Dan Callaway Studio

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

Category: Making Your Work Satisfying (Page 2 of 5)

Shenanigans — Civil engineering challenges in Boston’s Metro West and how rainy nighttime driving applies to your creative life

December 12, 2023 /

I’m imagining the civil engineering society of the Greater Boston area got together at some point and said —

“All right, all right, listen up — we’re dealing with old horse paths here. The roads are narrow. They wind in all directions. And there aren’t any alternative routes.

“So, here’s what we’re gonna do — we’ll just hew to the historical legacy of these questionable thoroughfares and make sure the lighting at night is true to the road’s 1805 founding. There won’t be any.

“And reflectors? Paul Revere didn’t need them, did he?

“And we’re not so profligate as to squander tax funds on things like reflective paint for white and yellow lines. No. When it rains and it’s dark out, folks can maneuver themselves through the small ponds on Route 9 using bat sonar.”

Maybe it’s because my eyes are gonna be 46 this month, but I’m not about the night time rainy roads around here.

The other night I drove home in the rain and literally missed my exit off the Mass Pike.

Signaled, followed the signs. I saw the arrows, but the road? Nope. Had to rumble my way back on to the highway and try my best to intuit the next offramp via ESP.

This morning Melissa and I thanked our guardian angels, lucky stars, and trusty green 2009 Scion XD —

(her name’s Willow — purchased in Hollywood. We joke that she’s been super traumatized by all the East Coast weather she’s been subjected to in the last 9 years.)

— we thanked them (angels, stars, and car) for getting us to Newton-Wellesley hospital this morning where Melissa’s having a long-anticipated surgery so she won’t feel like her abdomen is in perpetual revolt anymore. I’m excited for a new chapter for her. 🙏

But all the recent nighttime wet-road driving around the Boston area’s got me thinking — isn’t that just like your creative life?

You’re driving along wondering if your headlights are working or not, trying to make out if that’s asphalt or a hydroplane disaster pond in front of you.

An oversized Infiniti SUV barrels past you smacking your windshield with a puddle wave, and the Yukon behind you decides high beams are the appropriate selection when tailing a wee hatchback.

When you’re a singing storyteller and have a desire like

🪄 play a role in a beautiful show with a company of excellent people and get paid a workable wage for it 🌟

the road to the stage door can feel like dark New England rain driving.

It’s not like you can bump your CV on LinkedIn or apply at your local musical theatre branch.

There’s auditions.
And there’s finding out about the auditions.
And there’s getting to the auditions and getting in the door.
And there’s having materials that’ll serve you and the needs of the production(s).
And there’s reaching out to casting folks over and over with no response.
And there’s spending hours creating self-tapes that you hope get watched.
And there’s getting used to being back in an actual room with real people after you’ve been putting everything on video.
And there’s the very recent reality that one microbe can shut down an entire art form that you’ve dreamed about being a part of since you heard the high school chorus sing that arrangement of “I Dreamed a Dream.”

Oh, and you need to be really good at compelling, honest, wholehearted storytelling while singing in an adrenalized state.

Blind driving on Route 9 is easier.

BUT AND — rainy pitch-black puddle skid motoring has some lessons to teach us.

🌧️ You can only see the road you can see in front of you. Aim in the safest direction you can, pay attention, and refrain from using cruise control.

☔️ Some assholes get assholey-er in rough conditions. Let your wipers do their work, and focus on your lane.

🌂 If a car is going effectively in the direction you want to go, use their tire tracks and tail lights as a guide for a while.

⛈️ Take a deep breath and slow down a little. No need to put on your hazards. You’re moving. You’re taking care of the road in front of you one headlight zone at a time. You keep driving, you’ll get where you need to go.

⚠️ Sometimes you miss Exit 117 to Framingham because you can’t see the road. Keep driving. You can get off at 111, and there’ll probably be less shenanigans on the quieter lanes.

You’ll get where you need to go.

Your heart rate will spike. You’ll swear. But you’ll get there.

Take care of the road you can see in front of you.

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

Love much,

Dan

PS Melissa and I had a terrific day date a couple weekends ago — got to see several of my BoCo kidz do great work in City of Angels. 👏

We had lunch at Petit Robert Bistro in the South End (or as I like to call it, Lil Bobby’s.) Highly recommend if you’re in Boston. The mussels were the best either of us ever had. All broth was duly sopped with freshly baked baguette. And our macarons to go — my mouth’s watering just remembering them. 

PPS Surgery went great 🙏

Change of Plan — Blueberry muffin mind tricks, staring at walls pretending, and other life trajectory changers

December 5, 2023 /

Every morning after I get off the train, I stop at Flour Bakery + Café on Dalton Street because if you BYO cup, you get coffee for $1.50.

Their coffee is delicious, and the pastry game is epic.

I usually skip the food and just get coffee. They know me now, so they grab my cup and ask, “Dark or medium?”

Except for last week. My friend at the register said, “What do you want today besides your coffee?”

The upsell skillz caught me off guard.

She must’ve seen the eyeballing the blueberry muffins next to the currant oat scones.

And before I could say “No thanks, just coffee,” I heard myself blurt, “Blueberry muffin.”

In the space of two seconds, I noticed multiple thoughts.

I mean what kind of morning crazy pants must I BE just to get coffee when this pastry repast splays itself so wantonly before my gaze?

And

I mean, I don’t want to disappoint the employees of Flour Bakery + Café by not ordering a sunrise carbohydrate.

My mind was Jim Carrey’s Grinch yes-no-no-yes monologue.

So, out the door with my little blueberry muffin brown bag I departed. 

