A Five, Six, Seven, Eight!

My love affair with Broadway.

This is a double whammy month for me, because it’s Father’s Day and the 14th anniversary of my dad’s death. Father’s Day is hard. I wasn’t sure I’d write about him, but because a friend said something that inspired me on Sunday, the story came. My homage to Broadway show tunes is an homage to my dad, who gave me the gift of music and theater.

This is how I’m remembering him in 2025.

Every day after school and on the weekends, I hung out with my pals for hours at a time. They were all quite musically inclined. I counted among them: Angela, Ethel, Julie, Gwen, and Zero.* They were my sweethearts, one and all. And later, I met John, Priscilla, Bernadette, Patti, and Mandy.** And oh, let’s not forget about Audra!***

Every time we got together, I sang with them in imaginary rehearsals. The lyrics and melodies from their best Broadway shows were embedded in my memory. I skipped the overtures; they were a needless obstacle placed in the way of my immediate pleasure, my desire to sing. I wasn’t interested in music without lyrics. I loved all the musicals, though I certainly had my favorites. To this day, I know all the words to every song. Be careful, or you’ll get me started. And unlike my more gifted musical heroes, carrying a tune is something better left to the privacy of my bedroom or my car. Let’s just say my ear is inconsistent. It can get a little atonal at times. But that never stopped me from singing.

I sang those songs in my bedroom all through junior high and high school. I danced, and fantasized about being on stage, not as a star, but as a supporting member of the company, a hoofer who could sing her heart out. That’s all I needed. I’d sing to my mirror; just me, my stereo, and the joy I felt every time I’d spin a show. I wore the vinyl down until the albums needed to be replaced. But before I started buying my own records, I was allowed to borrow my dad’s.

I’d go downstairs to the den––which was my father’s haven in our house. It was the place where he read one novel after another, he paid the bills, writing each check in penmanship so beautiful, it resembled the finest calligraphy. He watched Julia Child cook and men wearing very tight tights perform triple axels and sow cows on the ice. And, he listened to music. Sitting on the couch, he smoked one cigarette after another. He never sang along; he didn’t have the ear or lung capacity. Neither of my folks could carry a tune. It didn’t matter; the music was his happy place.

When he was a kid, he played the accordion, because his parents couldn’t afford the piano that he longed for. The one song he could still play when I was a kid was “Flight of the Bumblebee” by Rimsky-Korsakov.

He wanted it to be his swan song, so he could put that instrument away, once and for all. But every time my grandmother would visit, she’d say “You still have the accordion, Tatele? Play for me.” So, he dragged it out of its basement hiding place and as he clamped his teeth around his always burning cigarette, he struggled through the fingering. It’s a really hard piece. I thought he was a genius.

He didn’t love all kinds of music. He was seriously selective. He listened to opera, classical, some rock (but not much), and in the 1970s he was infatuated with disco. But his first love was Broadway musicals. All of them, even the ones that bombed.

And yes, he was as gay as gay could be. We just didn’t talk about it then.

His Broadway albums were organized alphabetically by the title of each show, and they were the ones I was most interested in. Opera came later, in my adulthood. But even now, given a choice, 42^nd Street beats the Met every time.

My fingertips strolled their way through his collection, my head tilted sideways to read the skinny spines of each record in his Broadway section. After a while, I hardly needed to read them at all. I knew them just by their color and place in the alphabet. I also knew all the liner notes by heart; I read them so many times over the years. Those notes made me feel closer to the actors and the production. So many records, so many favorites. I’d find the one that piqued my interest that day, slide it from its spot on the shelf, and run back upstairs to immerse myself in another world. I preferred the songs I could belt out loud. Those were the ones I loved the best. I didn’t like the slow sad ones or the sappy love songs. I leaned toward the singers who possessed an alto range, my range, though it didn’t keep me from straining my voice as I tried to match the diva sopranos. I was able to sing the men’s roles with much more ease.

In my dad’s world, you didn’t just grab a record off the shelf and willy-nilly pull it from the dust cover, greasy fingers leaving marks, oh no. There were rules, guidelines I had to follow to be allowed to venture into his, and my, idea of heaven. He gave me precise instructions on the proper care of his vinyl. There was a right way to remove the album from its paper sleeve, a thorough cleaning necessary before and after listening. Yes, Nan, every time. He had a special tool for that job; a curved red velvet brush with a beautiful teak handle and a little squeeze bottle of cleaning fluid, that was stored in its own box. No fingerprints allowed on the tracks, which was more difficult for me when my hands were smaller. My thumb held the edge of the disc, my middle finger extended as far as it could stretch to the round hole in the middle. I’d gently, gently hold it as I placed the album onto the spindle of the stereo and let it settle softly on to the turntable. I clicked the stereo on, setting the record in motion, and very, very carefully, hold the brush against the surface as it spun, gathering up dust specks, real and theoretical. It was a sacred ritual observed by its most devoted worshippers, me and my dad.

Anxious to get to the singing, I heard Dad’s voice in my head, “Don’t let that needle just drop!” Instead––as if I were performing the most delicate surgery––a mindful touchdown was essential. I took his requirements very seriously, knowing that if I couldn’t meet his meticulous standards, the privilege of using his records would be revoked. When I was finished listening, I repeated the procedure in reverse, making sure to replace the record with the opening of the paper sleeve vertical, so the record wouldn’t accidentally slide out of its cover. It was a stressful process that became easier and more automatic with practice.

