Tag: theatrical experiences

After the Sparkle

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In the mid 1970s–when I controlled the levers as a rollercoaster operator at Six Flags near St. Louis on many summer days–I witnessed enthusiasm, exhilaration, and glee. That spirit of adventure and anticipation appeared on the faces of patrons as they boarded the River King Mine Train.

Inevitably, when the ride ended and they returned to the station–after the sparkle of the final plunge when they threw their hands in the air–passengers stepped out from behind the restraining bar, dusted themselves off, and walked away in search of the next wild ride.

The process of performing in a show is much the same. You feel the anticipation, the butterflies swirling in your gut as you take the stage.

The curtain comes up. You sing your first song. Then, the second, and so on. Time speeds up. The audience raves. Adrenalin races through your arteries.

Before you know it, you’re taking a bow. The curtain drops. The show is over. Sadness creeps in. The sparkle becomes a beloved, fleeting chord that echoes in your memory.

***

In my sixteen consecutive years as a performer–most recently singing with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus for the past nine years–this “Let Your Spirit Sparkle” performance was the grandest.

Nearly 2,500 attended our two shows inside the magnificent Orpheum Theatre. In the thirty-five-year-history of the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus, our audience for our Sunday, December 14, show was the largest.

I attribute that to a confluence of factors. Certainly, the high-profile venue was a plus. Also, the size of our chorus has increased dramatically. More than 130 took the stage last weekend. More members means more friends and family in attendance.

Beyond that, I also felt an out-pouring of love from the audience. In a world of frightfully bad news, they found their way to a safe haven of stirring profound music, phenomenal choreography, unbridled laughter, punctuated with six inspiring stories.

Near the end of the show, I had the honor of telling one of those stories … a testimonial to the open, upbeat, unapologetic community all of us in the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus have created.

Of course, I feel the dip, the letdown, now. But the sparkling light of our singing community will continue to burn bright until our spring concert in mid-March in Phoenix.

For now, I pause, rest, reflect, and relish the golden musical moments that reverberated at the Orpheum Theatre on December 13 and 14, 2025 … the sparkle we shared.

Photo of the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus performing at the Orpheum Theatre on December 13, 2025, captured by Carolyn Bettes.

We’re Sold Out

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In the theatrical world, it’s a good problem to have.

Every seat for all three of our Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus performances of Lights, Camera, Elves!, December 21 and 22 at the Herberger Theatre, has been sold.

While we are turning people away who might have bought additional tickets, we are also turning up the emotions, music, mayhem, excitement, and energy for two final rehearsals Thursday and Friday night.

***

This will be my fifteenth consecutive year singing in holiday concerts with my LGBTQ friends: 2010-2016 in Chicago with the Windy City Gay Chorus; and 2017-2024 with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.

Of course, I don’t remember every holiday tune, wondrous moment, or distinctive venue relating to those performances. But the net effect is the sense of belonging–the ever-widening space that occupies my heart, which is rooted in this collective community experience.

It’s difficult to explain, even for a wordsmith like me. If you have sung with a chorus, you understand.

If you haven’t, there is something inherently magical and healing that comes with standing side by side and contributing your voice to the greater good of a beautifully blended piece of choral music.

Nearly one hundred of us will sing, laugh and dance on stage this weekend. I will probably cry a little too as we perform captivating arrangements of Do You Hear What I Hear? and Pure Imagination.

But the tears will be mostly joyous and thankful ones as I channel the smiles on the faces of friends and family–past and present–who have surrounded and supported me on the risers and in the audience for fifteen glorious years.

Helene and The Mousetrap

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Life repeats itself in strange and unexpected ways.

As Tom and I traveled throughout Ireland in August of 2017, some of our tour mates followed the US weather forecast with growing interest and anxiety.

Hurricane Harvey–a category 4 storm–was about to make landfall along the Texas coast.

Houston was in its path. Houston was their home.

Harvey unleashed its wrath. We never learned what impact it ultimately had on their lives.

Seven years and one month later, we were back in the United Kingdom on a tour of England and Scotland with twenty-two other tourists (plus Phil, our guide, and coach driver, John).

Two of our entourage, John and Jill of Tampa, told us they were watching the swirl of Helene–another category 4 storm–approach the Gulf coast of Florida and the vicinity of their home.

Though Tom and I knew we would return home to the Phoenix area and prolonged 110-plus temperatures, we felt lucky about our weather plight. Yes, more heat. But not John and Jill’s uncertainty.

There were no giant storm swirls for Tom and me to contend with in Phoenix.

Still–far away from pending devastation of Helene–John, Jill, Tom and I bonded in the United Kingdom.

I remember telling them when we first met in London that we were excited to see a play independently in the West End at the St. Martin’s Theatre on Saturday, September 21.

Not just any play. The longest running play in the world. It’s called The Mousetrap.

Based on an Agatha Christie story, The Mousetrap, has been performed for seventy-two years in London.

(There were no performances during the height of the pandemic from March 2020 to May 2021.)

Tom and I were in the audience for performance #29,771.

It’s a classic whodunit with a twist ending.

A young couple owns Monkswell Manor guesthouse in England in the early 1950s.

Four guests arrive, while the snow (not a hurricane) swirls outside.

There is a radio report of a woman’s murder. A suspect is loose in the area.

A police sergeant arrives on skis to warn them that a notebook was found at the crime scene.

It contains the address of Monkswell Manor and the words “three blind mice.”

Pinned to the victim’s body is a note that says, “this is the first”.

Everyone at the inn is in danger. Everyone is a suspect.

At the end of the performance, the seven actors took their curtain call.

They asked us in the audience to keep their seventy-two-year-old secret.

You’ll get no spoilers here.

***

Anyway, along our journey through England and Scotland, we shared with John and Jill from Tampa how much we enjoyed this theatrical experience.

The night before we departed Edinburgh, Scotland–to return to our respective sunbelt homes via London–John and Jill suspected their flight from London to Tampa the following morning would be cancelled due to Helene.

When it was, they had a free day in London. They texted to say they bought two tickets to see The Mousetrap as we wound our way through Heathrow Airport security.

Later, during intermission on September 26, 2024, while Tom and I were making our way home, Jill texted: “We are in intermission, and I am stumped!” Then, a few hours later, “Great show!! So glad you both recommended it.”

The next day, we were relieved to learn from Jill that their home was safe, even though there were flooding waters all around them.

What does it all mean? This story is no mystery. But, nonetheless, still meaningful I think.

You can fly seven or eight thousand miles to a place you’ve never been and make a connection with fellow travelers you didn’t know … someone who has shared a coach, watched the scenery go by … someone who chooses a similar theatrical experience … someone who dodges the mousetrap of a catastrophic storm … someone you hope to see again someday in another London or Edinburgh or in the sunbelt of your everyday lives.