I tell the pedagogy students at the Conservatory that we make a plan so that the plan will change.

And the plan always changes.

It makes me think about how we know exactly how a song is going to go.

We know who we’re going to sing to. We know we’re on that park bench next to the sycamore tree where the pigeon pooped on our shoulder that time.

We know what our imaginary partner just said during the introduction to make us sing the opening line of our song.

We smell the spring tulips growing in the flower bed next to the tree. We even crafted some swans gliding across the water in the distant pond.

Then we get on the stage or in the room, and all we can think about is how fast our heart is beating, wondering if we remembered to zip in the bathroom, and that the gap in the curtains we chose to sing toward just looks like a gap in the curtains. Where’s the sycamore tree with its dappled bark????

All the things we imagined aren’t coming up like they did in the shower.

So, we focus harder.

Usually, this leads to existential pain and your consciousness hovering out like a critical drone shooting comments into your brain while you’re just trying to tell the story you so meticulously devised.

You weren’t planning on someone asking you what you wanted with your coffee.

But see, you made a plan. And you have to make a plan so that the plan can change.

So, say “thank you” to the rapid heartbeat.

Check your zipper or just accept it it might be down.

And remember that you can look at a gap in a curtain and let it be a curtain gap.

In the meantime, why don’t you go ahead and take the pressure off of you to focus so hard on yourself partner?

Think of all the serious conversations you’ve had with folks only to notice that your attention wandered.

All that to say, we made a plan. Now it’s going to change. And we just have to deal with it. And that can be exciting.

This is super true in big life as well.

Back in 2019 in the before times, the Callaways were planning to move to the Jersey ‘burbs.

I was up for a job at NYU and was on campus for final interviews on March 9, 2020. A lot of people found that their plans drastically changed around that day.

But we’d made a plan, and we were making steps. Then, new information directed us in other ways.

The closed the door in NYC meant I got to spend one more year at Elon. That year deepened and sweetened my love for teaching and clarified the privilege that I have to walk alongside singers like you.

It also opened the way for us to head to the Boston area and for this gift of a job at the Conservatory. 

This was nowhere on my radar when Melissa and I were pulling carrots out of our front yard garden in Los Angeles 10 years ago.

This is all to encourage you that it’s all right if you feel blindingly clue free at the moment.

Take out a piece of paper and write down at the top “Wouldn’t it be cool if…”

Then write a few things down.

Make some plans, and take some steps. Google a thing. Write an email to someone who knows something about something.

The original plan you have won’t be what it looks like later. Just know that.

I believe what comes will be even better.

Make a plan so the plan will change. It’s probably going to be frustrating. But if you just keep taking steps and adjusting to what comes, you’re going to find satisfaction and gratification in walking toward what you know to be the direction of your contribution.

Some days you may purchase an unexpected blueberry muffin.

Other days, it’s being amused that your brain’s thinking about pop tarts, instead of your song scenario.

And other weeks it’s letting yourself feel sad about a closed door and waiting with expectancy to know which direction to go now that you’ve been redirected.

Make a plan so the plan can change.

And I suggest one of your plans can be to sing something today because there is only one you and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much, Dan

PS It’s Melissa’s Birthday today! I made her a chocolate cake with cherry buttercream frosting. I had a terrific plan to make some cherry syrup that I was going to drizzle over the top. It ended up looking more smeared-atop-an-English-muffin than boulangerie dreams, but I’m confident it’ll taste nice.

Oh, here’s the only chocolate cake recipe I use. You won’t find a yummier one.

PPS In the plans changing category for this week, we were having a fun time drawing pictures yesterday morning.

Noah tried to copy a picture of a helicopter I’d drawn, and when he got frustrated with his attempt, he wadded up the paper and threw it in the kitchen trash. I fished it out and asked him what was up. He was really sad and frustrated that he couldn’t draw the helicopter the way I drawn it. I got out the crayons and made a little creation with what he’d done. I was pretty pleased with our collab 🙂

Poor kid has inherited my perfectionism gene. I seriously pray I can help him navigate it early.

PPPS if there are any typos or horrible grammatical errors present in this email, I’m going to blame our younger nugget Jude. Here’s a snapshot of my experience getting this email sent out to you today.

My Mistake — This keeps happening. I’m working on it

November 28, 2023 /

Noah’s been wanting to decorate for Christmas since Halloween. He could NOT understand why anybody would wait until after Thanksgiving to haul out the holly.

Seriously, he woke up Thursday morning and said, “We get to decorate for Christmaaaaas!”

I can remember losing my mind about draping lights all over everything when I was a kid. It’s terrific to get to live it through Noah and Jude’s eyes.

We finally got the tree up and ornamented yesterday evening.

After being waylaid by a Saturday urgent care trip to see about an ear infection, a rogue LED on our pre-lit tree that never got resolved (even after Melissa and I undertook the Sisyphean task of replacing every unlit bulb in the strand), and general exhaustion, extracting the Christmas bins from behind the I’ll-get-to-that-someday boxes was going to be a mythic test.

That’s what I thought, anyway.

The true trial began when I tried “decorating” with the boys while Melissa braved the elements (mostly human) to source a new air mattress from Big Lots. My brother Ben’s visiting from Spain, and our current one’s motor gave up the ghost.

But yeah, placing fragile, tinselly things around the house in tasteful locations with 4- and 5-year old humans full of testosterone and opinions — I went ahead and pulled down the bourbon and the “Dad — Aged to Perfection” tumbler Melissa got me on my last birthday.

