Current Skylight Theatre

                                                               Building to the right

I’ve been living in Germany forty years. I’m not familiar with this current Skylight Theatre. I would like to create a blog of Skylight Theatre remembrances that hopefully provides pictures and remembrances from Jackson and Jefferson St. The internet provides plentiful information for the current Skylight but is extremely sparse about it’s beginnings, notably without pictures. The only pictures I could find were from Colin Cabot’s “Thirty Years War” (his history of the early Skylight). I don’t know why they’re so black. I’ve copied them and done my best to improve them but would love seeing more pictures and clearer ones of the Skylight's beginnings. I’ve always considered my five years spent performing there an enjoyable highlight of my life. Over thirty years ago I wrote some recollections of the Skylight and Clair Richardson. I’ll include them a little later. 

I’d heard from many sources the Skylight theatre was started on a bet between friends Clair Richardson and Sprague Vonier ( program director of WTMJ television ) after they had both observed Jim Keeley and Ray Smith give an impromptu mixture of Gilbert and Sullivan at a party. This was the story going ‘round when I first heard of the Skylight. I assumed this undocumented story true until reading Colin Cabot’s “A brief and subjective history of the Skylight” which obviously wasn’t assembled from hearsay. So, with the help of Cabot ( who took over running the Skylight after Clair’s death), we’ll go back to the beginnings.

The Skylight’s original location was on Jackson Street ( an empty long time deserted building next door to Clair’s public relation’s office ). It was leased by Vonier with the intention of giving Milwaukee a “beat” coffee house featuring poetry and small music groups similar to “The Hungry I” and places of this nature which were not found in Milwaukee at the time but thrived in other big cities. Vornier talked tavern keeper friend, Steve Gagliano, into renting the first floor for this purpose. Soon was a sign in the downstairs window reading “ Caffe Espresso Numero uno “. I don’t know the history of this coffee house but I believe I attended a very entertaining poetry session there in 1959. I had no idea this old building was about to hold a theatre but when Vornier leased the building he reserved the right to produce entertainment upstairs for the coffee house below.

There’s no question Keeley and Smith’s party Gilbert & Sullivan was the inspiration for the Skylight theatre but there was no betting. According to Cabot’s history Clair simply said to Vornier ( in quotes ) “ Do you want to have some real fun ?  I’ll get these two guys to put on a show in that empty space upstairs“. I knew nothing of Sprague Vornier’s tremendous contribution to preparing the empty space upstairs into a theatre until reading Cabot’s history.

The theatre’s capitalization was supposedly $ 2,000. Vornier put up 

$ 500. and talked buddy Budde Marino into contributing $ 500. Another $ 500. came from the theatre’s future angel Mildred Lindsay. Clair was supposed to contribute the remaining $ 500. It’s doubtful he did but his work more than made up for it. Vornier said Clair had an incredible ability to get things done. Cabot quotes Vornier saying, “ Between an idea and its execution, sometimes there would be no more than a few minutes”. 

When Vornier and Clair talked of seats for the theatre, Clair made a few phone calls and was immediately on his way to Kenosha to pick up 99 canvas director’s chairs. With only 99 seats the space did not require a theatre license or its code compliances. He could also avoid copyright holders and the actor’s, stage hand’s and musician’s unions.

Vornier’s contributions were more than money and enthusiastic encouragement, when Clair heard the Astor Hotel was replacing some carpeting and it could be had for nothing as long as it was picked up immediately, he and Vornier picked them up and dragged them up the stairs to the theatre. Vornier not only installed the track lighting system but helped preparing the space to receive an audience.            

It is commonly thought Keeley and Smith opened the Skylight but Clair had made things happen so fast the theatre was ready before they were. The first performance there was from a group of puppeteers from

Waukesha. It was well received but nothing like

K & S’s  G & S. Their show ran thirteen weeks and was scheduled for another month. Clair took an option on a NYC off-Broadway theatre but tragically Ray Smith died of a cerebral hemorrhage.

When in New York Clair met Jim Billings and Merle Puffer, classmates at the music school of Boston University. Clair wanted to present an intimate full opera. Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutti was decided upon and Billings and Puffer became the theatre’s first artistic directors. Even though half the cast included Milwaukee singers Charlie Koehn, Betty Gilchrist and Kate Hurney and accompanied by Jim Keeley, PR man Clair named the group “The Boston Comic Opera in residence at the Skylight Theatre”

The Journal review (probably from Walter Monfried) included:
“Singing in a thimble does not, to be sure, require any substantial volume of tone, but it does call for grace. The company was a bit lavish at the opening, but when restraint is applied, everything will surely go well. All the voices employed are well trained and all have character. Dexterity and sparkle are what count most and in these respects the small cast is most adroit.”

I never attended a Skylight production on Jackson Street but here’s a paragraph pasted from my “Recollections”.

The "skylight" was on Jackson Street. I never played there. I've 

seen it only once. A gal in the chorus of "Knickerbocker Tragedy" 

took me on a tour of the vacated premises one sunny Sunday 

afternoon. This was back when Mitzi's last name was Mabie. 

The architecture on Jackson Street was typically German. There was a cobblestone drive-through between buildings leading into what I 

 after living in Germany so long, must call a Hof. The term “courtyard”, which it was called, seems much too elegant, conjures up royal carriages and the like. The skylight was on the second floor  facing Jackson Street. The room wasn't any larger than a big living-room. Clair had also contrived a different theatre behind the Hof on a hill between two buildings. Their brick windowless walls provided the sides and the roof was canvas. There was a single center aisle leading down to the stage which had the dimensions of the type you'd find in front of the screen of a movie house, wide and not deep enough for a proper theatrical production. After examining this we went back to the original skylight building. This time we looked at it from atop the roof. As some inspired lyricist might put it "I've looked at skylights both sides now".., but I digress. At this time in 1965 Juneau Village wasn't even a gleam in a developer's eye. You could see out on Lake Michigan without obstruction. It was a warm, sultry, sunny afternoon.  Rather than telling you what happened up there on the roof………

I didn’t realize the cobblestones in the “Hof  came from Clair. They certainly looked like they had been there forever. Clair didn’t lay them himself. He had his Rescue Mission troop chip off the mortar from old bricks acquired in a load of rubble from the demolition of an outdated Blatz Brewery building do the job.