When I started buying my own records, I was more relaxed about the routine, but still careful.

When I was a little girl, there were five albums I loved the most. The first was Sweet Charity, then West Side Story, Mame, Fiddler on the Roof, and Stop the World I Want to Get Off.

I acted out each song in our living room. When the chorus from Sweet Charity would sing, “Hit the floor and crawl to Daddy,” I’d hit the carpet and crawl, and then I’d swim, following the instructions the actors sang to me. I didn’t know “The Rhythm of Life” was about a cult leader everyone called “Daddy.” I thought it was about my dad. Nor did I know that when Jane Connell sang “Gooch’s Song” in Mame, she was singing about being an unwed mother-to-be. I could never sing that one, her high soprano was impossible for me, but wow, what a song. The lyrics were smart and funny. I didn’t know that Charity of Sweet Charity was a hooker, or that the Mame character was the definition of a loving, but terribly flawed narcissist. I loved them all and I still do. As I got older, I became more sophisticated in my tastes and added Sondheim to my repertoire.

I had my own interpretations of these plays, written in my head, based solely on the lyrics. There was no fleshed-out storyline to fill me in. So, when I would finally get to see the plays on stage, I was often crushed to discover they were not the stories as I imagined them. But even the songs with a darker meaning held hope in their words, in the melodies, and in the dancing. The joy was infectious, the humor ever-present. There was also recognition in the more serious numbers that pointed to our shared experiences of being alive; the challenges human beings are faced with. The notes soared and were imbued with the kind of magic I couldn’t find anywhere else in my life. When I listened to Motel sing “Miracle of Miracles,” I got goose bumps. I still get them every time I hear it.

When I was alone in my bedroom, I laughed, I sang uninhibited, because the only ones present were me and my musical pals.

I still play those songs and I belt them out loud, more often when I’m in love than at any other time, and more frequently in my car, than in my living room. For some reason, I sound better in my car! And I let the songs mean what I want them to mean.

My father gifted me with an appreciation of the arts, of Broadway. Before 9/11, when I lived in New York City, I could score standing room tickets for five or ten bucks. That way, I was able to stand at the back of the orchestra section and mouth the words, while reminding myself NOT to sing aloud, but tapping my foot, and even quietly dancing in place. Sometimes just being in the theater would make cry. The swell of the orchestra and the curtain rising prompted tears that were joyful and reverent, because what I was witnessing was golden.

In the 70s and 80s when theater was still affordable, I saw the shows I loved, often more than once. My dad and I had a tradition of watching the Tony Awards together every year and when we lived in different places, we stayed on the phone all night, dishing about the costumes (my dad was a fashion designer), the featured musical numbers, the ridiculous, overly long acceptance speeches by producers, who didn’t deserve that much credit. We predicted winners and were heartbroken when a show or actor we were rooting for didn’t get the prize.

One very special night in 1987, we watched the Tony’s, when Angela Lansbury hosted that year’s show. She had a guest, Bea Arthur, and together, they encored their stellar performance in Mame, 22 years later, singing my favorite song from the show, “Bosom Buddies.” As I watched those two women shine and strut, I could see the love between them. Watching them perform was glorious. My dad and I sat on the couch, and burst into tears at the same time, overwhelmed by the excitement of witnessing their sheer talent and joy.

For me, there’s nothing better. Sing.

Endnote: No darlings were killed in the writing of this essay. Indulge me!

This can’t be missed. Bea Arthur and Angela Lansbury at the 1987 Tony Awards. “Bosom Buddies” from Mame. I died and went to heaven that night. Oh, the tingles and the tears! It’s worth watching, just for Angela’s décolletage. Holy smokes.

*Angela (Lansbury), Ethel (Merman), Julie (Andrews), Gwen (Verdon), Zero (Mostel) ** John (Rubinstein), Priscilla (Lopez), Bernadette (Peters), Patti (Lupone), Mandy (Patinkin) *** Audra (McDonald)

A sampling of some of my favorites:

Flight of the Bumblebee, my dad’s one big number!

1. I’m so grateful when readers decide to support my writing by becoming paid subscribers, and for the WHOLE month of June I’m running a Happy Pride month sale. 50% off my regular price for annual subscriptions.

Only $25 for a whole year of my stories!

2. If paid subscriptions aren’t your thing, but you still want to express your gratitude for my essays from time to time, a contribution is always appreciated.

3. AND, there’s another thing that you can do that doesn’t cost a thing. On the top or bottom of the story, you can click on the heart and “♥️” my essay, click on the speech bubble (💬) and leave a comment, and/or click on the little spinny arrow thingies (♻️) and restack the post (“restack” means “share” in Substackese). Those three actions will help me reach more readers!

And in July, I’ll be teaching my Substack 101 Workshop again. It was a big hit in May! For any of you who are considering dipping your toe in the Substack pond, I can help get you started. For more info on the workshop, click the title or button below.

So, You Want to Write on Substack But You Don’t Know Where to Start?