My musical education started at a young age during Saturday morning errand-running with my dad. We had an old Lincoln Town Car, circa 1980, with a landau top and midnight blue leather seats that were unbelievably wide to my four-year-old eyes. My dad would wake me up early to do anything and everything that needed being done. One of my favorite errands was taking pop cans to be recycled. I love the metallic sound of the cans clinking against each other in their plastic bags. The recycling center was exciting and different, the smell of stale beer and the gently sticky cement floor were totally novel. My dad would dump the cans into a metal basket that was bigger than me in order to be weighed before going into the compactor. I was allowed to keep the change we received from the cans—never more than two dollars, often just a small assortment of quarters, dimes and nickels. On the way to the next place we had to go, my dad would turn on the radio or slip a tape into the tape deck. This was my first introduction to music that I remember and Tennessee Ernie Ford, Harry Belafonte and especially Roy Orbison;s classic "Oh Pretty Woman" bring back happy memories of those Saturdays spent with my dad. We’d often stop to get pecan rolls, leaving me with sugary, sticky fingers and a happy smile. There was nothing I loved better than those mornings spent with my father.
Until seventh grade, I had the unique distinction of growing up the daughter of a TV producer. Working for Nebraska Educational Telecommunications, my dad helped produce shows like Backyard Farmer and organizing the televised pledge drives and auctions that took place at the station to raise money for NETV. When I was about six I was often put in front of the camera to help with simple things like drawing the names of winners on national television. Wearing my baby blue dress with the white satin sash, I’m sure my main reason for being on camera was for the “cute factor”, but I didn’t know that then. It was just exhilarating to be under the hot stage lights and feel like I was doing something important. Due to this upbringing, I watched a lot of PBS shows and one of my absolute favorites was “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego” with the catchy theme song performed by Rockapella. It wasn’t until years later, when I was in high school, that I connected Rockapella to Carmen Sandiego. During those pledge drives I practically had the run of the studio as long as I wasn’t getting in the way. I spent hours exploring the cavernous storage areas where costumes, props and set pieces were kept. I learned how to manipulate the huge stationary cameras used to film television shows in the studios. I made forts under tables with yards of used audio tape serving as grass or bedding or anything I could imagine. And when my dad worked late I spent late nights napping on a couch in Studio 2, a smaller studio with a set of false stair built into the set and a bay window that looked out on fake potted plants and an ever-changing backdrop depicting a yard in various seasons.
One of the early passions in my life was dancing. I had fast growth spurts—often three inches at a time—so my mother enrolled me in tap and ballet classes to help my muscles keep up with my bones. So, from the time I was four until I was 17 I was at Karen McWilliams’ dance studio at least three days a week. When I was younger I was more interested in the sequined costumes and excessive makeup of the recital than the actual study of dance, but in a few years I’d learned to love the art form. In ballet there was a kind of control that was refreshing, even as it was elusive. Barre exercises were always a challenge because of the strict attention to every detail of your body. Posture, turnout, hand position, arm position, neck position…everything counted. During tap lessons you learned a precision that extended to your toes, but still had the opportunity to make plenty of noise. It was about this time that musicals really started to interest me. I loved nothing better than to pretend I was Debbie Reynolds tapping my heart out with Gene Kelly to "Good Mornin'" from Singin' in the Rain and being admired by one and all for my grace and talent. Once I had the opportunity to move to pointe shoes, I opted to save my feet from potential destruction and started taking lessons in Irish step dancing, which is a whole different form of dance. I love the speed and flamboyance of the feet while the upper half of the body maintained a paralytic stiffness, lending all the more emphasis to the incredible things happening on the floor.
My introduction to more contemporary music was long coming, delayed pretty thoroughly until my 8th grade year when I was shown the light of the Red Hot Chili Peppers by my friend Adam. He was a smart, talented guy who turned out to be one of my best friends for many years. He was a particularly good artist and would often draw nonsense designs on my planner. He sat in front of me in our chemistry class, which I remember consisting of a lot of down time in which we were allowed to do homework or talk. One day, he turned around and, while we were chatting, he wrote the lyrics to “Otherside” on a Saturday in my planner. He ended it with a centered asterisk, which I would later learn was the emblem for the Chili Peppers. His precise handwriting emphasized the poetry of the lyrics. And that was it for me. I was hooked on the Chili Peppers. Californication was one of the first albums I owned on CD (Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill was the first, something that felt like an act of rebellion at the time) and “Otherside” remains one of my favorite songs to this day, serving as a rather nostalgic reminder of a friend with whom I’ve lost contact.