As long as I knew him, Clair employed available Rescue Mission help. To the best of my knowledge, Clair was born and grew up on a farm somewhere south of Green Bay. When he went to the Mission he’d ask if there were any farm boys available on the theory if you were raised on a farm you knew how to do everything. Cabot says “ ..he and Vornier called them “Airships” because all they seemed to do was float around”,  no mention of their flotation due to being alcoholics.

The outdoor theatre on Jackson Street was created to house the growing audience. There weren’t too many productions there (3or4?). The occupants of the neighboring buildings were definitely against the theatre. The awning roof wasn’t only for rain protection, there were  neighbors throwing garbage out their windows. A vacant tire-changing automobile workshop garage at 813 Jefferson Street nearby was found and Clair opened his third theatre on November 22,1960 there, less than a year since he’d invited Vornier to have some real fun.

Here’s a painting of the Jefferson theatre. I’m waiting to receive an old photo of this building. I’ll draw one if I don’t. This picture was probably painted in late 70s or in the 80s.

In my time at the Skylight the first floor façade was dark and the front doors were in the middle. There was no Skylight sign or signs on the pillars. There were no curbside flower boxes and the then simple dark outside stairway appears to have been enhanced. There seems some artistic license employed in this painting (the city hall hovering over the roof and the small store with its awning)  but the theatre building itself is similar to when I last saw it. My children and their families live in Milwaukee so I visit when possible. On one of these occasions, somewhere in the 80s , I was alone downtown in the afternoon and wondered what the theatre looked like. 

The theatre looked like the painting. The first floor was light and the box office was outside. In my time it was in the lobby. It doesn’t look like it in the painting but the window to the left of the entrance doors (hiding behind the left pillar) was the box office. The doors  were locked but this sunny afternoon there was a pleasant young gal in the box office. When I told her I’d worked there in the 60s and would love to see how it looks today she called Colin Cabot and to my surprise he came downstairs immediately to show me around. I’d heard of him but never met     Colin Cabot. He arrived on the Skylight scene after I’d moved to Germany. 

The insides looked the same but in much better shape. What had looked old borrowed and thrown together was renewed. There were even comfortable new seats. The second floor was the greatest change, neat and efficiently organized. While leaving Cabot asked if I still did theatrical work. I told him of some recent musicals and that I’d written a few operas. This was a surprise meeting but I thought immediately this would be a perfect place for a premier. I’d just come from Jim Keeley’s house where he’d listened to a demo tape of my oratorio and he was interested in doing it. Here, however, was a theatre for an opera production. I was about to suggest it to Cabot but he quickly changed my mind saying, “ Send me some scores. I’ve got hundreds of them upstairs “.  

What I’d really like to see are some pictures of the insides which show the theatre’s flavor. I think I’ll have to draw on artistic license picture to capture it in one frame. As far as the building itself, I don’t know when it was built, probably before 1900 but it’s still there. Here are current google pictures, compare the second floors. 

               

I’m not sure the Milwaukee Bar Association was next door on the corner of Jefferson and Wells in the 60s (?). Its Wells Street corner you see is its SE corner. Seeing the alley between these two buildings reminds me of my last Skylight show. A bar had recently opened on its SW corner. It had a rear door opening on this alley. Behind the stage the Skylight also had one opening on this alley. When the girls were on, several of us boys in Verdi’s Falstaff costumes would go and have a beer there at the back of the bar. 

Back to earlier:

Two years after the Jefferson St. opening the following appeared:

“The Skylight Theater closed Saturday night with a production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s “The Mikado”. The theater opened December 21,1959. Clair Richardson, Skylight manager, said he would try to raise enough money to reopen the theater next January.”

Mildred Lindsay saved the day. She organized “Friends of the Skylight” and raised $12,000 for a non-profit corporation named                         “The Skylight Comic Opera Ltd."   

                                

                                    Clair and Margaret in Jefferson Street lobby.

Clair got more canvas seats and tripled his audience. Here’s Margaret Lindsay in the middle of the new theatre.

This picture is from her Milwaukee Journal obituary in late 1979. Its surprise for me was it indicates she gave more theater building assistance than simply handling the box office. In my five years there, I don’t remember seeing her anywhere else.

Colin Cabot’s history says Clair replaced the folding chairs with movie theater seats “…salvaged from the balcony of a fifty year old Sheboygan movie house being converted to a triplex” in 1963. Either this is a typographical error or one of us is wrong. I don’t know when this picture was taken but I could swear the theatre still had canvas seats when I started there in early 1965 and were shortly thereafter replaced. Maybe I’m hallucinating ?


Clair’s life deserves a well written biography. What I actually know of him is only what I’ve learned from Cabot’s history, hearsay and my personal experiences with him, most of which follow in my “Skylight Recollections”. I’ll attempt a brief synopsis of his life but it’s content is not documented. I’d appreciate a documented biography and would welcome any corrections or information along these lines.