While I coaxed Noah into the half-bath to help me put the Santa toilet seat cover and rug into their coveted positions, I heard a loud crash on the kitchen tiles and Jude’s voice say, “Sorrrryyyy!”

I emerged from from the toilet room with wide T-rex eyes and saw that one of our Christmas cocoa mugs lay shattered on the floor.

I calmly said in my whispery Daniel Tiger’s Neighbohood Dad voice, “That’s all right, son. It was an accident. We’ll get this cleaned up together.” Then we sang a situationally themed song about the learning moment.

Nope. That’s not what happened.

I don’t remember my exact vocabulary, but the subtext was, “Why can’t you listen to me? I TOLD you to come into the bathroom with the Christmas towels! SEE? This is what happens when you don’t do what I say. This is the opposite of fun, and I’m pissed about it because Bing Crosby’s whistling “White Christmas” on the Alexa cube, and we should be happy, dammit! And LISTEN TO ME!”

The thing I’m grateful for is little Judelet’s ability to say a hearty sorry and move on.

He knew it was an accident, and he wasn’t beating himself up about it.

But in these moments of exasperation, it’s like someone pushes my reactivity-bot button, and up from the bile center come phrases like, “Why would you DO that?”.

I can feel how ugly and damaging it is when it comes out — like I’ve slimed the boys and myself at the same time. It’s not who I want to be, and it’s not how I want to affect them.

“I’m SORRY, Daddy!” Jude repeated.

I’m grateful for his sense of self. HE knew he was just trying to put the mug on the counter near where the coffee cups go. HE knew it was an accident.

It was just the moment I needed to regroup.

“I totally forgive you, Jude, and I wish you’d waited for me like I asked.”

We swept up the ceramic and finished turning our toilet into Santa Claus.

And I took a generous sip from my tumbler.

That moment wasn’t about Jude not listening to me. It was about me not feeling listened to.

It was also me telling myself a story of inadequacy. “If I were really an effective dad, my boys would listen to me and do what I say.”

And I made up a terrifying future scenario when I would yell at Jude to stop running in a parking lot only for him to ignore me and careen into danger. (Although the exact opposite thing happened that very morning after church.) Disaster outcome planning is rarely open to countervailing evidence.

But think about those three needs:

You need to be listened to.

You need to feel effective and adequate at your tasks.

You need to have some reasons to believe things will be okay.

Now think about how these needs get challenged every time you walk into an audition room or put your finger on the red circle on your phone screen and pretend you’re singing to somebody.

We ask ourselves, “Are the table people listening to me? I don’t know if they are. How can I get them to listen to me? I know, try harder.”

If we feel unheard and unseen, we can do the time-tested kid logic of, “If I’m not being heard or seen, then it must be my fault. I must be bad at this. There are other people who are so much better, clearly. I’m sure they get listened to.”

Or we hurl the blame outward. Also ineffective.

And that quickly leap frogs to, “This will always be this way. This is what auditioning is like. This is what being a singing storyteller is like.”

So we do one of two things.

We armor up. We don’t let ourselves want the thing, and we offer up half-alive songs what might sound just fine, but there’s no open door into the heart. The unheard, unseen, inadequate, always-like-this story goes on.

Or we quit.

But there is another way that brings satisfaction and joy to your work.

Here you go —

Listen to YOU. Are you even listening to the words you’re singing? I bet if you do, that story might come alive, and you might start to have a little fun.

Along with that, let everybody off the hook. Nobody has to listen to you. But I guarantee if you’re having you’re own auditory party over there, I’m gonna be all “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Assess your skills well. Do you need to bolster your tools? Are there things you need to integrate and gain confidence with? When you watch yourself back on video, are you meeting your own aesthetic standards?

This is a helpful question, and it gives you something to DO. You can get to work, and you can get better by spending 7 minutes a day on that technical skill.

Then you have evidence to show yourself — I am effective. I do have these skills. And when I don’t, I have the GRIT to acquire them.

And then open your heart. Prepare the hell out of your work. Then “connect, George, connect.”

Don’t perform. Prepare and connect.

Imagine there are French doors, latched at your sternum. Open them up, step out on your balcony, and say, “You’re invited in here!”

There’s nothing more beautiful than your soul, so trust the inward welcome.

Listen to you. Bolster your skill for your own satisfaction. Prepare and connect.

Because there is only one you, and folks need to hear the beautifully crafted story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

PS I’m writing a book!

The focus is on telling you all the things I say in lessons that make people say “I wish I’d known that before!” in a systematic fashion while sharing my experience of singing as a way to heal.

Sound good to you? Let me know. Send me a quick email back and tell me if that’s something you could use.

Also, if you’ve got a singing while pretending issue you wish you could solve with a book, let me know! Any idea you have — I’d love to say thank to you in the acknowledgements 🙏📚.

Send me an email and tell me your ideas and what you need. What have you been looking for that you can’t find? Email me back by clicking here.

Crust Sponge 🧽 — Scrub Daddy envy and your pharynx’s secret powerz

November 21, 2023 /

I’ve gotten better at letting love in.

I used to be less-than-absorbent.

Like that desiccated sponge at the corner of your kitchen sink, love water could run right over me and down the drain. 

By the time I started to soften and soak, I thought, “Well, this is very unfamiliar, nay, uncomfortable. I’m gonna scoot my damp self back over to the corner and seethe with envy at the Scrub Daddy. He sees all the action. AND with a perpetual smile on his face.”

The reasons for this are many; I’m not alone in my family line in the struggle to receive nice things.

In my case, I was lucky enough to go through a couple of proper pulverizations. 

More than that, though, the thing that softened my sponge was needing forgiveness. I smashed some folks on my way to plopping my soul in base of the grinder.

