massachusetts’s autumnal glory?, I found myself in a behind-2-cars-going-similar-speeds-side-by-side situation.

When the offending left lane pokey butt finally moseyed to the right, it was like Star Wars reverse warp speed in my little green Scion as a stream of harried New Englanders whooshed by–very eager to get to Connecticut on a Saturday morning.

The car causing all this kerfuffle? A Prius. It’s always a Prius.

I normally refrain from always and never in my moral pronouncements, but you tell me, even if you are a responsible and considerate Prius driver (and I know several), does this truth not bear out in your experience?

After the Escalades with Greenwich dealer plate frames barreled by, I scooted my lilttle electric wasabi butt around my fellow Toyota motorist and made my merry way Manhatttan-ward. 

Side note, I was excited to take a leisurely Saturday morning drive along the Merritt Parkway, but folks be cray on that road. I was like, calm down, people. Can you not see the stone bridges, 50 mph speed limit signs, and lack of shoulder? 

Prii (Pree-eye), though, they always make me think of life’s unexpected delays.

You had any of those lately?

On Saturday, I got to teach not one, but two of my dear students from LA days–back in the little blue singing cottage on Vineland Blvd.

Those were some days. I swear I encountered more wildlife in and around that building in North Hollywood than I did growing up in the cowntry in NC.

I lost one student when a mouse decided to run across a rafter mid-lesson, and there was also the possum-raccoon death match ?in the crawl space that I heard while updating quickbooks. The loser of that battle alerted my olfactory senses to the altercation’s outcome about four days later. (It was the possum.)

But back to my LA beebees. One I started teaching when she was 12 and her email address included the words “onbroadway,” and the other had just finished up at USC.

Saturday, my 12-year old Broadway dreamer showed up a 25-year-old performer with NYU degree in hand and tons of skill, and my USC grad recently earned their masters at ACT and is navigating this new landscape as a trans actor.  

In both lessons we looked at the shape of the industry as far as we could understand it today, and after some discussion, we shrugged our shoulders and said, “Let’s sing.”

In both conversations, I came back to the same truth–storytelling is worth it.

I looked at both of these tremendous artists that I had the privilege to share some time with on Saturday, and I saw a world of possibilities in both of them.

?I saw collaborations with friends
?creating new work in small-ish rooms that would ask new questions that would have to travel to bigger rooms one day
?new points of view that I’d never considered that these two beautiful voices would sing about. 

Yes, the industry’s a cluster. And commercial theatre is gonna make choices that make money. We know this. 

The new voices we want to hand the microphone to, that’s on you and me. And small beginnings are beginnings.

The industry might feel like the Prius going under the speed limit in the left lane. But eventually, a lane will open. Hell, you might even have to drive on the shoulder for a little while. And then there’ll be times when you just have to make your own road. 

And this brought me back to the central truth of why most of us are here. We love stories. We wanna tell them. We wanna sing them. And I’m here to tell you that it’s worth it.

You can tell them. You can sing them. And I believe you can even create ways to pay your bills doing it. 

I wrote a musical. I started working on it in 2012. It’s been percolating, plot changing, song shifting. Characters have appeared and disappeared.

To go further it has to get on its feet, and I need collaboration. 

But here’s the thing–if it doesn’t go any further, I’m so grateful I wrote it. Writing it has been precious, and living in the story has made me a better human. 

I haven’t made any money from it. Not many folks know about it or have heard the songs. 

But so far, it’s been worth it. 

What you do is worth it. By itself, it’s worth it.

So let’s take the thing and take steps to share it because chances are there are folks out who’d be touched, moved, delighted, and maybe healed by your courage to open your heart and invite them in.

No shade to hybrids, you silent shifty vehicles. You help us slow down, and maybe you even saved us from an unpleasant altercation with an Escalade from Greenwich later. Who knows?

One thing I DO KNOW–There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,
dan

⏱ You Don’t Have to Play the Game —

October 12, 2021 /

Today’s the Boston Marathon.

How many it’s-not-a-sprint-it’s-a-marathon 26.2 sticker clichés can you pull up?

I get the whole long-haul wisdom of the massive distance race imagery. The thing about this analogy is that it’s filled with stressful givens–

??‍♂️There’s a slew of lean game-face runners with their numbers pinned to their shirts ready to pound you into the pavement.

⏱It’s a one-time event.

?There are no nights of sleep involved (or other forms of rest).

?There can only be one winner.

Enter your life as an artist and/or singer. You look around at all the create-y people around you, and someone said “It’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon,” and not only do you think there’s a race, but you think y’all are competing for the same finish line.