I dimly remember Clair kicking some dirt and moss off a stone before a barn south of Greenbay (?) revealing a chiseled “CR” when we were touring the state with La Bohème. I heard he was a high school stage hand. I don’t know of further education. I guess he married young somewhere around the time of his joining the Navy. He once told me of a grown daughter and the conversation seemed to indicate she was his only child (?). I assume this marriage (if there were one) ended in divorce. Shortly before his death in 1981 he married Paula Uihlein  Schlitz Beer family and former Skylight board member) but Clair was single when I knew him. I don’t know if drafted or volunteered but he served in the Navy. I’m not familiar with rank attained or why he served in the Public Relations Department.


I’ve heard from a number of sources as a public relations man, when he started the Skylight Theatre, he’d alienated all his customers and wasn’t permitted entrance to the buildings of Milwaukee’s two major newspapers. I don’t know if he lived in his Jackson Street office but he lived on the second floor above the theater on Jefferson St. from the time the theater was started. I assume he lived elsewhere after his late marriage.

Due to blizzard snow conditions in the late 60s I slept overnight on the theater’s second floor. Since the building had been a car repair garage, there were no rooms, just a big open space, at the time completely disorganized. There were costumes and parts of sets scattered haphazardly throughout. In the rear was a four step un-banisted stair case leading to an open black painted wooden ledge which held Clair’s private quarters. You could see a bed, chifferobe, full length mirror, small refrigerator and a table with a hot plate. I slept in the mayhem down below on a cot with costumes for blankets.  

I suppose I could have seen it more often but this was the only time   
I saw the second floor. I’ve passed it many times on my way to the 
roof. The roof was almost entirely a greenhouse but also acted as his 
living room. His office was a small desk behind the box office window.

                                          Here’s a picture of a party on the theater’s roof.

This party was a fund raising party. I wasn’t there but Clair had tried cajoling my services along this line at the time Performing Arts joint financial support was invented. First of all, I didn’t have any time but was really turned off when he showed me his budget. The percent of the overall money available to be distributed was according to the size of the receivers annual budget. He’d fantastically padded his budget with payments for things I know he’d never paid.

I’ve been on the roof many times but only remember being at a small roof party there once. I don’t remember the occasion but it wasn’t fund raising. I don’t think it was a cast party either but Mitzi was there. I think it was before we were married. Clair with a great flair served a Coq o vin he’d prepared. The red wine was acceptable but unfortunately he hadn’t removed the coq’s innards.


Clair drank considerably, mostly at local bars, until heart problems slowed him down. He also had an eyebrow raising reputation for being a ladies man. Besides occasional affairs, he had a series of several live-in girlfriends. To me, making a big thing out of his “women and wine” is an exaggerated misinterpretation of his life. Everything is relative, I don’t think so but perhaps I too was a drinking lady killer. Looking back on my bachelor days these normal activities seem like traditional behavior. Maybe I should hire a public relations man.

My motivation for writing “Skylight Recollections” back in the late 70s  came from Kathy Lemieux. I’ve sung with Kathy often but only once at the Skylight. She did an exquisite Nanette in Falstaff.  Kathy forwarded a message sent to former Skylight performers saying they could write a 10 words or less comment which possibly would be posted in the Jefferson garage lobby. This invitation must have come from Colin Cabot. She sent it to us because we’d moved to Germany and assumed the Skylight wouldn’t have our address. She was right.

                                                                     Kathy Lemieux
      

Eric Graves, regular Skylight actor 

Coincidentally around the same time Eric Graves sent a magazine clipping about Milwaukee’s great theatrical genius Clair Richardson. It pictured him as a combination Max Rheinhardt, Molière and Bertold Brecht rolled into one. It made interesting reading but like Abraham Lincoln‘s doctor‘s dog, was pure fiction. I don’t know where it came from. I’ve looked for it unsuccessfully. I’d also heard lots of this type “theatrical genius” talk before moving to Germany. I felt this a false image and for the sake of historical truth should be corrected.

It’s a matter of semantics. You certainly would consider Sam Goldwyn and Louis B. Mayer theatrical geniuses but that’s not the theatrical image that was being painted. I don’t know if Sam or Louie ever had any stage experience but to the best of my knowledge Clair had none other than high school stagehand when he invited Sprague Vornier to have some fun and they started the Skylight Theatre. As audiences increased and the theater enlarged Vornier as WTMJ’s TV program director was too busy to continue in the helping of the necessary improvements with Clair. If the stories of Clair alienating all his PR clients and being barred entrance to the newspaper buildings at the time are true, he didn’t have much choice as far as his manner of living. There’s no doubt he fanatically fell in love with his theatre but I don’t think he considered himself a “theatrical genius” at the beginning. That came later when, unlike Sam or Louie, out of necessity he became personally involved in the assembling of shows building sets and directing productions. He then gradually started picturing himself as Oscar Wilde.

This next picture of Clair walking his dog in Cathedral Square wearing a beret and one of his two costumes (partially entitled -“ … wearing his French painter’s uniform..”) comes from Cabot’s history. Maybe he had a dog later but not when I knew him. Perhaps the picture’s title should be

 “ Clair Richardson’s doctor’s dog “.  

                                                                       Oscar Wild

Having respect for Clair’s actual work made this type of “theatrical genius” propaganda disturbing. His building this theatre deserves accurate plaudits. He was not a combination Rheinhardt, Molière and Brecht but his totally unique achievement of starting a living room theatre and leading its development into a successful world renowned theatre deserves a standing ovation. There’s no question he was totally dedicated to his theatre. When having heart problems his desire, quoted by several, was“ When I do die, I’m gonna be buried underneath the Skylight stage so it can be said that whatever goes on on the Skylight stage goes on over Clair Richardson’s dead body “.  From Cabot’s history: “ Much to my surprise, his widow told me after he had died the same thing, and his ashes rest in a distinguished pewter box provided by George Watts, on a pedestal in the orchestra pit….”. I’m not sure of the time frame in this quote but believe the orchestra pit mentioned was on Jefferson Street. I either read or heard about a parade carrying Clair’s ashes from Jefferson to the new Skylight. I don’t know if this was ever accomplished, only intended or simply wishful thinking (?). I can’t find any mention in the internet and would appreciate information on the subject. 

