Chapter 5 Aria
ARIA
Dear God, I can’t get Macy Brodie’s voice out of my head.
For the rest of my life, whenever I see a banana or a string bean or an onion or a cabbage, I will remember that poor child yelling about it. Without any sense of rhythm or joy. Almost like she’s being forced to do it.
And yet, there’s something so endearing about how hard she tries.
And something incredibly endearing about how protective her father is of her.
Carmela’s Café is crowded this morning but I came here early enough to get a table. I’ve got about fifty headshots and resumes in front of me, and despite all the people talking around me, all I can hear is:
"YES! WE HAVE NO BANANAS,
WE HAVE NO BANANAS TODAY!
WE'VE STRING BEANS,
AND ONIONS,
CAB-BAH-GES,
AND SCALLIONS,
AND ALL KINDS OF FRUIT AND SAY,
WE HAVE AN OLD-FASHIONED TO-MAH-ATO,
LONG ISLAND PO-TAH-TO,
BUT YES! WE HAVE NO BANANAS,
WE HAVE NO BANANAS TODAY!"
It's not like I have a bumper crop of options from yesterday’s auditions.
You could throw a banana and hit a dozen child actors in this town.
Just in the westside, even. Young actors with no training who have charisma and look good on camera.
Kids with natural talent but no skill. Professional young actors whose families moved out here because they got a part on a TV show.
But there aren’t a lot of child actors who can sing and dance well too.
I went through so much training for my Disney show.
I know how hard you have to work to get to that level.
I don’t expect that for this. I’ve learned not to be too picky when I’m casting these musicals.
I’m looking for a spark. I care more about the performer’s personality and willingness.
Their attitude and ability to communicate and take direction.
If I see a sense of entitlement, I won’t work with those little brats no matter how great their voice is.
But this is the first musical I’ve actually written. It matters just a little more. I know what I was hoping for in an Alice, and I know I didn’t find it.
I riffle through my binder to find Macy’s paperwork. Miles Brodie provided his personal cell phone number and personal email address. I’m surprised he didn’t give his ex-wife’s information since she’s the one who usually brings her to the auditions.
“Yes, that’s my private cell phone number, so I better not start getting calls from the theatre about donations or season tickets.” He’s wearing less cologne today than he did yesterday, but his delicious scent reached my nostrils before his deep voice reached my ear drums.
I realize I’ve been stroking the phone number and email address with my fingertip. “I was just admiring your lovely penmanship,” I say before looking up at Miles Brodie. “And I can’t imagine why anyone from the theatre would call you.”
Looks like he went jogging this morning, but it’s his frown muscles that are getting a real workout right now. He pulls out the empty chair across from me and takes a seat, crossing his arms across his chest. “That’s what I came here to talk to you about.”
“Whaaaat?! You came here for me?!”
“I came here to negotiate with you.”
“Right. Finally taking that rain check for buying me breakfast. Fine, you can buy me a muffin. But nothing with bananas in it.”
He practically winces at that. “She wasn’t that bad… Was she?”
“She has a lot of performance energy” is what I say to that.
“She wants to be Alice.”
“I know.”
“What are you looking for? For that role? Because I used to read that book to her, and to me, Alice’s main personality trait is bravery. Macy is the bravest kid I know.”
It’s touching, the way he has launched into this.
He’s not like the other rich and famous parents who’ve come to me in the past, trying to bribe me to cast their kids.
I never once took their money or their offers to get me a part on their shows or to sign with their agents or managers. They were just being rich assholes.
Miles Brodie is definitely an asshole—or at least, he can be an asshole to me.
But I can already tell this is about more than his ego or even his daughter’s.
There is so much want here, for both of them.
“I agree with you. About Alice being brave. I also see that in your daughter. But what I hear from her is another matter.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “But that can be fixed. You can fix that. You have—what? A month and a half to rehearse? I will pay you to coach her, on top of the rehearsals. If you cast her as Alice. You do private vocal coaching, right?”
“I do. But not for just anyone.”
“Well, just name your fee, and I’ll pay it. She works hard. She’s extremely determined and very smart.”
“I believe you.”
“What’s your budget for this thing? Whatever it is, it can’t be enough. I can make an anonymous donation to your production budget—if you cast Macy as Alice.”
Interesting. I’ve had parents offer to buy me a new car if I’ll cast their kid in the lead.
At least this guy knows what matters to me.
I would love more money for the set and costumes.
I want that donation. But I can’t cast Macy Brodie in the lead for my musical.
And I also want to make Miles Brodie sweat this out. So I don’t respond.
He sighs again. Shakes his head again. He rubs his forehead. He scrubs his face with both hands. He’s not even doing it in the model-y way he usually does these things. He is genuinely distressed. “She wants this so bad.”
“I know. She’s a walking I Want song.”
His eyes light up. “She is, right? I was just telling her that yesterday.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands.
He isn’t flexing his forearms like he usually does, but I can still see a vein or two anyway.
“I was trying to remember if there was a time before Macy wanted to be the star of a musical. She was a pretty normal kid for the first few years. I realized it was right around the time I moved out of the house that she started getting obsessed with watching musicals. Then she started asking me to take her to live musicals. Trying to make it a family thing so the three of us would go together. We did, once. I took her and her mom to see Aladdin. Macy loved it. It was a good night. And it was the last time the three of us ever went to an event like that together.”