A ridiculously talented and beauty-hearted student came to their lesson this week, and when I asked them what they were liking about school, they said, “The people.” ?

When I asked them what was tough, they said, “Feeling like I have to catch up.” ?

Number one I was so grateful this student opened up and shared this with me. We took a few minutes to play around with this thought—I have to catch up.

The student was so game and willing. We took that thought–I have to catch up— and asked, “Is that true?”

It was a gift for me to watch this singer go right inside to their heart to see what the answer might be. Very quickly, I saw the student’s face open like sunshine peaking behind a cloud.

They told me there was nothing to catch up to, nothing to compete with, nothing to do but do their stuff and learn their things.

And as they imagined their peers succeeding, a bubbly joy fizzed up in the room.

Then they sang their song, and I freakin cried because their heart was so wide open and beautiful. I have the best job. 

When I compete, I contract. I compare. I look outside and ask what’s the minimum I have to do to be better than.

Competition can be really fun when there’s a game and agreed-upon rules.

But artists get really jacked up when we start to make up a rules-y game where there isn’t one.

You hear folks say, “You gotta play the game.” What game is that, exactly?

Thing is, when you show up and do your work in a way that brings you satisfaction, find the people who can help you do your work with skill and generosity, and share that work, things start to move.

People start to say thank you. And then surprises start to happen.

People you don’t know hear about you from those people who said thank you before, and they ask you if you wanna come play. And so on.

Let’s review—

?? Show up

? Talk to/invest in your people—coaches, teachers, collaborators

?? Share your things in all the ways you can

⚽️ This gets rolling.

(But it’s not a game!)

It is, however, fun! And scary. And challenging. And terrific. And unfamiliar. And satisfying.

Truth is, some things (most things) take longer than we want (double marathon category), and some things show up more quickly than we feel we’re ready for.

Both things are a mercy.

I look back on the things I wanted when I was in my 20s, and if I’d had the skill and integration to get those things, I’m not convinced I had the character to sustain.

Delays in my life have been gifts.

Didn’t feel like that at the time, of course, but the look-back is instructive.

So, if you’re racing and you’re tired, I invite you to look at the reality around you. Are all these crazy folks even competing in the same event?

Maybe you can stop by one of those nice people holding the paper cones of cold water and orange slices, catch your breath, and ask yourself what kind of course you even want to be on.

Here’s permission.

And no matter what course you’re jogging down today, remember that there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story on only you can sing.

Love much,
Dan

So Simple it Might Piss You Off ❤️ — how to be incomparable, love bombs, and captivating

October 5, 2021 /

Hey Care Bear —

Today’s a big birthday for a dear mentor, teacher and friend—One of the biggest reasons I do what I do.

I met Catherine McNeela at a singing competition when I was in high school.

I remember thinking she dressed a lot cooler than the other teachers parading their prize pupils around the halls of whatever college we were at.

She invited me to study Music Theatre at Elon College after kindly counseling me on the phone that one of Tevye’s monologues I learned for the Mount Airy High School production of Fiddler on the Roof wouldn’t be the best selection for my audition.

I followed her advice and performed an equally ill-chosen speech from Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing.

After singing “Vittora mio core” and then doing my very best Alan Campbell impression of “Sunset Boulevard” –complete with jacket-over-the-shoulder cross stage right– the folks at Elon said, “He can sing. Let’s hope we can teach him to act and dance.”

I rolled up the next fall not knowing a jazz shoe from a Reebok. And you shoulda seen my face when they explained what a dance belt was.

I arrived in Cathy’s studio a very capable brain ? attached to a disconnected, terrified body.

One day I sang “Anyone Can Whistle.”

I’d struggled through the rep Cathy’d assigned me that semester—unable to connect, clueless about how to move air out of my face, and singing flat a lot. Womp womp.

That day, though, I stood in the crook of the piano, Sharon LaRocco, piano goddess of the ages on the keys ?, looked into the corner behind Cathy’s door and sang,

“What’s hard is simple.
What’s natural comes hard.
Maybe you could show me
How to let go
Lower my guard
Learn to be FREE ?
Maybe if you whistle…
Whistle for me.”

Cathy nodded her head and said, “You’ve thought about this.”

I had.

I let myself sing about things I believed if anyone knew I was thinking—traumas, buried secrets, my daily dance with self-loathing—a shame pit the size of Gibsonville, NC, would open and swallow me.

But no shame chasm gaped, and no one pointed and scoffed.

It was just me and two brilliant artists in the room sharing music and recognition of the truth.

I learned that day it was a little safer to feel.

I also learned that day that when you sing, people can’t see what you’re thinking about. They just know if you invited them in.