In the late 80s I updated my “Skylight Recollections”. Thinking the truth should be known, I planned on having them published somewhere in Milwaukee. Since the “Recollections” so frequently debunked the popular false “theatrical genius” impression of Clair, I worried about the possibility of offending some, mainly his widow, so I sent them to Colin Cabot for his opinion. He answered promptly and his snail mail came with a capitalized, “ RIGHT ON “ !  He shared some similar experiences with Clair and assured me there’d be no reason for not publishing them. He also lightly apologized for having contributed to the false image. He didn’t say why but I assume to help support. 

I just now read Cabot’s “ Letter to Skylight Friends “. If you put “Colin Cabot Skylight” in your browser you’ll quickly see a jsonline entry about Cabot and his wife Paula canceling their intended 3rd Ward Skylight show. It has a lead to “Tony Clements blog“ where you’ll immediately find this letter. It describes Clair similarly to my “Recollections” rendition. Cabot’s “30 years War” doesn’t present a false type of “theatrical genius” either. In his history he mentions some ingenious set building but writes much more about his transforming the premises.

Currently there isn’t any misleading “theatrical genius” available on the internet so there isn’t any need for correcting it. I’ll now add my “Recollections” to this blog contributing some currently unavailable information about Clair and the early Skylight Theatre. After my “Recollections” I’d like to create a section of scattered recollections of early Skylight. I’ll start by adding some more of mine but I hope others will add some of theirs and hopefully with pictures.   

Skylight Recollections

These are my honest recollections of Clair Richardson and of the

Skylight Theatre from 1965 through the early seventies when I had

the distinct pleasure of working there. If any of the facts are false,

I apologize. Some of the stories are hearsay hand-me-downs from

colleagues who preceded me. Realizing that being a pathological liar is

quite often a prevalent symptom of the mentally disturbed syndrome

required to produce really good acting there may possibly be a few

exaggerations here and there...(Editors note: this is something written over 30 years ago. After reading the following sentence you‘ll realize it was written much too late.) I get the impression from afar there is some kind of cult of adulation afoot surrounding the late Clair's theatrical genius. The man started an intimate theatre in a living room that had a skylight in it on Jackson Street. It drew larger audiences causing it to be moved into the backyard. To have better facilities he converted an old unused commercial garage on Jefferson Street into a theatre with 280 seats. This has been replaced by its current beautiful theatre, a fantastic accomplishment! To me the truth is much more fascinating than any false image. Theatrical genius had nothing to do with it. A theatrical genius he was not. If any of my recollections prick this bubble I don't apologize. My last dealing with him was in early 1973.

I first heard of the Skylight Theatre in February of 1965. Friends of mine in Hartford Wisconsin (forty miles north of Milwaukee), where I was living at the time, knowing of my penchant for Gilbert and Sullivan recommended its current "Pirates of Penzance". On a late Sunday evening impulse I drove in figuring I‘d get into the back of the theatre during the end and catch the flavour of the ensemble. That was the Jefferson Street theatre when it still had collapsible canvas seats, the converted garage. As I entered the lobby I heard the booming voice of Charlie Koehn "..a policeman's lot..". I knew Charlie but didn't know he was in this show. How was I to know that as you snuck in from the lobby you were practically on stage. How was I to know I'd be practically nose to nose with Charlie as he totally lost his words. How was I to know either that his text was an extra verse written by the Journal's Gerald Kloss for the Milwaukee Police Department that Clair had just given him that very evening.

This was my introduction to the Skylight Theatre.

The ever personable Charlie managed to stay in character as he explained everything laughingly and took out his crib-sheet. The entire audience roared its approval. I thought to myself, "This is the place for me!". While I was thinking this I was abruptly plumped onto the first step of the aisle that flanked the left side of the audience by the light man who was controlling the stage lights. He stood by a small set of rheostats which sat in a little cubbyhole in the wall After the final black-out (there were no curtains) this tall, unruly haired light man, who looked every inch a beachcomber in his Li'l Abner shoes, baggy ill fitting wide whale corduroy pants, crumpled blue denim work shirt opened at the collar revealing to the world his faded red and yellow paisley scarf grabbed me by the arm and in deference to the exiting audience, in a hissed, harsh whisper demanded, "Who the F*** do you think you are" ? "Don't you ever walk into MY theatre while a show is going on" ! 

This was my introduction to Clair Richardson.

After apologizing and explaining "who the F***" I was, he surprisingly became absolutely charming. I said I was a dentist from Hartford from a very musical family; that my mother and two of my aunts played piano well and stayed each other at family gatherings when I was growing up because we would always run through at least one complete G.& S. score from cover to cover. We'd take turns singing solos and everybody would join in singing the choruses in the four or five hours of non-stop singing that always marked these occasions. I explained I'd heard he produced wonderful G.& S. and would like to be in one of his shows.

His response was to flourishingly present me with a complimentary ticket, as if were the goose's most coveted golden egg for the following Sunday evening's final performance of "Pirates". He told me I could audition immediately thereafter. What I didn't know then was that since I hadn't presented him with a resume or told him of any theatrical background, the occasion being so spontaneous, the Great Impresario thought instantly he'd made an exciting "Clair Richardson Discovery". I guess in his mind that's exactly what I was that next Sunday evening. 