One day in 5th grade it was announced that instrumental lessons were going to begin. Sheets were passed out with a list of instruments. We were to take these sheets home and discuss with our parents the instruments that we might be interested in learning, choosing three in case our first choice was already full. I don’t remember what all I put down, but evidently saxophone was one of them because from the first lesson on I loved the instrument. The sound (once I’d learned how to coax sound out of it) was soothing and something else I couldn’t quite define. I’d later realize that the “something else” was a sexiness that doesn’t come naturally to many instruments. One of the songs that I aspired to play was the “Pink Panther Theme”by the great Henry Mancini. I don’t know that I ever mastered or even attempted it, but I spent many, many hours practicing my sax. I wasn’t satisfied just playing in my room—the acoustics weren’t quite what I was looking for. To remedy that, I’d take my flimsy wire stand and a chair into my fully tiled bathroom, close the door and wail away. I’m sure my parents were less than thrilled by the late night one-person jam sessions, but they never said anything, preferring me to pursue something that I enjoyed. It was around this time that I also started taking piano lessons, which didn’t stick quite as well as the sax did. Today, though, I wish I’d kept up with my lessons in both instruments.
My high school career was fully defined by two things: academics and performing arts. I finished 9th grade at Irving Middle School after participation in varsity jazz band and Spirits, the upperclassmen swing choir. In the summer of 2002 I made my first trips to the newly opened Lincoln Southwest High School for a number of auditions and try outs. I’d been playing volleyball since fourth grade, so it was no great surprise when I tried out and got a spot on the reserve team. I never had a career-making skill in volleyball, but I was pretty good and really loved playing. I also auditioned for jazz band and show choir, spending the next three years in both varsity groups. Show choir competitions made up a lot of weekends for the last two years of high school and, hard as we tried, we never took home first place trophies. Omaha Westside’s Amazing Technicolor Show Choir, however, had a killer group and often swept the competitions. My senior year saw the beginning of an ongoing love affair with Michael Buble and, coincidentally, an excellent performance of “Feeling Good” by a soloist in Westside’s group. Even though I was bitter about losing the competition, I had to sit in awe of this skinny blond boy with the huge voice. It was weeks until I could stop talking about his performance with more than just a hint of jealousy. Even if it wasn’t my performance, it was a fitting end to a very satisfying run in LSW’s show choir.
After a wholly unsatisfying year on the volleyball team, I lost a lot of my love of the game. I decided not to try out the next year, instead opting to audition for the theatre productions. I’d always loved theatre, but had never been a part of a show. The beautiful, multi-million dollar theatre at Southwest seemed like a perfect place to get my start. The first show I was a part of was Footloose and I fell in love. The stage lights were just as hot and exhilarating as they were when I was six and in front of a television camera, but this was even better. I had the chance to put my years of dance to use. There is a very ephemeral quality about theatre—it’s a transient art. Even so, my participation in Southwest theatre turned out to be some of the most memorable times of my life. Before every performance the cast and crew would congregate in the black box, the small theatre. Mr. Bob, our director, had everyone close their eyes and, while “This is the Moment” from the musical Jekyll and Hyde played, we envisioned the show. While the swelling orchestration of the song rang through me I’d watch the success of the production unfold in my mind’s eye. Even now, the song gives me goose bumps, quickening my breath and filling me with a confidence.
Fast forward a few years. After my freshman year of college at UNL, I was astonishingly unsure of what direction my life was taking. I started off as a political science major, but soon found that political theory made me inexplicably violent toward puppies, so I switched majors to English for lack of a better idea. My sophomore year started and was filled with pressure from my parents to decide what I was doing with my future. One October day, during an infrequent meal with my parents, my mother told me of an internship she’d seen advertised. It afforded students the opportunity of living and working in Orlando, Florida at the Disney World Resort. I was unsure at first, but it seemed like an exciting opportunity and a chance to get out of Nebraska, so I applied. January 16th, 2007 saw me arrive in Orlando for what would turn out to be one of the biggest adventures of my life. I made some great friends there, including Nick, a flamboyant and sassy gay guy. We quickly became inseparable. As the end of my college program drew near, we spent more time together, especially outside of work and “A Whole New World” (composed by the musical genius Alan Menken) became our theme song of sorts. We’d drive through the Florida humidity in his blue Neon with the windows rolled down, singing Disney songs as loud as we could. It seemed to be expected that if you worked at Disney, you’d had several CDs full of the songs and Nick did. On my second to last day of work, Nick picked me up at my apartment and we drove to work, holding hands and singing “A Whole New World.” It felt oddly like the end of an era.
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