I learned to unlock the door and open it just a crack that day at Elon College.

Flanked by her illustrious LP library and her snow globe menagerie, Cathy challenged, nurtured, called out, inspired, and encouraged me. I’m one of hundreds of students who can say the same thing.

Did you know that this door to your heart is the secret to all impossible-to-compete-with sparkliness?

It’s the voice print that only you are.

It’s your diamond human soul that invites all the other diamond souls to come to your party.

You say welcome here to all my human mess, confusion, working it out, love, guffaws, sarcasm, compassion, understanding, and the occasional fart.

And the person who’s there to hear your story knows it’s a legit invitation. They can’t help but come in and have a slice of that Ina Garten chocolate cake you’re serving up.

The reason we don’t do it (invite folks in like that) is because it feels like nothing.

You didn’t make you show up on this planet with your glittering self, so letting people into that is super humbling and real real uncomf for the ego who likes working, earning, and deserving.

Yes, be excellent in your work. Give yourself your best.

Then know you’ve done your work. Feel your heart pound as you step in front of folks, raise your sternum a little bit, let a thought arise, and welcome people in.

Try it out in the everyday, too. See if you don’t give a little lift to the person slinging your morning coffee. I’ll be interested to hear.

And always remember—there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

ps Remember I’m going to be in NYC Saturday Oct. 16 teaching at the American Opera Center studios. (They don’t care if we belt.)

There are a few times left, so just email me and let me know you wanna work together. Your heart’ll be so open you’ll be Care Bear starin’ all the way down 7th Ave.

(Rate is 150/hr, 75/half hour. Proof of vaccination is required at the Opera Center.)

pps I can’t just tell you about Ina Garten’s life-changing chocolate cake and not hook you up with the recipe. Here you go! Cathy McNeela, you deserve a slice of this today. A chorus of grateful students and I say thank you and we love you. 

Let’s Not Start at the Beginning. Do re mi and all, but sometimes you gotta work out the messy middle.

September 7, 2021 /

Hey Perfectly Imperfect Pupil of Pulchritude–

I was kiiiindofa perfectionistic piano lesson disastah when I was a wee boy child.

You see, I had this ear. ??

It could hear a little ditty, and I’d run over to the Baldwin upright in our living room and plunk it out. 

So when my septuagenarian sage piano teacher Mrs. Mildred Roberston played the new song of the week from my John Thompson’s Teaching Little Fingers to Play, I’d hop into the blue vinyl backseat of my mama’s Ford Fairmont station wagon with “Beautiful Dreamer” fixed firmly in my musical mind.

I faked Mrs. R out for a good year and a half until the Clementi Sonatinas came into the picture.

As I struggled through the first movement of one of these gems, Mrs. Mildred looked over at me and said, “You can’t read music, can you?”

I mean, give me four minutes to count G-B-D-F-A up the bass clef, and I might be able to identify that round dot on the third line.

Give me a little more time, and I could tell you how many beats.

But the answer was nope. I was relying on my trusty ear, and the infuriating dots and lines just needed to cooperate with MAY!

It was a child ego-imposed system fraught with much frustration.

Enter my perfectionist period. (still happening ps)

It looked like this: Little Dan would begin to play a piece. ??

Measure thirteen, little Dan would play a wrong note. ❌?

Little Dan would begin the piece from the beginning ??and make the same mistake on measure thirteen. ❌?

Little Dan would begin the piece from the beginning again. ??

Little Dan got very good at the beginnings of songs.

Mrs. Robertson would all but bang her forehead against her studio upright when I’d insist on my da capo addiction.

“Just pause there and work on the part you’re having trouble with,” she admonished.

That was much too existentially painful. No thanks. From the top, people.

So when BOTH of my sons insist that they return to the top of the staircase so that they can descend on their own power instead of Daddy carrying them down halfway or wrestle with the Sisyphean futility of reunifying a broken banana, I see that my penchant for the perfect is indeed genetic.

Sorry, boys. 

Where’s your I-have-to-start-at-the-beginning-of-Für-Elise-again moment happening? 

Or do you do the other thing I do? Ignore the priority task that’s super frustrating and start making a spreadsheet to make yourself feel productive?

I know all the tricks.

When it comes to songs, how does this show up for you? A technical snag or super tricky notes and rhythms you’d rather fudge than learn?

The time period from can’t do yet to I’ve got a handle on this can be a real dooze. 

Por qué? 

Because it’s full of unknowns, and our brains HATE unknowns.

They send out danger death signals whenever we encounter something that can’t connect safe and sound to past context.

