Without You: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and the Musical Rent (16 page)

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Larson replied. He released my hand, looking lost for a moment, and then gestured to his wife. “Oh, this is my wife, Nan.”

“Hi there,” Nan said, her voice a little stronger than her husband’s, her eyes moist, her hand shaking slightly as she took mine in hers. “So nice to meet you. So nice to meet you.”

“We’re, uh, we’re very sorry, and we’re glad that you’re here,” I said.

“Well, we had to come,” Al said. “We had to.”

I stood there for a moment longer, chewing my lip, and then said, “Well, I’ll see you afterwards.”

“Okay, okay, we’ll be seeing you,” Al said vaguely, and then turned to the next person who waited to speak to him. I stepped away, concentrating on my breathing as I headed backstage, my head churning, unable to fathom the depths of Al and Nan’s grief and shock.

Backstage, we wandered around in a semidaze, occasionally clutching each other’s hands or hugging one another. Some people warmed up their voices, others sat quietly. Our only costume pieces were our headset microphones.

Finally, it was time to begin, and we headed out onstage. The set’s three long metal tables were placed end to end across the edge of the stage, with bowls of Ricola lozenges and boxes of tissues spaced evenly across them. As we took our seats, I gazed out at the audience. The house was entirely full, with many people spilling out onto the aisles’ floors, and many others standing in a crowd in the back of the theatre. I spotted Christina and the Larsons and Michael, as well as cast members from the studio production. They looked expectant and exhausted, and no one spoke.

Jim made his way down to the floor in front of the stage, holding on to a crumpled piece of paper. He cleared his throat.

“I’m, uh, I’m not used to making speeches in public,” he said, his gentle voice wavering. “And this morning when I woke up, I certainly never thought I would have to make a speech like this. But.” He cleared his throat again, glancing down at his notes. “As you know, Jonathan Larson died last night, after he went home after our dress rehearsal. We have found out that his death was the result of an aortic aneurysm, a freakish cause of death for a young, thirty-five-year-old man. I think it goes without saying that this doesn’t seem fair at all. I can think of a lot of people I’d like to see die of an aneurysm right now. Certainly not Jonathan Larson.” He paused, clearing his throat once again.

“As we came together at the theatre today, trying to make some sense of this horrible turn of events, we decided that all there was for us to do was to continue the work that we and Jonathan had begun together. We owe it to Jonathan. Even though he’s gone, this beautiful, loving, courageous piece that he created lives on, and we will do our utmost to honor his memory by bringing it to life every night here at our theatre.

“When we were trying to figure out what we were going to do about tonight’s scheduled preview, we knew that what we couldn’t do was keep our theatre silent. We knew that much for certain. But we also didn’t want tonight to be about anything other than Jonathan’s words and music. So we asked our amazing cast if they would simply sing through Jonathan’s score for us, and they agreed, and I’ll stop talking now, so we can all listen to them, and listen to Jonathan. Thank you.”

Jim abruptly sat down, and the house lights dimmed. I centered myself as best as I could, silently pledging to get through it, thinking that if we could all just get through it, we’d be giving Jonathan’s friends and family an incredible gift.

I had the first lines, and so I took a deep breath and glanced over at Tim, who stood at the ready in front of his keyboard. I nodded, and Tim cued our guitarist, Kenny Brescia, to begin. He plucked the opening notes on his guitar, and I dove in.

“December 24th, nine
P.M
.
,” I sang, my voice stronger and clearer than I’d thought it would be,
“Eastern Standard time / From here on in, I shoot without a script / See if anything comes of it / instead of my old shit.”
As I continued singing, I gained momentum, clicking into a real performance, embodying this character that I knew so well and so loved to play, and I focused all of my energy and sent it out to the audience. I was owning the story, driving it forward, sharing it.

As we continued, the audience laughed at all the right jokes (especially Kristen Lee Kelly’s “Voice Mail” as Mrs. Cohen), and when the band kicked in with a blast of energy on “Rent,” I could feel the voltage in the room rise enormously. By the song’s climax, when all fifteen of us defiantly raised our voices in climbing, flying harmonies—
“Rent, rent, rent, rent / We’re not gonna pay rent!”
—the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. And when Adam and I screamed out our last line at the top of our lungs—
“’Cause everything is reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeent!”
—holding out that last note for what felt like forever until Tim and the band crashed themselves into a huge, crazy, rock-and-roll finish, the entire audience instantaneously erupted in thunderous, joyful, cacophonous cheers.

We plunged forward, the first act continuing on with Jesse Martin and Wilson Heredia’s tender “You Okay Honey?” and Adam’s heartbreaking “One Song Glory.” A hush descended over the theatre as Adam sang, his voice tentative at first and then explosive, his eyes cast down at the index cards he still needed to remember his lyrics.

I couldn’t believe the strength and clarity with which Adam was singing, and to Jonathan’s parents, who must have been in agony as they listened to this song evoke their lost son. I sat still and watched intently as Adam leaned into the chorus, his voice a gorgeous howl.