I have to tear my gaze away from this man’s sad brown eyes.
I stare down at Macy’s headshot. So serious.
Those same sad brown eyes. If I were just going by this headshot alone, I’d say that one day she’d make a great Eva Peron in Evita, or anyone in Les Miz.
I flip it over to check out the resume that’s stapled to the back of the photo.
It’s…not extensive. Ensemble member in a few school productions.
She was a background extra for a couple of films and TV shows.
Most recently she sang the national anthem at a local baseball game.
I know what it’s like to get turned down for roles. I auditioned for many when I lived in New York. On Broadway and off. And I don’t even suck. It’s tough out there. I wish I could help her. I really do.
“Just tell me what’s wrong with the way she sings. I know she’s not good enough. Just tell me exactly what the problem is so I can fix it.”
“Mainly…? She’s singing from too high up. There’s a lot of tension in her throat, so instead of using her power voice, it comes out as yelling. She’s too in her head.”
He nods. “She doesn’t sing from the heart, you mean?”
“Well, that too. Absolutely that too. But I mean, she’s using her head voice instead of her chest voice.
” He furrows his brow at me, confused. These are not layman’s terms. “She’s trying to belt out songs from her throat up here instead of singing from down here…
” I tap the center of my chest. “She’s using her head voice.
Head voice is the sound vibrations you feel in your skull when you’re singing at a high voice level in a nonstrenuous way.
” I sing a little, to give him an example of my head voice.
“Yes! We have no bananas, we have no bananas today! Soft. Unstrained. Put your hand on the crown of my head,” I tell him, leaning forward so he can reach across the small table between us.
He does so without hesitation.
Good at taking direction.
Surprising.
I place my hand over his and sing, “We've string beans, and onions, cab-bah-ges… Feel that? The vibrations?” I hum. “Feel that?”
“Yes.”
“I use my upper vocal range for head voice. Macy’s been straining to hit the high notes.
Pushing beyond her vocal range, but she’s doing it with her head voice.
She needs to learn how to control and coordinate the muscles that support the vocal cords.
” I let his hand slide from the top of my head.
If we were at a party, if we were drinking, if he weren’t my ex-boyfriend’s lawyer, if he weren’t Miles Brodie, I’d place his hand flat against the center of my chest to show him what it feels like when I sing from there.
But we aren’t and he is and I won’t.
He’s still staring at my decolletage, though. “So, she should be singing from her chest?”
“She needs to connect to her diaphragm. She needs to learn to use her abdominals to find her power voice. She needs to explore her vocal range and learn a lot of technique. But yes, essentially, singing is all about how sound moves and vibrates through our bodies. Having control over that. She needs to use her body more. Her natural voice will come from deeper in her body, and she’ll be able to push it out. ”
“Thank you. Thank you for explaining that.” He’s so genuine. He seems genuinely grateful. It’s sweet.
“You’re welcome. It’s going to take a lot of practice. A lot of breath work and vocal exercises. Relaxation techniques.”
“So teach her.”
“Are you a baritone?”
He’s taken aback by my question. “I have no idea. I don’t sing.”
“You’re a baritone,” I tell him. What I don’t tell him is that I can feel his voice vibrate between my legs.
He shifts around in his seat. I can tell he’s about to change tactics. “So how’s life? What’s going on besides this production?”
I grin at him. “If you want to know if I’m seeing someone, you can just ask me.”
His tanned face nearly loses all color. “I don’t care if you’re seeing anyone. I’m trying to figure out what else you need help with. I already know you need your bumper fixed.”
“Oh, well, Mr. Brodie, you could have just asked me that too. Let’s see here,” I stroke my jawline, the way he does when he’s trying to look sexy and pensive. “Oh, yes. I need to find a new place to live because my landlords are raising the rent next month.”
“To what?”
“Three thousand a month,” I mumble.
“They’re raising it to three thousand? What is it now?”
“Twenty-five hundred.”
“Twenty… You’ve been spending two thousand five hundred dollars on rent? A month? Is it a tiny palace on the beach?”
“No. It’s a very cute guest house off of Kanan Dume.”
“Up in the hills?!”
“Yes. It’s quiet and safe up there, and the guest house is soundproof, so I can sing whenever I want to.”
He looks even madder now than he did when I told him people didn’t want to cast me because I was a Disney Channel star. “What is the square footage?”
“Of my guest house?”
“Yes. Please tell me it’s huge.”
“Yeah, it’s five hundred square feet.”
“Five hundred?! That is not huge. That’s a shoe box. You might as well have tossed all that money into a shoe box and then set it on fire. That is an unbelievable waste. Why don’t you have anyone managing your money?”
“Because I was sick of being managed by so many people. I’d had people managing me since I was fourteen.”
“Well, I bet you had a lot more money when you were fourteen too,” he grumbles.
“Okay, that’s just rude.” I hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but I don’t care that I did. He’s right. But he’s rude.
“I’m just saying—there’s a reason there are so many of us lawyers and business managers and agents and managers out here. Creative types aren’t exactly great at budgeting or negotiating.”
“Oh no? I think I’m doing a pretty good job of negotiating with you right now.
” I pack everything back up into my binder and shove it all into my enormous shoulder bag.
“In case you hadn’t noticed—you just tried to bribe me and you still haven’t gotten what you wanted. Maybe you should have flexed more.”
Mic drop.
Aria out.