So when you’re tryina make a sound you’ve never made before, your brain is certainly gonna say “We haven’t done this! This is new! Danger! Who are you, even???” ?

Anything in life that presents ignorance puts us in this awkward newborn fawn walk. We wobble and find our way, but eventually we’re leaping and bounding over logs and creeks. The fawn’s quicker at it, though.  

So here’s your encouragement to nestle right into measure thirteen and see what’s up there. 

Practice your hands separately. Give your brain time to connect that dot on the third line of the bass clef to your left pinky.

And trust that if you show up to your work every day and practice with smarts and wisdom, you’re gonna end up somewhere great and full of discoveries that you didn’t know you were gonna make. 

It always happens like that. That I do know.

Promise. 

No matter what, remember that there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing. 

Love much,
Dan

ps Hey guess what. I have a clue about what my BoCo teaching skedge is gonna be, so if you need some help with measure 13, I’m Zoom-able to fix all your vocal probs.

pps I’m also gearing up to get a NYC workshop rolling in October. ??

We’ll pick a song or two that sangs your unique and effortless energy. We’ll Zoom about it a couple times, then I’ll come to the Citay, work with you one-on-one. And we’ll meet as a group for some communal song magic. 

I’ve got a list of interested folk, so please email me if you wanna join me in New York, and I’ll make sure you get all the pertinents.

ppps If you read this far, you’re the best, and you get this quote dessert from brilliant artist writer human Anne Lamott, from her book Bird by Bird.

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.”

That’s Some Colorful Lingo, Mr. Cabbie. ? New stuff can make your adrenals do some dancing.

August 24, 2021 /

Hey You Trailblazer of the Uncharted ??—

Noah and I went on a Daddy date to the big sandbox playground and Lowe’s this week, and I noticed I knew where I was going without the GPS.

Reminded me of touring days when I’d be a week and a half into a new city, and the (paper!) map from the rental car company’d start to seep into memory. 

I’m a map nerd. 

When I lived in London, I studied the A to Zed before bed to plan the next day’s bike route. 

It was one part deep curiosity (the same fascination that had me reading Webster’s before bedtime as a kid) and one part abject dread of being clueless.

(***There WAS that first day on my bike on Wesbourne Grove that involved an ill-considered right turn, a very loud horn, and a London black-cab driver shouting, “Faaahhcking Wankaaaaaahhhh!”***??)

I wasn’t the same after that brush with physical demise, but my cross-traffic right turns were on point and double checked thereafter. 

I had huge fears around being ignorant. 

So much so that during the fall when I studied in London, I never even hopped on a plane to nearby countries where the first language wasn’t English.

While my open-container-carrying schoolmates were EasyJetting off to Amsterdam for a peak at the Anne Frank annex and ready access to cannabis, I stayed in Foggy London Town.

I told myself there was more in the UK to discover than someone could learn in five lifetimes. While I was right about that, I was also terrified of being outside the knowledge club. 

I also harbored a vow not to be like my fellow countrymen swaggering into pubs expecting table service and hog-calling place names ending in “ham” like all geographic locations were situated in central Alabama.

??? But yeah, the two-lane highways in our corner of the Boston burbs are becoming familiar, and I still encounter taut anxiety when I roll up on a new sitch.

I power-walked past an acre and a half of empty parking spaces at the commuter rail station last week because I errrked our lil green Scion into the first parking spot I saw after navigating my way through Framingham’s Byzantine one-ways. (You do say Framing-HAM here, to be fair.)

Then there was track work. ?

(I’d learned the hard way after being on the wrong right platform to stand on the pedestrian overpass to peep which side the train’s actually arriving on.)

All this new everything reminded me of something I tell you all the time—learning to sing is about making the unfamiliar familiar.

And the unfamiliar makes my body seize up like a possum staring into high beams on a country curve at midnight. 

It’s why I get to be a teacher. I get to teach you what I need to learn.

Your brain always wants to fill in a story. 

I’m told by science-y folk that this is because our ancient neural structures know that accurate prediction of future events equals staying alive.

? A twig snaps in the woods behind you? Watch your six. 

?Sudden movement in your peripheral vision? Check your three.

?That doodoo butt Freddy from the front desk looks at you a lil bit sideways?—Freddy, observe your twelve. 

We’re always filling in stories. 

Just ask my wifey. 

I’ll do the half-hour-later-in-the-car, “Um, so when you said ‘Can you put the milk in the fridge?’ earlier, was that just about the milk, or was that about leaving my T-shirts inside-out in the dirty clothes again?”

Brené Brown teaches a great tool that she and her husband use. They say, “The story that I just made up about…”

About what you said,

About the eyebrow raise,

About the way your voice went up in pitch at the end of that phrase.