And then he came back into himself, quieting down, the song ending in a surprising, suspended chord, not resolving itself. And even though it was over, the riveted, awestruck audience didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even seem to breathe, and then Tim cued the band, and Daphne and Adam went right on into the sweet, sexy, seductive “Light My Candle.”

We were doing more than a simple sing-through. Sure, we weren’t moving around, and there were no lights or costumes or sets, but the undeniable electricity of a full performance positively sizzled through the air. We all felt it onstage, too, playing off each other, warming up as we went, letting loose, singing our hearts out.

By the time we got to “La Vie Boheme,” it was clear that the time for sitting down was over, and as I began my opening verse, I climbed right up onto the table, just as I did in the show, and sang out to the crowd Jonathan’s joyful valentine to all things bohemian. Soon, everybody else in the cast was joining me up on the tables, and we danced and spun and wailed our way through the song, its energy and drive overtaking us, its propulsive percolating beat sending us flying. As I led the group in our final
“Viva la vie boheme!”
I knew that there would be no going back to our seats when we came back from intermission. We’d have to get up and really do the show; its power was too great. And the audience seemed to agree, their cheers and applause enormous and full and overwhelming.

And, true to form, when the house lights came up, Michael rushed to the stage, delighted and exuberant. “That was fantastic,” he said to us all. “We have to do Act Two for real now.” We all immediately agreed to continue on with full staging and props and lights, but no costumes; we didn’t want to get snagged up by Angel’s quick change into Pussy Galore in the middle of “Happy New Year,” or the ensemble members’ quick changes into the finale.

The intermission zoomed by, and soon the opening chords of “Seasons of Love” rang out, and we made our way to the edge of the stage, looking right out at the audience. Some of them held tightly to each other, and, even before we began singing, I knew that it was going to take every last shred of control and strength in my being to just get through these songs in Act Two. They were all too terribly appropriate to the occasion.

Singing requires an open, clear throat; it’s the only way pure, melodic sound can come out. But as we sang “Seasons,” its lyrics resonating through me in a thousand new ways, I began to cry, and my throat began to close up, and then I could hear others in the cast crying as they sang, which made my tears run even faster and hotter. But somehow we all managed to keep singing, we all managed to open our throats back up, and let our hearts up and out through our voices, as we sang about love and joy and remembrance. Gwen Stewart miraculously led us through the final chorus, her voice wailing up to heaven for Jonathan and his friends and family and God and everyone, her tone as clear and powerful and acrobatic as ever, her amazing, soaring notes sending Michael’s hands into the air as he sat in the back of the theatre, tears streaming down his face, which sent even more tears streaming down mine. And when Gwen and the rest of us were finished with the song, the audience raised their voices in a clamorous, seemingly endless cheer.

During their applause, I swallowed down the last of my tears, wiping my face and abruptly switching gears into my narration for “Happy New Year.” The show had its own incredible, undeniable motor at this point, and I was doing my best to keep driving it, staying as focused and true as possible.

“Happy New Year” gave way to “Take Me or Leave Me,” and Fredi and Idina might as well have literally burst into flames during their number, that’s how on fire they were. I luxuriated in Michael’s staging during their song; he had me sitting off to the side so I could just sit and watch the action. It was thrilling to be onstage with them when they resoundingly brought the house crashing down all around them at the end of the number. Tim and the band held for what felt like several minutes while the audience screamed and whistled and cheered, and I thought that Jonathan could surely hear all of this glorious noise. It was all for him, after all, and he had to be out there somewhere. My chest burst with joy and pride for him, and for all of us, in that moment.

Finally the audience calmed down, and then came the “Seasons of Love” reprise, and immediately the tone shifted from jubilation to sorrow, and I steeled myself through that brief song, fighting my closing-up throat once again as we sang,
“How do you measure a last year on earth?”

The segue from the final chords of the “Seasons of Love” reprise into the acoustic guitar intro of “Without You” was one of my favorite musical moments in the show, and Tim led Kenny into it perfectly. I settled myself into my chair so I could let Daphne’s voice wash over me and watch Michael’s beautifully simple and eloquent staging. I had no idea how Daphne was going to be able to sing this song; its lyrics were so directly about why we were all there tonight:

Yet she managed, her eyes burning with concentration, her arms and hands splayed out to her sides in a kind of reaching surrender, her voice raspy and grief-stricken and lost.

More tears rolled down my cheeks as I sat there listening to Daphne sing and watching Jesse’s Collins gently tend to Wilson’s Angel in his sickbed. It was a rare moment in the show in which I could just let go, in which I didn’t have to hold anything together or move anything forward, and I released into it as much as I could without falling apart completely.

Then came “Contact,” which provided a brief respite from the intensity of “Without You,” at least until Wilson started to sing. I bowed my head, holding myself together as Wilson sang over and over again,
“Take me, take me, take me.”
It was all the more difficult to stand because I knew what was coming next in the show—Angel’s funeral—and I did not know how any of us were ever going to get through that without losing control.