Street Beef: Pirate dancing is all about conquering fear

The fear sweat started to bead when Kathryn Claassen said a jazz square was really a triangle.

I was one of about seven guys in the dance audition for the Lewiston Civic Theatre's production of "Pirates of Penzance" and the square triangles were the second step. The ease of the first move - four marching steps - gave me false hope that I might make it through without shaming myself. No dice.

My stage career started and ended in the fourth grade. I held the role of death and there was no dancing.

A jazz square is one step forward with your right foot, a cross step in front with your left, then a back step with your right followed by your left and you're back to the starting position.

We had to do two and end with our left foot up and our hands together midchest, elbows out at shoulder height.

It sounds easy, and it's not calculus, but this was where things went south. I was out of my element and my brain just wouldn't hold on to the easy instructions Claassen gave, even though she built them up slowly with practice of the parts in between adding new.

On a good day, I can remember about two full sentences verbatim while noting how the dude's face looked while he said them, but on the dance floor I was adrift in the fog.

After the squares we went into something called chasses.

A chasse is sort of like playing defense in basketball. Well, when I do them they are, except instead of keeping your hands low and palms out Claassen had us hold our arms out like we were pretending to be banking fighter planes.

We chassed down three and then back. Then we had to do a turn, come back to our left with a step and kick, step and kick.

The first time our hands would shoot down and then shoot up on the second kick.

Not up high like jazz hands, Claassen said, and she needed to see our faces during it.

At the end of the kicks, we had to do a jumping turn and land with our arms outstretched to the maidens who would then come on and do their number.

My first leaping twist was almost an open-field block on the unlucky guy next to me. Tony Rosetti would have never seen it coming. I managed to plant my feet just short of laying him out.

This happened almost every time we ended for the rest of the night.

Rosetti and the others looked graceful in the air - like they belonged in live art. I looked like I was coming off the top rope in 40-man battle royal at WrestleMania.

I even landed louder than the rest, or at least it seemed that way because I landed about four counts after everyone else.

Then it was time to put the whole number together to music, Claassen said, which would be much faster than we had been doing it.

"Now the fun begins," she said.

"Debatable," I thought. I made a silent bargain with the Lord - he could sprain my ankle if it just kept me from hurting someone.

The music and speed didn't help. My jazz squares were like ultimate fighting octagons. My chasses were a defensive ball drill. My step and kicks looked like I was shooing away stray cats.

Then we got turned loose to practice while the women learned their part.

Though I was an outsider and a very real threat to their physical safety, Rosetti and the guys brought me in and tried to get me up to speed.

For most of the practice run, Jon Lane walked me through the steps at the back of the room. The trick, he said, is to control your momentum and make sure it's being channeled into the next step.

I felt less dangerous after the help, but then we had to put our part together with the women's. I hadn't been this nervous to dance with a girl since junior high.

Claassen paired me with Alaina Swearingen. She was one of the first women into the tryout. It was clear she really loves theater and here she was paired with me.

"I'm really sorry," I said standing next to her. I meant it.

Thankfully, she led.

There was one point my body betrayed my nerves. We stood facing longtime director Fred Scheibe who sat watching at a table. Our arms made an arch for the dancers behind us to pass through and Swearingen said, "You're honestly shaking right now."

I was. Auditioning takes guts, all right, even though Scheibe, Claassen and the will-be cast were nothing but gracious and understanding.

When it was time to put it all together at half speed Swearingen looked me in the eye and said, "Don't be scared."

By my standards, it all worked out. I didn't elbow anyone in the face or split-out the crotch of my jeans.

When I first got there, I told them I was only going to the dancing audition and planned to skip the singing tryouts. It brought a few wrinkled noses.

"You're going to miss the guts of it," Lane said.

He was right and I knew it. Singing for strangers is not a natural act for me and I was trying to weasel out of it. Even I have some pride left.

But when people take the time to show you what they love and don't mock you after you are terrible at it, the least you can do is sing them a song, I guess.

So at 4 p.m. Saturday I was standing there in front of Claassen and Scheibe, hat in hand and heart in throat, singing the Tompall Glaser version of "T for Texas."

Scheibe stopped me after three verses. I've never been so thankful to get the hook. It turns out, though, I wasn't terrible and I'm a tenor. One of them said I can even carry a tune - more or less.

The show opens Jan. 31. There may or may not be a clumsy pirate tenor in it.

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Bloomsburg may be contacted at codyb@lmtribune.com or (208) 848-2274. Follow him on Twitter @crbloomsburg.