It was like yesterday when one of the Calla-nuggets destroyed the other Calla-nugget’s Thanksgiving craft. No amount of Elmer’s glue was going to Humpty Dumpty that together again.

I reflected, “You destroyed your brother’s project. What’s the reason you did that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Now he’s crying a lot. What do you think you can do to help?” I asked.

Fact is, there was no bringing the pinecone turkey back from its demise.

“Say sorry?”

I said, “Give it a try.”

“Sorry brother,” said the responsible party.

After a few sniffles, the injured party replied, “I’m working on it.”

(We’ve evolved from “BAD SORRY!”)

But that was such a clear picture of what forgiveness has meant to me.

I crushed some pinecone turkeys, and there was no amount un-crushing I could do.

All I had was, “I’m so sorry.”

And I was given the gifts of, “I love you. I understand. And I forgive you.”

And that’s how this sponge got his squeeze.

Letting love in means you have to open the door to your heart, and when your heart’s been broken, that’s scary.

(I’m convinced that’s why a lot of folks walk around with their head jutting forward (besides the phones) — the brain is trying to assess all situations before the heart enters the room.)

But there’s no other way.

When it comes to singing, this skill is one of the most helpful tools of all.

When you sing, you’re sending vibrating communication out with your exhale. But if there’s not a simultaneous welcome back to your heart, you’re missing the whole point.

It’s the completion of a love circuit, the balance of a natural cycle, like breathing in and out.

Telling a story is a welcome to your narrative party.

So here are 2 tools you can use to try this out.

🔧 Number one — sing the phrases of your song, and for each phrase, bring your hand slowly to your heart. You’re saying, “You’re invited to my unrepeatable experience of this story.”

The great thing about this is nobody can see what’s in there, they just know whether or not they’re invited.

🧰 Number 2 — think about your pharynx.

I joke with my students that the answer to almost any question I ask in lessons is “the pharynx!” Kind of like kids in Sunday school; the answer’s always “Jesus!”

Here’s your pharynx:

It’s where 90% of your resonance happens. (Nope, it’s not your mask. Don’t get me going on the get-it-forward thing.)

So, here’s what I want you to do.

Snort.

Feel where your uvula flops back against the back there.

That’s your pharynx.

Now hum your fave tune.

Meditate on that space. Notice the vibrating stream moving through it. That’s your most direct resonance location.

Now I want you to imagine your pharynx is receiving a fancy vibration massage.

Like the part of your back that needs the most TLC right now getting the best lavendar lotioned love. That kind of feeling.

Let your pharynx actually feel good getting those vibes from your vocal folds.

Like you’re slowing down to smell some unexpected fall roses, really tasting that bite of chocolate cake, or feeling sweet unconditional love from your doggy’s excited “your back!” panting.

(here were some in Boston last week — so pretty.)

If you’re enjoying your singing, guess who’s gonna be invited to enjoy it too? The folks you’re singing for.

Inviting someone into your heart and enjoying beauty — I imagine the world would be a much different place if more folks were doing that.

While you and I can’t wave a global scale love wand, we can do it in our own small sphere. And I’m convinced that makes a difference.

You know how I know?

Because it’s the folks who invited me into their hearts over a drink or on a stage, and showed me the beauty of enjoying a flower, a melody, and a smile — it’s those things that helped me let love in.

So, walk around today with your heart and head lined up, open your sternum door, and hum some tunes and enjoy those vibes.

Your song’ll give off love and bring it right back to you multiplied. And again.

These days it’s so important to remember — there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story flowing love that only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

PS Here’s me talking about how forgiveness changed things and singing “Shine” from The Spitfire Grill. (You can skip ahead to a little over 1 minute in.)

PPS You mighta missed last week’s email because I got a little behind on sending it out. There’s a terrific interview with Merri Sugarman from Tara Rubin Casting included that you’ll want to listen in on. Love and appreciate her point of view and her genuine care for actors. Click here to get it.

The Only Thing You Can Control + listen in on Merri Sugarman from Tara Rubin Casting talk about simple things that make a big difference

November 14, 2023 /

There was a callback for a production of Ordinary Days, and I prepared the CRAP outa that audition. PRE-PARED. I knew the song cold. I knew my point of view. I was ready to live this experience.

I did my thing. The director even let out a “Wow” when I finished.

I didn’t book that job.

But I remember that audition, and it’s a satisfying memory.

I also remember a callback for a production of Fiddler on the Roof. Jerry Bock and Sheldon Harnick were in the room. I started my work, and when the director gave me adjustments, I became the amazing shrinking actor.

Am I going to get this right?

How do I get them to pick me?

I’d already thought up my opening night cards and everything — a picture of me playing Tevye in the 1996 Mt. Airy High School spring musical. (Sounds crazy, no?)

I didn’t get that job, either.

I can still hear my agent delivering the feedback afterward, “They said you just got smaller and smaller.”

What did that mean? Talk louder? More gestuuuures?

Now I have a clearer idea what probably happened.

(After many years of getting the note in tech rehearsals — “Dan, look up, we’re losing your eyes,” I have a clue.)

I wanted to hide and be seen at the same time. 

Auditioning is hard. You go in there after investing hours and dollars into preparation, throw your guts on the floor, and then the teachery people tell you just to leave it in the room. (Or on the self-tape. That one’s even harder.)

As I survey the times I shrank back, I see 3 things behind it all: 

1. I wanted one of the table folk to give me my you-belong-here card.

2. I thought I needed a you-belong-here card.

3. And I believed what I wanted couldn’t be available to me. Because see number 1.

I loved what I did, and I wanted to do it on big stages. And I was using my career as a mechanism to tell me I was all right after all.