I’m the king of story. ?

When Melissa and I engage in our more passionate discussion moments, she can say something about my behavior that’s frustrating her, and I can bust a hard Louie to, “Oh, so I guess that makes me a….” 

Fill in the mad lib with your own shame noun.

My brain can tell an entire Aristotelian three-act about what a sheet-head my wife must think I am based on hearing that she wants me to listen to and empathize with her.

My brain’s tryina find the familiar ?⚡️: “THAT’s what THIS means. It’s like that previous experience. And THAT one. You already know what THIS is about.”

This script is the end to all curiosity, new intel, growth, and trust.

It dismisses anything new with the astygmatized lens of the past that thinks it knows.

It skips over what’s really there in order to see what it made up.

This is familiarity. And it’s imaginary.

When I panic-parked 278 empty spaces away from the train platform, my brain said, “Just take this spot. You won’t get another CHAAANCE!”

When I didn’t get an £87 plane ticket to Charles DeGaulle in college, my brain said, “You’ll get lost, and you’ll look STUPID.” (Because French strangers care. ???)

When I decide Melissa is calling me a turd when she’s trying to tell me how she feels, my brain says, “Conflict means an attack on your identity—DEFEND!”

And you see, my brain’s being real helpful. I mean that. He’s tryina try.

He’s like Gollum telling Sméagol HE’s the one who helped them survive. 

But meanwhile you’re obsessed with the One Ring, and you’re pounding fish on rocks for afternoon snack, and you’re alone with an ever-increasing life expectancy. Oof.

Your brain may do similar things when you 

?learn a new way to make a sound, 
?discover a new way to find your way into a story, 
?play with a new way to pretend you’re somebody else so that you can sing a tale that could change someone else’s life.

When I’m on the balance train, I say to myself, “This is my chance to make the unfamiliar familiar.” 

I hug my beautifully ignorant beginner brain, and I put one unsure foot in front of the other. (This’ll be my entire first semester at the BoCo, I’m sure.)

It feels wobbly and risky, and it is. 

And it’s a terrific way to cultivate awkward openness that create the opportunities for joy and connection that only awkward openness can.

I hope this week we’ll be tuned into the tales our sweet brains weave, and I hope you’ll remember most of all that

There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,
Dan

ps Speaking of Brits shouting “Wankaaaaah!”, are you on the Ted Lasso train yet? 

Melissa and I jumped on this week, and we love.  

His character may be my spirit animal—if I were a Midwestern American football coach who took a job managing a Premier League football club in greater London. I recommend.

pps ?Have you noticed the stores got their autumn out already? And I’m like, y’all, it’s AUGUST. 

But I sure did get an iced coffee with a punkin swirl from Dunkies yesterday. 

One sip, I was ready to don the orange cardie, light the cinnamon candle, and get out my official basic beech scarf menagerie?. 

I love me some fall, and I’m gonna dive into the New England magic like a leaf pile sprinkled with toasted marshmallows.  ?

They Told You No? Thank Gawd. And Cawfee. ☕️

July 20, 2021 /

Finding a suitable dwelling for a family in the greater Boston metro area is a Dunkies-coffee-fueled task replete with shoulder-knot headaches.

The ? market ? is ? crazy?.

I seriously don’t know what we woulda done this past week if it hadn’t been for my friend Lydia who’s a real estate warrior diva. We did Phantom together back in the DAY.

Throughout our traffic-circled journeys from Natick to Newton, I remembered our time on the road–recalling Lydia’s electric smile singing her face off in the direction of rolling elephants and massive staircases. 

Do you have those moments?

You travel back in time and hear, “Pssst! Your friend over there with the high Cs and jokes is gonna help you and your family find a home in the Boston area in 19 years.”

I always do that. It’s nuts how our lives get connected and reconnected. 

Lydia drove me errywhere. She bought me Dunkies AND Panera. And she pulled out saved glove compartment napkins when I felt like my eyes were about to leak.


Every place we saw had a deal breaker that didn’t show up in pics. 

There’d be 37 cement death stairs to the front porch. Or a decapitation-level ceiling fan in the bedroom. Or the second bedroom smelled like the Death Eaters bought a cheese shop. 

Seriously. And that was with a mask on. 

nnngggeeegghhh

After a series of Lemony Snickets, we landed on a townhome in a camp-like oasis that was spacious and workable. Phew and thank God. We put in an application. The other broker was in Lydia’s office. 

Lydia told the broker she’d drag him into the street if he didn’t rent the unit to the sweet family she was helping, so I was feeling good about our chances. Leverage!

