I Lied to Get My First Conducting Job. My Grandfather Would Have Approved.

My Italian grandfather used to say: "Don't lie unless the truth doesn't fit."

I thought about that a lot the day I put the phone down and started laughing and panicking at the same time.

My old teacher Peggy and her husband Don kept losing Music Directors for their Cape Cod summer stock show. Full orchestra with no mics for the singers, a stick conductor, one week of rehearsal, and a room in a house walking distance to the beach.

"Honey, you think you can do this?" she said in her soprano voice.

"Oh yeah. 100%. Absolutely." I said it before I finished hearing the question.

The producer called. Not much money. They'd feed me, give me a room, four assistants. One day to teach the music. The rest rehearsing the orchestra.

"No problem," I said.

"OK, you're hired."

I put the phone down. Then I started to laugh, panic, laugh, and panic more.

I had three weeks to figure out how to conduct.

F*ck.

I called my best friend. Former voice teacher. Doctorate in everything. Had studied conducting at LSU. "Come on over," he said. I showed him my 4/4 pattern. He went quiet. Mouth closed, smirking slightly. "Oh boy. Ummm. Hmmmm. Three weeks?" Then he started laughing. So did I.

I'd led bands since I was 11. I could lead. But stick technique? Non-existent. So I did what any desperate person does — I meditated on "Dude, WTF were you thinking? Yes, ice cream is a great idea now."

Anytime I got to speak with an experienced MD over those three weeks, I asked for one tip.

New tempo? Just go. GOT IT.
Eye contact for cues. I CAN DO THAT.
Just know it better than everyone else. EASY.

I wrote it all down.

First rehearsal. College kids, most of them 8-10 years younger than me. Resting bitch classical faces. They were trying to be sooo cool. I was faking confidence so hard I could feel it. On the inside? Explosive diarrhea.

Time to get this rehearsal started. I make my move for the first upbeat/downbeat. HERE WE GO. I throw down hard.

Silence.

I didn't know about being ahead. I froze for a split second. Then — BOOM. Beat one arrived with timp and the whole band. Late.

F*ck. Keep going, keep going, keep going.

End result? I could get around the rubato passages with some breathing. We were figuring each other out. But a steady quarter note and playing together for real? They were clueless. So I said: you don't understand how to play a steady 4. But I can help with that. And off we went. The connection getting deeper as we went along instead of more separate. That's a feeling thing. Not intellectual. And it's addictive.

I left that first rehearsal on a high. I was an idiot. But I knew I could do this.

After Cape Cod, the next time I stood in front of a band with a stick was four years later. I had been hired to play Key 1 for my first Broadway chair — my own show. Then they asked me to conduct it too. Twenty years ago — the Saturday matinee after the Tony Awards — I made my Broadway conducting debut. The Drowsy Chaperone. This time I'd found my NYC conducting teacher. Three months of prep. Actual technique.

First ten seconds on the podium. Joy. Exhilaration. Then the immediate realization that even with three months of real training — I still didn't have a f*cking clue what I was doing. But I was willing to take the beating. Because I was hungry for more.

I was lucky to have a band and cast that had experience, humor, and love. They would let me know when I sucked in their way. I was grateful for a few HUGE EYE ROLLS from that band of 16 crusty but amazing musicians. I loved them for it. Later.

My grandfather was right. Sometimes the truth doesn't fit. You say yes anyway. You scream F*ck and then you figure it out. That's how this works.

I started with nothing in terms of technical skill. I had to build every bit of it from scratch. With time, it all comes. The technical skill. The confidence. The ability to do amazing things without saying a word.

But none of it starts until you say yes before you're ready.

I triple dog dare you.