If I got picked, that must mean something, right?

And here’s the irony. 

I’d already picked myself. I was already paying NYC rent, taking that subway to midtown, in the room singing the song.

But, the moment I walked in the door, I decided to un-pick myself and plop that responsibility in somebody else’s lap.

It’s like you invited me to dinner and asked me to bring the salad.

I say, “Great! My salad game is legend.”

Then, I show up at your house and ask, “Where do you keep your croutons? Wait, you only have iceberg?”

Same for you. You already decided that your life needs to include singing about your innermost thoughts and feelings in a narrative construct.

So, now your responsibility is to make sure you put together your proprietary blend of fresh greens, crunch, savory with sweet surprise, and get your dressing ratios right.

Slap that in a big bowl, and BYO utensils because you’re fixing to mix that UP when you get to the audition.

(And I always advocate for quality dijon and mayo in the dressing. Secret weapon? Maple syrup.)

You’re prepped for the party. Whether it’s an appointment or an open call, you’re invited. You belong there. Get in there and serve it up. 

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

Love much,

Dan

PS That audition for Ordinary Days that I didn’t book? I look back on that with satisfaction because I was fully and deeply prepared. I did my work that day. And I’m committed to doing the same in every audition I have from now on.

I had the privilege of talking with Merri Sugarman from Tara Rubin Casting last week, and one of the things she returned to many times was this— 

The only thing we have as actors is our preparation — the excellence of our work and choosing to open our hearts. Leaving the room saying, “Yep, I’d gladly pay the ticket price to see what just did in there.”

If you haven’t grabbed it, her book From Craft to Career: A Casting Director’s Guide for the Actor is full of practical insight.

If you do what she says in there, things will change. 

Here are the links to check out our conversation. I’m still digesting all we talked about. I promise if you listen and do what she says, you’ll see growth in your career.

Part 1:
How has casting changed since 2020? 
changes in audition procedures.
What does preparation mean?
One primary mistake actors make in the room.

Part 2:
How little moments turn into consequential trajectory changers
Trusting your nudges
What Merri sang when she booked Les Mis
All about follow up

Part 3:
Practical simple and straightforward things you can always do
Reality check on your skills, being real with yourself
watching people grow through the audition process
some tough truths that’ll set you free

My Inner Critic’s Dialects (on ridiculous dreams)

October 31, 2023 /

I’ve got a thing for the Brits. ?? Melissa can tell you all about it.

“You wanna watch anything tonight? Comedy? Action?”

Dan searches the BritBox subscription channel for moody, atmospheric drama set near the Lake District.

Must be DNA. 23 and Me tells me 81% of my ancestry vibrates from the Isles.

Lately, I’ve been dreaming of doing theatre-y things in the UK — teaching West End performers, working with dancers who want to sing more, performing at The National Theatre.

When I was in London in 2000, I’d walk over Waterloo Bridge, look across at the South Bank, and dream about getting to perform in one of the 3 iconic spaces there. No idea how to work out the whole visa situation, but I’ve never been too concerned with details.

My London leanings resurfaced in my psyche again this week, and I laughed when I scrolled to today’s email subject suggestion on my Google sheet (I keep a list of things I want to email you about.)

It said —

Can you tell from the talk-to-text that I was all like, really? You sure? 

22-year old Dan wanted to perform at The National, and so does 45-year-old Dan.

May never happen. Given my citizenship status, the probability lowers even more.

But still, I want that to happen.

I imagine an extended season near London where Melissa manages a cutting-edge research lab with unusually extraverted science colleagues, the boys wear uniforms to school, and I get to teach and perform in and around the West End. And we all ride our bikes to the National Gallery.

I even drew a pic and wrote a poem about it one time

“Boys and their fancies!” Mrs. Lovett says. “What will we think of next?”

(My inner critic talks like a machiavellian East Ender when it’s not a mean redneck.)

Thing is, though, your hypotheticals have important info.

The specifics of them may never happen, but letting yourself dream the dream does a couple of things.

If you can hold your fantasies with love and gentleness, it makes you expectant.

A few weeks back at church, there was a talk about the difference between expectation and expectancy.

It was a nuanced and important difference.

Expectations project a specific outcome. And often, as they say in the 12 Steps, they can be resentments waiting to happen.

Expectancy has an open heart that knows it can wish for a thing, AND something even more nourishing, satisfying, and purposeful may appear that it never could have imagined.

When my life was in a major disintegration stage, a phrase started bubbling up from my heart: I’d rather have God’s surprises than my plans.

And it’s a both-and project.

Just like I ask Noah, “What would you like to have for breakfast?” I think God wants us to share what it is we want.

As a dad, when Noah requests “Waffooooollllls” with the knowledge that I want to help him out, it makes my heart happy. I want him to know that I want to help him.

Goes back to Einstein’s “I think the most important question facing humanity is, ‘Is the universe a friendly place?’”

And if Enistein can ask that question in his historical context, then we can, too.

All that was about expectancy.

The second thing all this dreaming does is that it gets your wheels turning so that you discover possibilities you would have missed.

Maybe the first idea isn’t something you can control or take action on, but it points you in a direction.

Maybe you can’t call up the casting director at the National Theatre and say, “Heeeey! I can’t work legally in the UK (YET!), but you clearly need to get me on your radar. Um, you’re welcome.”

But, you could start researching avenues to get your body to the UK and collaborating with theatre artists there.

I often tell students, “Put your body in the place, and do the thing.” Folks will start to notice.