I flew back to NC, and the next morning, Lydia texted us that someone had offered the landlords HIGHER RENT!

This is a thing!

We still didn’t have a place to live.

I remembered what I told you last week.

I was pissed and worried and anxious, and I said to Lydia, the only option is that we’ve been spared. There’s got to be something better.

In a matter of minutes, I get a gmail across the wire from Lydia with the subject line, “THIS!”

It was a townhome a mere half mile from the one we lost. It’d just come on the market, AND. IT. WAS. SIGNIFICANTLY. BETTER.

Lydia knew the broker. They’d done deals before. She called. She sent over our already-complete application from the last place. 

She took Melissa and me over there on her WhatsApp. It was what we needed. We said we wanna lease it!

Lydia called us back in fifteen minutes and told us we have an address to give to the movers!

We locked down the lease as the other broker was getting flooded with showing requests.

Here’s what the place looks like, Massachusetts snow and all. 🙂 

(It’s in Ashland which’ll be an hour commute into skewl on the train. ?) 

(***Another thing I learned on my journeys is that I love the city, and I’m also very much a country mouse.)

If the broker hadn’t told Lydia first thing in the morning about the place we didn’t get, she never woulda rage-searched the listings, and we’d never have found the better place.

The message for you from today’s narrative is this:

Sometimes it just works out. 

You get in there, you do your hours of research and pavement pounding, and all the options are unworkable. The doors close, and you cry a few times. You wonder if you’re ever gonna do the thing.

But then the Good Lord brings in a friend you hadn’t seen in nineteen years who blazes a trail through the Metro West jungle, makes you laugh, and buys you coffees with milk and sugar.

It happens that way sometimes. 

So the lesson today is a repeat because I need it, too. 

If you don’t get the place you put in the application for, yell the expletives you need to yell (with good abdominal support and a relaxed pharynx, of course), and tell yourself you’ve been spared. It’s the only possibility.

(***side note, Lydia did get ethically-coded language from the broker on the lost townhome that we dodged a bullet with that particular landlord. And double phew.)

That’s all for my tale of real estate and coffee today. 

REMEMBER, PLEASE! There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.

LOVE MUCH,
dan

ps In another example of out-of-the-blue friends reaching out, a rock star Elon alum asked me to fill in last-minute for this week’s Songbook Academy with the Great American Songbook Foundation. Clearly my Peggy Sawyer moment.

So between wrapping plates in foam and taping boxes, I get to run downstairs to coach Gershwin tunes this week.

This was my first hired-by-one-of-my-students scenarios, and I’m here for it. Thank you to Renée LaSchiazza for thinking of me!

You Wanna Know Why We Been Day Drinking? ? And Julie Andrews has some life advice for you.

July 14, 2021 /

There was this quaint-as-all-get-out Colonial we had our eye on to rent in Auburndale, Massachusetts. Here, lookit!

It had all the things we needed, and I even crafted a charming letter with an irresistibly cute picture of our family to confirm to the landlord that renting to the Calla-clan was the wisest choice she was ever gonna make.

Seriously–this pic. Wouldn’t you wanna rent to us? 

Our realtor diva guide Lydia of the North talked us up, and I had an appointment to see the place on Tuesday.

Then our fair cottage-locating sorceress delivered the ill tidings via electronic missive that the dwelling had been decreed to a local family whose serf lord was divesting their current estate. 

We were rill rill disappointed. So we day drank. 

Who could blame them? The market is nuts right now.  

But still. We were rill rill disappointed. So we day-drank a little.

I thought about what my girl Byron Katie says. I ask myself her four questions when I’m not letting my ego party too hard:

You’ve been spared. That’s the only possibility.

So yeah, clearly there is another dwelling somewhere in the greater Boston area where we can raise two toddlers and maintain a level of sanity that’s walking distance to public transport. I’m trusting and believing.

But those three words–you’ve been spared–they’ve been big for me, so I want to share them with you. 

We are the actory-singery folk, so the opportunities for telling ourselves we’ve been rejected are legion.

It’s the reason we deaden our souls when we go to audition after audition and we don’t get picked for the team. It’s just less ouchy that way, and we don’t blow out our 3pm dirty martini budget. 

But what if you knew that when a door closed, Julie Andrews would show up and say, “Not only will the Lord open a window, but there’ll be an even better door that’ll have you all

.”

Hard to hear when your expectations have been abruptly unmet.

Just ask my three-year-old. And then ask him three weeks later. He likes to re-live. He comes by it honest.

So listen, you warrior unicorn facing a closed door or seven. You’ve been spared. 