I must say here, at this time I never thought of myself as a singer for one second. I'd been singing in choruses all my life starting at the age of four. I'd sung in church choirs, school choruses, community choruses and had even been singing in the Florentine Opera chorus for the past five years but knew I only had a rough and ready untrained singing voice. I was musical. I'd even directed church choirs, community choruses and a particularly nice sixty voice mixed chorus at Marquette University but my amateur theatre background was predominately straight non-musical theatre. I played leads. I knew how to project my voice. In anything musical I was always (and rightfully so) relegated to minor character parts. I wasn't complaining about this. As a mater of fact that's why I was there. I was hoping to play Dick Deadeye in their next "Pinafore" ! 

So bearing all the above in mind, immediately after a delightful performance of "Pirates" (I would never have dreamed at that time I'd ever play opposite this beautiful "Mabel", the world's greatest ingénue, Patty Zapf ), I met my accompanist (?). She was still seated at the piano as I took my place to do my turn for the first time on the stage of the Skylight Theatre. With no warm-up, no falderal, we "Salley-ed forth" into "I am a Pirate King" ! It was done, as I believe it should be done, bellowed not beautiful. One by one in varying states of dishabille it brought out the entire cast from their dressing rooms wondering who was making all the noise. 

I'll always be grateful for what happened next but it was totally irrational, one of those impulsive Richardson acts that earned him the nickname (not to his face, of course) of "Clair de loon". With only 17 days before the opening - 16 considering it was late in the evening - I was given the role of Sid in Benjamin Britten's "Albert Herring". This is an extremely difficult modern opera. I assumed it was a minor roll until I looked at the score the next day. I would like to think this was very flattering but without his having any knowledge of my background, it was either insanity or a total ignorance of what's required to accomplish such a feat. In hind-sight, what ever image building happens to be currently afoot, I humbly submit it was total ignorance. He didn't know the first thing about learning a role. He gave absolutely charming, albeit very similar, welcoming speeches to his audiences but that's not the same as stage performing. 

From many reliable sources, though I've never seen this personally, when he really had to appear on stage in early productions because there was absolutely nobody else available to deliver a minor but essential line, he was an Ostrich ! An "Ostrich", for the uninitiated, is an age-old theatrical term describing a frightened to death actor who can't face an audience. They hurriedly deliver their line to an up-stage wall and hurriedly run off. Getting back to "Herring", what a delightful Skylight initiation ! It lent itself perfectly to this theatre. It had ten practically equal adult roles and three children. The ensemble singing more than made up for its having no chorus.

 The real marvel was the casting. Everyone was playing the best possible roles to fit their particular personalities and talents, their absolute trump-cards ! It's the ONLY SHOW I've ever been in that didn't have even one weak sister. If there were one, it would have to have been me. Since the reviews emphasized this cast‘s balance and since every night after the show I was asked if I was actually having as much fun as I appeared to be having up there (my favorite compliment). I guess my acting made up for my bad singing.

Here‘s a DVD I recently bought. I had trepidations about buying it but It was every bit as good. I felt we had three parts that were better, they had three.

I don't know how much notice the rest of the cast had. I'm sure it varied. Clair always ran shows a minimum of three weeks (twelve performances, Wed.Fr.Sat.Sun. with or without an audience). We all became pretty secure somewhere in the middle of the run. By this time everyone in the cast could automatically effortlessly harmonize a 2nd or 7th away from any note you'd care to give them. 

Many times I've heard Clair referred to as a genius. How about the ten geniuses in this cast ? Excuse me 13, the kids were terrific ! Excuse me even more so, 14, the pianist known as Mitzi Mabie at that time was the greatest genius of all ! Mitzi, now know as McManus for over 44 years (though she was more interested in McComb (Albert) than McManus back then) wasn't the only life long friendship resulting from "Herring". We have never lost contact with the Koehns, Wally Tomcheck or the definitive "Lady Billows", Mary Pat Connell. They are among our life time best friends. Unfortunately, we‘ve lost touch with the others. We're sorry about that because the rapport and respect everyone had for each other in this cast was a particularly unique experience. 

I didn't have to make my entrance until after a lengthy first scene and musical interlude and therefore didn't have to "sign in" until show time. I was always in make-up and costume by that time standing behind the last row. I never missed a performance of the first scene. Unknown at that time everyone in the cast was doing the same thing. We all agreed watching this show was every bit the treat as playing in it. It was superbly directed by Jim Billings. 

I loved this theatre. I loved its size. I loved its mood. How was this little gem of a theatre possible., all these costumes, the lighting, the dressing rooms, all these fantastic sets? Without Clair Richardson, none of these things would have been there! Five years earlier I had started an amateur theatre group. To the best of my knowledge it's still running under my original by-laws. The responsibility of producing a show, the most work, was picked out of a hat at the start of each season. Like "Oscars" we had annual awards. The most heralded prize (and rightly so) was for the "Producer of the Year". Believe me I know this work. As far as I was concerned Clair Richardson was the producer of the century ! Here he was supplying ALL the technical necessities while his only contribution to the actual staging was to roam around the back of the theatre during rehearsals bellowing, "I can't understand a f***ing word anybody's saying" ! I must say this was an enormous contribution. It kept people on their toes ! After all, as every one understood, as producer "He was the boss" !

Let me tell you of the first time I was about to go on the Skylight stage when there was a live, full house, opening night audience out there..., not an audition, not a rehearsal but while Act 1, Scene 2 was already underway and I was waiting anxiously for the tricky musical cue for my first entrance.