When I was 22, I had no idea that I wouldn’t be able to find some other way to stay in the UK after my 6-month work permit expired.

And I’m glad I didn’t know. I’m so grateful for the time I had there and the friends I’m blessed with as a result.

So, let your dreamer dream; let expectancy bloom, and write down all the things that feel immediately delightful.

Your noggin may say, “How ridiculous.” Then you can say, “Yes, you’re right,” and then write down the next thing that would be so terrific if it ever happened.

Because for real — there is only one you (with your particular dreams), and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

PS Here’s the SONNET I wrote about the Anglo-dreams I have for our family’s UK stint 🙂 

Some days I dream about how we could
Move to London, find a flat or part
Of a house on a close close to an ancient wood
Or anywhere near a park. We’d explore art
Galleries and eat cake in the crypt
At St. Martin and tool around the town on bikes,
Cross the river and see a play with a script
That I wrote. We’d travel north and take long hikes
Along sea cliffs.Then we’d build a fire
And drink hot chocolate and whisky. Back in town
We’d go to work and school, sing in a choir,
And drink pints in the pub, the Something and Crown.
We’ll go to the market for bread and leeks and flowers
And have soup for supper and talk and laugh for hours.

You’re On the List — Good work goes ahead of you

October 24, 2023 /

Patty Thom was Chair of Voice and Opera at the Conservatory when I got hired, and she led the search committee for my job.

When I was rehearsing the NY show, I asked her to come listen to Scott and me run the program so that

☝️ I knew I could sing the stuff while nervous, and

✌️ She could tell me if any of my riskier song choices were steeped in vocal delusion.

I also knew she’d be an honest and loving presence.

When your boss has great musical acumen, seasoned teaching skill, nuanced opinions, and top-notch Boston restaurant recommendations, their point of view means a lot.

She’s been a cheerleader of mine, and so have the other leaders and colleagues in the music division. It’s been a true example of “go where you’re celebrated,” and I couldn’t recommend that advice enough.

(People can say in low yoga voice, “your happiness comes from within,” all they want, but your environment makes a difference.

Imagine putting a geranium in a shaded, dry corner of your yard and saying, “Now, sun loving, water-needing flower, grow!”)

So, Patty came and listened.

She told us stories about the time Phyllis Curtin (the original Susannah in Carlisle Floyd’s opera) called her last minute to play the score while Curtin coached at New York City Opera. ?

And when I sang something unfamiliar, she said, “Now what is that from?”

People who don’t pretend like they know things have my heart.

After the rehearsal that evening, Patty reached out with some thoughtful texts about the program which meant a lot.

She also revealed to me that when I applied for the job here, my name had already been on her radar during my LA days.

She had me on a list of recommended teachers in California.

Wha?

And I thought it was my cover letter with the Dunkin’ Donuts opener that sealed the deal.

The years when I taught in LA — before grad school, while I was learning anatomy and physiology on my own, while I was still unclear about the actual function of the soft palate —

That’s when my name was on a list in the Chair’s office at Boston Conservatory.

And looking back, while I know I helped singers get good results with their technique, I think the thing that made the most difference in LA was this —

I gave a shit.

I cared about each person that walked into the Lori Moran Studio in Mid-Wilshire or the bordello-chique piano room at Madilyn Clark Studios (if you were there for the burgundy velvet fringed window treatment, you know), and later the singing cottage on Vineland Ave.

If I didn’t have the answer, I’d call someone who might.

And then folks just wanted to say nice things.

They emailed testimonials when they booked national tours.

They told their friends, “Hey this guy who might stick his index finger into your jaw muscle and talk about magic bubbles helped me out.”

It’s crazy as I look back and see how much I didn’t know then and how I was still able to help folks sing better.

And someone told someone who told Patty Thom, “Hey, this guy’s a recommendable teacher out in LA.”

It’s rare when you get a backtrack moment like that. Most of the time, we remain clueless about the outer ripples of our actions.

This reveal from Patty made me want to tell you that kindness, respect, love, and good work — that always goes out ahead of you as a messenger.

Especially in the theatre. Folks love to talk.

And if you show up and are delightful, we’ll want to be the ones who told somebody about how great you are.

I just recommended a colleague of mine for a regional production here, and it worked out great. And I felt so smart :). I love solving problems.

So, please remember — if you’ve done good work before and were lovely in the process, folks remember. They might’ve even talked about you.

And right now, what good work can you be doing that builds something you want to share? The one person show ideas you keep batting away? Booking a studio room and having a song soiree (WITH refreshments, of course)? Getting your audition book right and tight?

And while it’s not your business nor in your control, you never know whose list you might end up on.

(You’re definitely on my thank-you list. I love getting to write to you every week.)

And in the meantime, you know what I’m going to say. There is indeed only one you. And folks need to hear the story only you can share.

Love much,

Dan

It’s Always There — thought I would have transcended it by now, but nope, still loud and kooky as ever

October 20, 2023 /

My friend, Doug Carfrae, dropped me off at my car after a morning of musical theatre for elementary schools in LA. Melissa and I were strongly considering moving to North Carolina.

I told Doug about my conundrum:

move to my home state of North Carolina where I felt my heart surprisingly pulled

or

get back to the NYC area (read: North Jersey) so I could get in the audition room again.

When I floated the prospect of moving to Greensboro, Melissa immediately began taking pictures off the walls of our cozy Highland Park house.

(And, she was open to returning to the state of her undergraduate education featuring plentiful Wawas and jug handle left turns if that’s what I really wanted. I’m blessed.)