I have lists of anecdotal evidence to back this up, all available in the annals of my blog. 

(I just giggled when I typed “annals.”)

Let’s treat this life trip like an improv game and meet every whoops-that’s-not-happening event with a big juicy yes-and. 

Don’t get me wrong. You may need to cry some. 

But once you’ve let that through, the tears’ll have cleaned off your windshield, and you can see the next thing ahead–even if that’s a WaWa where you can get Tasty Cakes and a delicious sammie. 

Yep, you’ve been spared.

Can you look back at a thing you really wished would happen that didn’t, and now you’re like, phew? 

Or at least, okay, that mighta been cool, but because that didn’t happen, it opened the way for this other thing?

I’d love for you to play around with this and see if it helps you.

Let me know! I love hearing that this stuff works for you. Gives me purpose on a Sunday morning at 5am when I’m sitting here thinking about you.

I will let you know how the surprise door opens this week after I sally forth to the greater Boston area to secure a dwelling. I’m flying there just as this message goes out to you. ✈️

And remember! There is only one you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can sing.

Love much,
dan

ps The sorceress from the North of whom I spoke earlier is my friend Lydia Rajunas who is a real estate diva in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. We were on tour together NINETEEN years ago. Whaaaa? 

This is what I love about what we get to do–the shows, the experiences are beautiful and ephemeral, but the relationships we get to make are where the gold is IMHO.

pps Before we day-drank, we also fro-yo scarfed.

There’s a Menschie’s in Greensboro which is very special because we had our first date-like experience at the original location on Laurel Canyon in Valley Village.

I’m a big proponent of fro yo dates when you need a little help getting up off the floor.

Consider this your official endorsement to get yourself some sweet goodness to help you through.

Cheers from Melissa and me!

You Hate Deadlines, too, Boo? Here are three things that help me instead

July 6, 2021 /

Greetings Time Lord–

You got the scoop last week that the Calla-clan is packing up and moving Boston-ward. 

We’ve been bubble wrapping anything hanging on a wall and getting on a first-name-basis with the folks at Goodwill.

We’re scrubbing walls, painting things that we planned to paint in 2017, and shaking our heads in impressed astonishment at the state of our windowsills.

Entropy overtook us while we were making mac and cheese, unloading the dishwasher, collecting baskets of folded laundry, and checking diapers. 

In our mad push to get the house ready for photos, I asked myself what you probably ask yourself when you finally clean up before company comes–This is nice. Why don’t I do this for myself? 

I’ll tell you why. It’s a huge pain in the ass.

When you’re at capacity and barely filling the tank, the last thing you’re going to say to yourself in a low Martha Stewart whisper is, “I know–I’m going to head to Lowe’s for that epoxy kit so the shower looks less like the rowdy guys’ freshman dorm nightmare.”

Nope. That’s not what we do. 

In our Calla-phase, it’s more like– “We kept the tiny humans alive today. Is there more wine?”

I dunno ‘bout you, but my lil ego needs a reason to look good if I’m going to engage it in any kind of unpleasantness for the greater domestic good. 

Same with singing, right? We need stuff we have to do in front of folks to light a fire. 

I know you love singing. I do, too. I do it a lot.

Sometimes I’m making PB&Js and I just need to sing a few lines of an art song. (I’m just as nerdilicious at home as in the studio.)

Jude, our very-soon-to-be-two-year-old, holds up his hand and instructs me, “Too looooud!”

This is at once adorable and ironic. I have definitely suffered hearing loss from this child’s instinctive vocal tract leveraging. If he’s into opera one day, Wagner will be his jam.

But you know how it is. When there’s a deadline, when there’s an opening night, when there’s an audition date–that’s when we kick it in gear.

This is the part of the email when people usually say in a 1950s announcer voice–this is why you need accountability. This is why you need deadlines. Or a negative consequence if you don’t accomplish your goals on time. ?

And as I type that to you, it feels wrong in my guts.

Yeah, I want to give a good nod to my ego and all he does for me in all his self-serious, mirror-gazing how’m-I-doin’(?)-ness. He does a lot.

And I want to thank all the deadlines and performance dates that lit a fire under me to learn lines, notes, and blocking.

How do you use this face-saving super power to show up to your work every day?

(***Not while you’re moving, though–you’ve still got to find the right screws to fix the back screen door!)

I have some idears for you, though.

I think’ll help. They usually help me, and they feel better than (or in conjunction with) deadlines.

Ask yourself “So that?”–

This is a way to get to that pesky why??? all those life-coachy people say you need to know to really do the thing.

