Theater News

Kids and Animals

In this excerpt from his forthcoming memoir, Sam Harris writes about an all too familiar on-stage annoyance.

Sam Harris
Sam Harris

[Ed. Note: Sam Harris is famous as a musical theater performer and a Star Search winner, but relatively few people know that he’s also a hilarious writer. TheaterMania asked him to share some of that talent with us and he responded by offering “Kids and Animals,” an excerpt from his forthcoming memoir. Here it is.]

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When I was doing the national tour of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, we picked up about 40 local kids in each city to participate on stage with singing and some dancing. They were cast months in advance and were rehearsed prior to our arrival. They ranged in age from about eight to 13 and often, by the time we actually rolled into town, some of the girls had blossomed into young women. Tall young women. With large breasts. They were placed in the back row and their chests were strapped down with ace bandages and hot glue. The short, innocent, and innocuous were placed in the front. And then there were the parents, crouching in the shadows like vermin.

For some reason, certain cities — Baltimore comes to mind — produced an amazing number of stage parents who encouraged their moppets to mug and upstage the other actors, seeing this as their wunderkind’s big break into show business. These little tykes would come to the put-in with curlers and enough makeup to make Tammy Faye look like a nun — and some of the girls wore makeup, too! (I recall a sweet little boy, with a real sparkle about him, who was always practicing little pirouettes in the wings. Unlike some of the other mothers, his mom was unassuming and was trying to honor her child’s hunger for the stage, though she didn’t quite get it. I wanted to say to her, ever so gently, “You do realize that little nine-year-old Bruce is a big queen, right? Be understanding with him. Paducah won’t be…”)

I would receive notes, drawings, and little gifts backstage from the kids. Most were lovely: “Dear Mr. Harris, this is my first show. It is so exciting. Break a leg!” etc., etc. Little Bruce wrote: “Dear Mr. Harris, how often do you work out to get your chest like that?” I once actually got a note from a child that said, “I need some advice about agents. Can we have coffee between shows?” Agent advice? Coffee between shows? This from a 12 year old kid??!! A mother was clearly involved. I wrote back, “I never have coffee between shows. It keeps me awake during Act II.”

Truly, I did enjoy the kids. They were full of life and joy. Occasionally, there’d be one child who had “it” — a special inner light. When I saw that spark, I would make a point to spend time with that child to let him/her know I recognized his/her secret. However, when you’re on the road, a lot of enthusiastic screaming children can be trying, and the understanding that they were to remain chained up in the boiler room when they were not on stage could only help somewhat.

At the end of the show, during the encore, the kids were staged to sit on the floor around me, gaze up with their sweet little faces, and sing their sweet little “la la’s” in the sweet little interlude. One night, about a year into the tour — in a city that I have blocked from memory — a highly driven but talented ham of a child who was positioned directly at my feet kept smiling straight out to the house instead of up at me. During the song, he somehow edged in front of me so he was down center. At the key change, I would always walk down a few feet for the big finish, but with this kid there, I had to climb over him so as not to step on his hands. After the first show, I asked that he be politely told not to crawl in front of me. His reply was, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize I was doing that.” Done.

The next night, he not only made his way in front of me but took to sitting on his haunches so that he was taller and could be in my light. It was as if he was possessed — and, frankly, who has time for an exorcism, what with the show schedule and press and all? Clearly, whomever was talking to him about this problem was not making headway, so I asked to speak to him myself. He was brought to my dressing room, where I told him I was concerned that I might step on him when I moved downstage. He was very polite, said he hadn’t realized he was doing it, and then asked if he could try on my gold finale headdress. Since the poor kid had been admonished twice, I thought it was the least I could do.

The next night, little Hormel edged his way down center, rose to his knees, smiled out front — and now I could hear him singing along with me!! I had had enough. When the key change came, I felt I had no choice but to step forward onto his little hand (not giving it my full weight). Without letting the audience see, I shot him a death stare that could have stunted his growth. It suddenly occurred to me that I was competing with this little kid for my place on stage, and how pathetic that was. What did it say about me, my ego, my ham-dom? That was when I stepped on his other hand.

He had a choice: (1) to take this as an opportunity for more attention by jerking back or crying or running off the stage; (2) to get the message, suck it up, and be a pro. He chose the latter. After the show, I told him how sorry I was for stepping on his little hand but he’d somehow accidentally gotten off his mark and I couldn’t see him for the glare of my spotlight. We stared at each other for a moment. Then he said, “It’s okay, I didn’t really feel it, with all the applause and excitement and everything. Hey, did you hear that audience tonight? I think they were the best yet — a little slow in the beginning, but by the end, they were like putty.”

I think that kid is going to be a big star someday.

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[Over the next few weeks, Sam Harris will be performing with the Boston Pops in Boston’s Symphony Hall; at Joe’s Pub in New York City; at the Pollak Theatre in West Long Branch, New Jersey; at the John Drew Theater in East Hampton; and at Schroeder’s Club in San Diego. For more information, visit www.samharris.com.]