When I told Doug how I was thinking about the decision – move to NC where my heart and instinct was pulling me, or jump back into the NYC maelstrom, I admitted that NYC called because I wanted to prove things, grab back time I felt I’d missed, go book a Broadway show.

With kindness in his voice, he said, “Yeah, usually the choices we make driven by our ego don’t work out the way we want them to.”

I felt like I’d been a tether ball, and someone had just cut the rope. There was lightness, freedom and permission.

And there was also a feeling like a water balloon burst inside. It was relief and a sadness. I was releasing a story, and that often brings tears.

Moving to Greensboro, NC, seemed at once a call in my heart and a no thank you to the New Jersey Transit commute for rounds of audition neurosis roulette.

Funny enough, I ended up getting to do all kinds of satisfying work in North Carolina. Some years, I racked up more Equity weeks than I did in LA.

It was also after we chose to move to NC that an unexpected door opened at Elon University, and I was able to walk beside growing singers during some very crucial years.

And still, I’ve noticed I continue to own an ego.

After the show a couple of weekends ago in NYC, I couldn’t have been more satisfied with the experience: the love in the room, the collaboration with Scott Nicholas, sharing music and heart, seeing that the program worked – so many terrific outcomes.

AND in the ensuing week, the ego committee offered many unsolicited observational nuggets:

Look at that guy on Playbill.com who won the NATS competition when you were in college. Now he’s working with that iconic director and that renowned composer, rehearsing every day with those well known and respected actors. You should be in rooms like that.

Look at that person’s show — They had more people show up for them than you did. I guess that list of folks you thought were gonna come didn’t care enough to turn up after all.

Ooooh, go check your socials and see of anybody else liked that video you posted. No? Check again!

I didn’t think these were the things that would be chattering through my noggin at age 45.

Last night in bed I lay with headachey eyes closed and unloaded these mental offerings to Melissa who, despite our collective exhaustion, listened with understanding and compassion. I’m blessed.

She reminded me that wanting ego-y things was normal human stuff, and also asked me – is that thing you’re jealous about what you really want now?

Lemme check. Oof. No.

So weird. No? No.

I don’t want it, and I want the recognition that comes from having or doing that thing. From whom? Not sure. The ego likes to keep things nebulous like that. 

I get off the commuter rail in the morning at Back Bay Station and feel so excited to get to the building where pianists bang away, violins and flutes repeat scales, opera students think more is more, and some nascent/questionable belting pierces the aural texture.

I pass BoCo kids with their scarves saying things like, “BoCo shoud DEFINITELY do Light in the Piazza before I graduate,” (I know, we’re so annoying.) and Berklee kidz with their large headphones over green hair toting guitars and smoking.

And I think – how much has to be going right for us to get to cross Mass Avenue like a bunch of furrow-browed musical ants on our way to classes, midterms, and musical frustration?

All this to say to you – many things will always be true at the same time.

You’ll land in a place of great gratitude and contentment, and your brain will still cook up all kinds of ideas for new things to explore.

Or you could be like our 4-year-old, Jude, who could be in a living room filled with too many toys, see the one strand of red yarn his brother has, and decide that’s the one ring to rule them all.

(Mind you, I had a full out argument with him this morning over the 3 remaining tablespoons of milk left in the jug that he wanted to waste on his to-be-discarded soggy Rice Krispies. We went halvesies.)

I don’t know why our brains work that way – why we think what’s meant for someone else should be ours. It’s kooky.

But if we can watch those thoughts with love and compassion, they have a much better chance of moving through. And maybe even pointing us to the things that’ll bring satisfaction to us and the ones we share with.

One example of this — some of my ego roiling led me to recognize I want to sing more. So, I got to thinking about how I can do that.

And on the flip side of that, my ego also wants to hide.

It wants me to hibernate in an artistic cave where some great producer-director-empresario will enter with a gas lantern and say, “Dan? Dan Callaway? Is that yoooou? Where have you beeeeen? Come, take my hand. The world of theatre singing and art song eagerly awaits your entry to the stage!”

Might explain some of those recurring dreams I have when I’m in a show I haven’t rehearsed, can’t find my costumes, and wake up before I actually find the stage entrance.

All this to say — as you drive your life motorcycle ahead, you’re always going to have your buddy the ego in the side car.

And I’ve found that when I can witness this creature with kindness and understanding, I get clear guidance on what can be next.

Now I’m going to email a few places where I’d like to sing and teach. I’ll let you know how that goes.

What’s something you can do that’ll help you make a step toward satisfying? 

Because it really is true — there is only one you. And folks need to hear the story only you can sing. 

Love much,

Dan

PS If you’d like to hear some songs from the NYC show, I put a YouTube playlist together so you can listen to the ones you want. 

PPS I’m brainstorming some weekend workshops to put together for you. Like How to Craft, Plan, and Perform Your Own One-Person-Show or Cabaret or Get Your Audition Book Sorted in a Weekend. 

What’s a concrete thing you could use help with? Tell me, and maybe I can make you a workshop.

It’s Not the Louder One

October 10, 2023 /

I could write you seven emails about the last weekend.

Scott Nicholas and I did our songs at Green Room 42 last Saturday, and it couldn’t have been more satisfying.

Every day leading up to the show, my brain said,

“YOU did this. YOU emailed the venue and set up a date. YOU picked these songs and invited all these folks.”

My brain chattered helpful survival tips every day:

“You can just cut that song.”

“Maybe you’ll get that crud Noah brought home from school and have to cancel.”

“If you don’t invite that person, you won’t have to feel disappointed if they tell you no.”