In order to tell this story I feel I must set the stage for it. Oddly enough, what was on the stage is exactly what I must tell you about. It was a marvelous set, probably the best Clair ever produced. It was "Mrs. Herring's green grocery shop". I could go on and on describing its details, its attractiveness, its cleverness, its practicability.., but the important thing here is that it had large bins of fresh produce which were raked at a 45° angle. The kid who was "pinching apples" accidentally spilled many of them on to the stage. I was trying to remain concealed by the lobby about a step or two behind where Clair had grabbed me two weeks earlier. I was trying to size up the situation in a state of confusion, anticipation and total concentration. Suddenly Clair was grabbing and shaking me again. He was frantically hissing, "Ya gotta pick up the apples before..". I had to physically break away from him in order to be on time for my flying on entrance "Come out of that me lads" ! This was followed by scattering the kids who were "pinching things". While the kids were running away I managed to get all the apples picked up before Albert's initial backwards entrance with a huge bag of potatoes over his shoulder...., but really...?..., oh well.., so much for "Herring". It was a wonderful show and unless something very unexpected happens in the extremely near future, it will undoubtedly remain the most enjoyable show I've ever been in ! 

More on Herring, Clair paid his casts in cash after the final Sunday show. He'd call names and present them importantly with a sealed envelope. Since most of the fresh produce had to be replaced each week, the fairly fresh was then divvied up between the cast. It was the only run where we brought home lots of cabbage. 

What followed was from the sublime to the ridiculous. As perfect as "Herring" was for this theatre "Knickerbocker Holiday", a large cast, not particularly successful Broadway musical was not ! If you've forgotten and with the exception of one song, it was pretty forgettable, it's about Peter Stuyvesant in early New York, excuse me New Amsterdam, really early N.Y. Much of the plot had to do with his dealings with twelve aldermen. Every one of the original aldermen (all "Clair Richardson Discoveries", mostly guys he'd met in the local bars) had to be released for ineptitude during the early rehearsals. Their lines were eventually divided up between Dr. John Haugh (his Skylight debut) and Eric Graves, a former Skylight regular that Clair had to bring back from Hollywood. Things were in such a state of chaos the rehearsals started running overtime. Jim Billings who was trying to direct this mess had a conflict and was undoubtedly grateful he could get out of it. Unfortunately, this left the direction in the hands of Clair. 

As far as I was concerned, in spite of having a major role, I was never really "in" this show. As Washington Irving the narrator, I sat off stage on a high stool next to the piano commentating directly to the audience. I was also seated on this same stool, becoming very uncomfortable during Clair's blocking rehearsals. He didn't know that besides my having been in many a Washington Park (cast of hundreds) Bob Simpson show, I'd directed and choreographed many musical reviews with much larger casts then this. I felt so sorry for this fantastic gem of a producer who appeared to be left “holding the bag", trying to do the best he could, but totally a fish out of water. 

During a break, I respectfully approached him and politely said, "Maybe I could help you out ? I've directed several musical shows." He was standing right in the middle of the empty theatre facing the stage one row above me. He slowly drew himself up in a fashion I'd be seeing repeated many times. He could grow an inch just standing there. He looked imperiously down upon me and said very slowly and deliberately, "AND-SO-HAVE-I !". My instant, automatic, unthinking response was a totally stunned, "REALLY?".

This little exchange, of course, eventually proved to be my Skylight undoing. Let us get back to "Knickerbocker Tragedy". This was its knick name. Why would Clair select this show for his theatre ? It was obviously wrong for this theatre even if everything went right. The impulsive Clair wanted to present Charlie Koehn singing its one memorable song. That was all there was to it ! The rest of the details be damned. As I've mentioned, I fortunately wasn't "in" this show, but poor Charlie had to wade through mud with his leg strapped up as a peg-leg every night. The only night I particularly remember was when he gave his cue line for his big number and there was no music. He repeated the cue..., still no music. He hobbled over to the side of the stage where the piano was located and booming loudly said, "That reminds me of a song !". It woke the dozing pianist. We'll not name her, but it wasn't Mitzi. 

The only good thing I can say about "Knickerbocker Tragedy" is what all my friends who were in 

   its audience said, "well anyway, it was worth the price of admission to hear Charlie Koehn sing “ September Song". What drives me crazy is that Richardson devotees would now say, "See ! He was right ! The man was an absolute genius !" 

The second time I saw Clair draw himself up in his imperious manner was after I'd shoveled the snow away in front of the theatre on Jefferson St. shortly before a subsequent "Tragedy" rehearsal. Due to blizzard conditions I'd left Hartford early. In spite of deep snow, I found myself in front of a locked door that didn't respond to the doorbell much too early for the rehearsal. There was nothing to do but wait. I spotted a snow shovel and to avoid freezing to death did what comes naturally.

I was just finishing when Clair walked up the sidewalk. His reaction was his haughty draw-up and a menacing, "Why are you doing this ? This is MY theatre !" He thought people were out to steal his theatre. He thought that of Mitzi and I and it was the furthest thing from our minds. All we ever wanted was a place to perform. Who needed the work necessary to run a theatre ! 

I said earlier, Clair made this theatre available. This is undoubtedly so, but who then was the petite charming refined cultured always immaculately tastefully dressed elderly lady sitting in the box office? I don‘t what percentage be afforded the financial co-founder but it doesn't seem fair that Clair be given 100% of the credit. 

I've mentioned regulars. In spite of never being contacted for more than one show at a time we'd all find ourselves playing opposite the same familiar marvelous faces. The only exception was Dick McComb. He was on a sort "Mildred Lindsay Scholarship".This included doing tenor leads at the Skylight and being a University of Wisconsin Milwaukee music major. To the best of my knowledge this was an arrangement never repeated ? I mention it only to reinforce my cofounder comment of the previous paragraph. Obviously this "Angel of the Skylight Theatre" preferred her acts to remain anonymous. I'd like to see her get the credit she deserves. 

