Motab Mishaps

MoTab Mishaps

December 2009

The ignominies of choir travel are sometimes as striking to the Tabernacle Choir travelers as are the great choral moments on stage and the compelling human experiences off stage.

The meticulous and often madcap planning involved in traveling via bus from country to country in a day is daunting. As soon as the bus arrives at the destination hotel, the performers disembark immediately to rush to sound check at the performance hall, return to bolt down dinner, and then beat the clock removing wrinkles from performance clothing and organizing concert music. Immediately following the performance, we spend thirty minutes greeting audience members, handing out pass along cards and the occasional Book of Mormon. One then arrives at the hotel at midnight with a few minutes to assemble the gear needed for the next day’s travel, including an exhaustive list of necessities. Not the least included, are one’s best curling iron and “Freeze & Shine.” This is a special product combusted in a laboratory that can immediately immobilize ANY hairdo for 72 hours running, no matter the liters of sweat emitted from the pores of any one perspiring singer, the temperature of the stage lights, nor the antiquity of the venue: (i.e. The Muzikverein or the Bolshoi Theatre , bereft of the graces of air conditioning. ) The list also includes: undies, rubber-lined dress shields, #7 Hanes panty hose, polyester, double-paneled full slip laced with lead-impregnated nylon fibers & triple-faced full length dress with three drapes, standard issue earrings, 3-strand necklace and 3 inch black patent leather pumps and an all-weather coat. The above mentioned items, along with one’s music, are in addition to what one needs for the night and the next day’s bus travel. Post-concert and post haste, one bursts through the hotel door a bit after midnight, with only 15-20 minutes to assemble the lists of things needed for the night, the next day’s travel and the next evening ‘s performance. Not wanting the added weight of a nightgown/ robe in our hand-held luggage, by design, we often slept in our undies only. One night after a performance, my roommate and I, on top of our game, clothed only in our garments and in perch-on-all-fours-push-luggage-out-the-door-form, stealthily opened our door, glancing left and right to make sure the coast was clear during that small window of time when pushing luggage into the hall dressed in our underwear would make us vulnerable to any passerby. We heaved all six bags into the hall, then looking up from the exertion, we saw two tenors directly across the hall from our room, dressed only in their “whites” engaged in the same activity. It was a moment of embarrassment and humiliation, but there wasn’t even a wink or nod of recognition at the lineup for the next concert; who says the tenors don’t allow altos their dignity. The luggage handlers, a special group of temple-recommend-holding thugs, hit the floors to pick up our luggage precisely at 12:30 a.m. One could detect them in the halls by the hysterical screams heard from some of the rooms (most likely a soprano) who were not quite ready to slide their 3 large luggage bags into the hall for pick-up. One could also tell the thugs were afoot by the thunderous roll of the pickup carts, heavy burdened with enough clothing to open a small Italian Clothing Boutique and enough eyeliner, lipstick and hairspray to camouflage a battalion of green berets. The meticulous planning didn’t always work though because I can remember poor Walt Boyden, the most fastidious dresser in the Choir, (we called him Dapper Dan behind his baritone back) having forgotten his concert shoes, was seen the next evening lining up on the risers for a performance to a large audience of Spaniards. Walt was dressed to the nines in his black tux and fuzzy brown bedroom slippers. He sang the entire concert, the world’s most respected literature, in his fuzzy browns.

A beloved alto who had forgotten her blouse, was seen wearing her sunny yellow blazer with a lovely understated tank underneath. It wasn’t until 8 hours later at a bus stop that I saw her queing up in the restroom and it dawned on me that she had reversed her garment top and refitted it as a tank under her blazer. I looked at her in recognition of her resourcefulness and she hugged me in a wrestler’s grip and hissed into my ear: “Marcie, don’t say a word.” Before my oxygen supply was entirely cut off, I promised .

Sometimes things happen that are, in the moment, intimidating or humiliating, but in retrospect, they are funny in the remembering. One such thing happened to me in Sydney, Australia. We had been given one evening of free time and a friend had bought tickets to see “Les Miserable”. I had never been to live musical theater and jumped at the chance. My roommate, Peggy Lambert, known for her addiction to reading, wearing mittens and turtlenecks no matter the weather, opted to stay home and finish her new read. I grabbed for my room key and she assured me she’d still be up reading and would let me in. I left for the performance excited and happy that she’d be awake to let me in and more importantly , would be alert and eager to hear me spill over in my blow by blow account of my first live musical theater experience. At 11:45 p.m. my elevator door opened onto floor 23. Our hotel was very posh, located just a few blocks from the Sydney Opera House on the Bay. I recall taking an entire roll of pictures of the bathroom with it’s marble shower and shiny brass fixtures. At the end of the hall was a very naked, I mean completely naked man, holding his hand gingerly and precisely over his privates. He was skulking along the corridor walls, seemingly disoriented, but cogent enough to be beckoning toward me and calling for help. He continued to balance himself against the wall with one arm and alternately, lift the “protecting” hand, using it to beckon me. I was confused, a little frightened and had only one object: to arrive at my room BEFORE he arrived toe-to-toe with me. I ran for my hotel door and began calling for Peggy to let me in. I should have known that she would be and WAS RIGHT NOW, in a COMA, a deep, unrelenting REM-sleep coma. I was now yelling to draw her out of her dream sleep to let me into the room. I removed both my shoes and began banging their heels deeply into the lovely mahogany door to add decibels to my histrionic plea to get in. Just as the beckoning man reached to touch my hand, I burst past a sleepy, bewildered Peggy, knocking her to the floor in my anxiety to get on the other side of my hotel door. I immediately called security and to this very day, I am sure that the man was helped to his room. (I didn’t follow through on that missionary opportunity) In a later discussion we concluded that the corridor streaker had probably been a little inebriated, was trying to find the bathroom and had mistakenly opened the exit door instead (they were, of course , spring loaded to close immediately). What I remember most about that evening though is the unspeakably stirring story of Victor Hugo’s chronicle of the French Revolution and the glories of the music in Les Miserable.

Marcie Alley, December 2009