But the few moments I let myself get quiet and listen, I’d hear a voice (of the still, small variety) whisper in the middle of my torso,

“It’s going to be beautiful.”

I knew it was true.

My brain was a lot louder, and therefore much more noticeable.

Much like our brightly resonant 4-year-old when Melissa tries to relay one fact about something that happened to her on any given day after I get home.

I hear the scientists have figured out that our brain trains ?? automatically switch to the track to Negative Bias Town as their default route. Something about avoiding predators.

It’s a good thing to know because you can meet your brain with understanding when it’s so eagerly contributing to the committee meeting.

I’ve found, though, that if you can get a little bit still and check in with where you know things (for me it’s around my guts), that info is what you need to stick with.

It’ll lead you into zones where you’ll have to use your courage, and that means you’re going to feel scared.

But, that’s when I say to myself, “Self, what will Future Dan be glad you did?”

And present Dan is so grateful I went ahead and shared that show.

The collaboration was heavenly. (I’m truly lucky to work with Scott Nicholas — singing with him is like riding on a magic music cloud. He’s boss.)

And the sweetest experience was sharing it with folks in the room and loved ones online.

Folks from many years and places in my life all gathered — I’m convinced the gold of a life in theatre is the friends you get to make.

Melissa and I were reflecting on all the good people we’re blessed to know; it’s nuts, and I’m so grateful.

All this to say there is only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing. And your only-you-ness feels so everyday that you don’t realize how special and different it’s going to be for somebody else.

I guarantee if you let yourself do the thing that’s scary that the quiet voice peacefully and firmly tells you is the satisfying path, you’ll be surprised by who gets moved, healed, and encouraged.

Now go sing, and make a show and invite your people.

And look at these sweet pics of our boys living their best Central Park life.

Love Much,

Dan

Neil DeGrasse Tyson’s Singing Advice ?

October 3, 2023 /

Neil Degrasse Tyson said,

“The human genome is admirably complex, and it’s fair to ask whether there’s a finite number of humans it could make.

“The answer is yes, but it’s 10^30 – an incomprehensibly big number. The fact that you and I are alive is against stupendous odds.”

Every week, I say to you, “There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.”

I believe this. For you.

I often exempt myself from this axiom.

In fact, if you have the privilege to teach, the things you say most are the things you most need to learn.

Last week, I posted a short video of a terrific William Finn song, “Anytime,” that I plan to sing in the show on Saturday. I’ve always loved this song.

When I chose it, I thought of all the fancy folks who’ve sung it.

I thought of all the recordings I stopped after the first few lines because I have strong aesthetic opinions.

I thought about the time I read a role in an NYU reading, and William Finn was there and maintained an unimpressed poker face throughout. I was certain he thought I was terrible. 

Welcome to my particular neuroti-scape.

Pieces of this memory menagerie all surfaced just in the selection of a song.

Even in choosing to share the song on the socials, I felt wiggle waggle.

Last Tuesday, all manner of apocalyptic visions assaulted my noggin while I tried to teach.

“Three people will be at your show.”

“The risky song you chose isn’t going to pay off.”

“The people you thought were going to be there aren’t showing up for you.”

I was having a hard time.

I shared with a couple students why their usually competent silly-noise-making teacher was forgetting to play F-sharps that day.

Anytime I make something up for myself to do: a concert, a recital, a musical, I hit a moment of —

YOU made this up. YOU did this.

And it feels like I’m in nursery school and the teacher’s holding up the picture of an ostrich I colored purple saying, “Who ever heard of a purple ostrich?”

(One day I’ll write a children’s book about a purple ostrich. Or you can!)

Thing is, I do know there’s only one me. I have evidence that when I share songs, it means things to people. I even believe I’m loved and worthy of love.

AND my brain’s negative bias (just like yours) works to keep me hidden and unexposed (read: protected).

As I wrote this to you, my brain was like, “You sure want to share THAT much?”

I mean, speaking as an over-sharer from way back, it’s an important sieve, but in this case, yes, I do want to share that much.

So that?

So that you know that all of us are managing our own cerebral chatter collectives; and a lot of times we don’t give ourselves the grace to breathe through our nose 7 times and witness our thoughts as a compassionate friend.

So, yes, Dr. deGrasse Tyson is correct; you are a mathematical miracle.

And you’re still going to have to act while you feel afraid.

Me too.

When the boys say, “Daddy, I’m scared,” I say, “I know buddy. I’m here.”

Then I say, “Remember we have to feel scared first before we can use our courage?”

Yep, fear is the prerequisite for bravery.

And to trust that the inimitable diamond of your soul that you showed up on this planet with — to trust that opening the door to that is inestimably transcendent — that feels fragile.

We have to DO something, right? PROVE something. SHOW something.

And yes, there are levels of skill we want to integrate; it’s satisfying to do excellent work.

And while we do that, I want you to think about beautiful voices you’ve heard, but you just couldn’t make yourself care.

And I want you to remember voices that were not what a snobby voice teacher might call pleasing, and you cared a lot.

It’s about the open heart and the courage to share it.

Because, yes, there is only one you, and folks need to hear the story only 10-to-the-30th-power you can sing. (And you’ll often be surprised by who they are, if you ever find out.)

Love much,

Dan

PS Listen to Scott Nicholas tear up “The Dream” by Rufus Wainwright in rehearsal this week — haven’t posted or edited this yet.

PPS Speaking of building skills, did you know they’ve been building a medieval castle in France for the last 20+ years using all the materials and trades as practiced in the middle ages???? I didn’t. 

My newsfeed sent me an NPR story about it. Fascinating, and I want to visit one day.

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2024 Dan Callaway Studio

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