Getting back to "regulars"..., we all knew Clair couldn't direct. He directed off the top of his head holding a script he didn't seem to have read. It was painfully slow because he didn't know what was on the next page until he turned it over. He actually skipped a page once and was going right on until it was pointed out to him. What invariably happened after Clair had blocked a scene was, sometime, somewhere before the next time it was to be rehearsed whoever was really uncomfortable would say something like, "Look..., instead of my just standing there when she's...etc..., why don't I go over to...". Another would say, "Hey, that‘s good because then I could ...etc., etc...". The next time the scene was rehearsed Clair, who never remembered what he'd blocked, would say, "Yeah ! That's it ! Now you've got it !". 

One of Clair's worst directions became an imitated joke. I don't recall a single direction of his where in a situation of sadness or anguish he didn't say to a performer, "Think of it like this". He‘d then over dramatically, eyebrows arched, stretch his face and eyes towards the ceiling. His arm palm facing outwards followed this upward action until the back of this hand with outstretched fingers climatically rested upon his forehead. He‘d then hold this ludicrous pose staring at the ceiling. Suddenly he'd break it and say, "Like that !". Since this school of acting has rightfully been out of style for since silent movies the performer's problem was to then, before the next rehearsal, come up with something better causing Clair to say, "Yeah that's it ! Now you've got it !" 

I wasn‘t in "Love for Three Oranges". Clair directed it. It was after the fall (mine) so to speak. Mitzi played it so naturally I was in the opening night audience. In the scene of great sadness and anguish the first two Orange Princesses die of thirst in the desert, I had all I could do to keep from bursting out laughing. Clair had finally done it! He not only got someone to execute his ludicrous pose, he actually got two gals doing it simultaneously while haltingly staggered left and right. These gals weren‘t "regulars", obviously Skylight "rookies". 

Let us leave the ridiculous and return to the sublime. My first leading role at the Skylight was as the King in Carl Orff's "The Wise Woman and the King". Pat Zapf played the Wise Woman, "Die Kluge". The first blocking rehearsal for this show was one of the two times at the Skylight I felt I was an artist. The other time was also a Skylight first rehearsal. I'll tell you about it later.

I love to rehearse when you're working with good people and you have a good well prepared director. I love it even more than performing. When performing it's already set. Of course, no matter how long the run, you constantly strive for improvement each time out but then, out of necessity, it should remain within the set mold. Good rehearsing is more spontaneous, inventive, inquisitive. What is the best we can all arrive at under the prevailing circumstances ? 

The first blocking rehearsal for "Die Kluge" was extremely premature We'd only had two musical rehearsals. It wasn't simply a matter of not having things memorized, we weren't even sure of the words. There was no English translation available to us. The Journal's Gerald Kloss, obviously a good friend of Clair's, did a super direct translation but it didn't always fit the notes. Since this was a musical emphasis problem, the musical director (Mitzi Mabie at that time) did the lion's share of the adapting, however we all worked on our own parts, changing words even after the show opened. 

None of this mattered at the first blocking of the riddle scene. The reason for its being so premature was publicity. Clair, always a good P.R. man, was getting the middle two page spread of the following week's Milwaukee Journal Sunday Magazine. His gimmick to earn this coup was that he'd hired (out of NYC of course) a ballerina with a broken leg to direct. The rehearsal lasted three and a half hours and was covered by two Journal photographers. The constant flashing of bulbs added greatly to the occasion but because of everyone's intense concentration never distracting. It began with the ballerina, Rochelle Zide, with great difficulty coming in on her crutches. With her husband's help she took her place on a stool between the first row and the stage. She then proceeded to choreograph a ballet. She was absolutely marvelous ! She knew exactly what she wanted. She'd obviously done her "homework".

 

I love being directed by good choreographers. Every move is dictated by the music and they don't waste a single note. You're never left standing with egg on your face when the music indicates motion. On paper this scene was totally mine.

Patty's moments came later. In the riddle scene she only had a few responses and sat impassively on a stool throughout. My dancing was always considered a joke. How then was a ballet possible ? The answer was we had a ballet trained entourage, an attractive young mute pantomime trio reacted to my every move, Kenny Hirschbein, Alan King and Kathy Smith, good dancers. Also there, mute but reacting, another non-dancer, Eric Graves. We non-dancers didn't matter in the least. When a good choreographer is directing and they have a couple of trained dancers on stage they can make it look like everybody up there is a trained dancer. 

The non-dancers moves must be extremely definite and perfectly timed but every move we made was so enhanced by the dancers the result was a ballet. The fact that the words weren't memorized didn't matter in the least. Every move to every note was choreographically blocked. It was MY scene and I was in heaven ! 

At the next blocking rehearsal Clair informed me he'd fired Zide and was going to direct the show himself. "You know what she wanted to do ? She wanted to surround you with all that silly assed prancing and swirling around every time you made an entrance !" 

Mitzi (now known as McManus) and I have a little house in a charming community with a population of 320 charming people. It's situated in the Taunus mountains about 40 minutes drive north of Frankfurt. Four basement walls are covered with theatrical pictures. The three pictures that appeared in the two page Journal spread of the riddle scene, cut out and matted under one frame, are in a prominent position. Next to it is a blow-up of the faces of Patty and myself taken by her husband Tom from what we will laughingly refer to as "the wings" during an actual performance of the riddle scene. 

Since we always go through the basement to and from the garage, we look upon these pictures many times a day. They are a treasure. 

 

It was right before the dress rehearsal for this show that I made my only positive contribution to the Skylight Theatre. We were trying on our costumes for the first time. They didn't fit. There was no time for the necessary adjustments. The costumes were ready weeks before. The costume lady, Susy Paradowsky, a marvelous oriental lady (surprise !? - not if "You knew Susy, like I knew Susy!"), did most of her work at home. When she was at the theatre she usually worked in the lobby. She invariably had her five or six always smiling tiny children sitting obediently lined up by height in straight chairs against the wall. 