Quick example from my recent life–I want to epoxy this shower stall in our bathroom 

so that potential buyers will not run screaming from our second floor judging us as aesthetic failures  

so that these potential buyers will buy our house 

so that we can move expeditiously and afford a little rent in the land of broken-face winters and blinkah-less lane changes.

Boom– the why isdefined.

You? You wanna sing effortless and yummy with crazy emotional honesty and captivating spontaneity so that—

What else you wanna do? Whatever it is, the so that is real important.

***Pro tip on this–the secret ego reason is usually real powerful.

So, go ‘head and hug the so that that you wouldn’t lead with at a job interview.

i.e. I wanna prepare the crap outa this audition so that I crush all in my path with my stupendous readiness. 

Get selfy with it–that’s how you get the narcissistic fix so that you can then pop your head outa your ass long enough to see how you might use your gifts to serve your fellow humans.

Okay, next–

Ask you at 100

I heard this on a TED talk. You know I have a Teddiction. 

This dude had a harrowing tale and a lot of trauma that drove him to achieve. One day he got exhausted from this adrenalized driver to stave off the oblivion abyss, and he decided to try a different tack.

He started asking his 100-year-old self for advice. 

I started this, too, and it’s a good one.

When I’m in the kitchen trying to get breakfast shrapnel cleared and I’ve got a lil “Sesame Street” going for the boys, Jude invariably runs in when it’s time for the letter of the day song, and he says, “Dance with me!”

I have peanut butter to wipe off the counter, don’t you seee??? Important things!

My hundred-year-old self says “Go dance with your kid. One day he’ll be able to pick you up.”

I end up with one boy on each hip step-touching in anticipation of the alphabetical announcement. It’s heaven. And a mini bicep workout. ?

This is a good perspective telescope, and you’ll be surprised how much your hundred-year-old self knows. Ask ’em. 

aaaaaannnd—-

Cut yourself some slack when these things don’t work.

Yesterday morning I woke up around 5am like I normally do full of inspiration to write the rest of this missive to you.

Noah decided to come downstairs at 5:30 just as I had my coffee ready to drink and my fingies ready to type.

Usually this is a good sitch with Noah narrating dinosaur dramas as I get some early morning work done.

This morning was not that domestic idyll.

Noah insisted I leave the lamp off so that he could explore the full effect of his walkie talkie’s flashlight feature. 

When I explained to him that this was my ONLY time to get some work done, he didn’t seem to process my logic. Come on, kid, you’re three already.

After a few failed attempts to get the words flowing while turning the lamp switch back on, Jude decided he’d be a regular rooster and rouse himself with the sunshine, too. 

My work time was screwed, and I was disproportionately PISSED. 

I wanted my boys to go the eff back to sleep SO THAT I could get some work done, and my hundred-year-old self was taking a nap because Noah and Jude are 60 and 58 by now. So, he was no help. 

All that to say that you get to be a human, and you get to have times when all the helpful tricks just don’t work.

You can do your best, get to the other side, apologize if you need to, and have grace for yourself. 

See if you can add centenarian you to speed dial or say “I’m gonna stress eat this scoop of Cherries Garcia SO THAT I can put something delicious in my mouth SO THAT I don’t tell this person what an asshat they’re being.”

See? Tools. ?

My super tired brain and fingers made it to the end of this communication, and what a delight it’s been.

Our house is photo-ready, and we’ve guerilla-warfare-Marie-Kondo’d our way through pounds of domestic detritus. 

I’ll keep you posted.

Oh, and I asked ancient you what would be fun today, and they said you might sing something you love. So that you’ll have fun and remember why you love songs. 

And if you’re having one of those days where singing’s the last thing that’ll help, then just wait until it is the day. There’s no rush. 

But please do remember–there’s only one you, and folks really do need to hear the story that only you can sing.

Love much,
Dan

ps Here’s that TED Talk about asking your 100-year-old self. 

pps Of course, I wrote a poem about Jude and dance time, so I gotta share that with you too. Here ’tis. 

Holy Paw Patrol Dance Moment

I park the boys in front of “Paw Patrol” 
When I make their lunch. By the time the shells
Are al dente or the PB and J’s read’ to roll,
Jude runs into the kitchen, his toddler cells
Ready for action. His wide eyes telegraph 
That it’s that time. “Dance please!” he calls and lifts
His sweet sausage-y arms. I have to laugh
And pick him up. This is one of life’s gifts.
When we enter the living room, Noah’s ready
To join the choreo, so I hoist each nugget on a hip
And wait for the pup dispatch jingle.  Steady 
We go, I step-touch and try to keep my grip.  
These boys are always interrupting chores,
Injecting joy, and opening fantastical doors.

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