There was no reason in the world Susy couldn't have made the needed adjustments long before the dress rehearsal. There are so many other things to worry about then. I blew up ! I made these points at the top of my lungs. To my surprise Clair bought them immediately. I don't think he'd ever thought about it. To the best of my knowledge his only theatrical experience before the Skylight was a high school stage hand. I believe he thought a dress rehearsal was when you tried on your costumes for the first time. After my explosion he thought otherwise and subsequently costumes were not only ready in advance, you even got a chance to work in them before the dress rehearsal, my humble contribution to the Skylight Theatre. 

On to the dress rehearsal..., nerves are frequently raw at this time. When your costumes are falling off, you're still changing words and Clair's still changing his blocking (he suddenly decided the scene changes would go faster if the performers carried the sets off as they exited in the black-outs), it's enough to make nerves explode. As I was carrying off half a set while desperately hanging on to my pants there was a stranger in the lobby. We were alone. He was a tall thin mustached gentleman. I thought he'd just wandered in. He gave a sort of patronizing English guffaw as I was getting the set off my back and tittering said, "Well, well.., it appears there's more to theatre than just learning your lines". I don't usually resort to profanity but I whirled on him and nose to nose blurted, “ Look pal, I don’t know who the hell you are or what the hell you’re doing here but we’re trying to have a rehearsal. Why don’t you just fuck off !” 

This was my introduction to Jay Joslin the new Milwaukee Journal music and theatre critic. The other way around would probably be a better way to put it. It may explain, in part, why in his last review of me he said, ”His high C gave me a toothache!”, my favorite review. If you hang in there for a while we’ll talk about some other reviews later…. 

A high C was nowhere in my repertoire back then. The "King" was a bass baritone role and I couldn't even hit the F that climaxed the riddle scene. I substituted a mixture of high-ish atonal snorting and snarling, "Aarrghhaaarrh !" It was in character and it was the best I had to offer. From the beginning "Herring" Skylight colleagues were urging me to take singing lessons. It began gently with, "You really ought to take singing lessons". By "The Wise Woman", only my fourth show, colleagues were starting to plead. "Please, you've got a great voice but don't know what the hell you're doing with it". It was starting to get to me. The convincer was the final performance. Bob Simpson, the greatest choreographer and overall "stage person" I've ever known was in the audience. We and a few others went out after. Bob was obviously surprised and impressed with my performance. At times throughout our drinking bout he'd suddenly stop. Slowly shaking his head while still staring at me say "You LOOKED marvelous....", then tail off shaking his head. I don't remember how many times he said this but each subsequent time his unsaid "BUT" got louder and louder. Shortly thereafter, at the age of thirty five and a half, I had my first singing lesson. Since the outcome of my singing lessons are important to the central theme of this treatise, namely my relationship with Clair, I'll tell you about them. 

My first singing teacher was Henri Noel. If you're familiar with anyone I've already mentioned, you'll certainly remember Henri. He sang many a bass-baritone lead with the Florentine Opera and was frequently coupled with Raquel Montalvo in concert. Mitzi and I would drive down from Mequon, where we lived for seven years, every Wednesday afternoon. She'd have a session with Grace Welsh her piano teacher at the American Conservatory and I with Henri. 

Incidentally, I hadn't known it but Clair tried to get Henri to do the "King". I was aware he was trying to get the fellow who had just introduced Die Kluge‘s King to America at the brand new Tyrone Guthrie Theatre. Clair always enjoyed dangling people. He said, "I'm not sure you've got the part yet".Then very importantly, "I'm still in contact with Minneapolis". I asked, "What does it cost to call Minneapolis ?" while digging into my trousers for some imaginary change. "Why don't you give him a call and tell him to forget it". 

Clair smiled broadly and I got the job. I certainly wasn't on a par with Henri or this other fellow, but I'm sure he couldn‘t have gotten either of them for $ 25 a performance,…… back to singing lessons. 

Henri's method of teaching was mainly Vaccai exercises and working some books of Italian art songs. He was no great shakes as a pianist but could accompany all songs and exercises in any key he'd choose and from memory while looking at you. After a year and a half of constantly changing keys without my being aware of it he said, "There's no question about it. You're a tenor. I think you should find someone else to help you“. I did and it was a lot closer to home. I learned most of my singing from Elena Fels Noth in her living room on Wyoming Place in Milwaukee. She was a great teacher.

Proper singing is such a combination of sensate feelings occurring simultaneously describing it verbally isn‘t really possible. The student must actually feel what's proper for them. After finally feeling your own personal combination of simultaneously occurring events, it can be repeated. Elena extended the top of my chest voice not with her words, but with her faces. She'd demonstrate. She'd snort. She'd enlarge her nostrils while lifting her cheeks and eyebrows. You'd watch her blank her eyes and give a huge silent yawn emptying her head to make room for those high notes so many times...., you finally learned how to do it yourself. 

I always had a tape recorder running during lessons. After listening to them carefully I‘d then tape over them at the next session. There was one I saved for a while. It was my first proper high C after 26 misses. If a high C of mine once gave Jay Joslyn a toothache, this tape would probably put him into intensive care. I never wanted to be a tenor. I wanted to sing like Charlie Koehn. I knew I'd never be able to go down there below the bass clef like he did but he had the sound I wanted to sing. That's why I started studying with a bass baritone.

 I was considered a dramatic tenor in America. In Europe it's axiomatic, all Americans who come to audition have been trained to think of themselves one step larger than their proper category. I studied five years with a great lady in Hamburg. Hedwig Schilling. She taught exactly like Elena

 (faces and all). 

I mentioned earlier that having achieved the right balance it can be repeated. It can also be lost. The problem is what you hear in your head is not necessarily what others are hearing. Even Met regulars check in with a good outside ear regularly to make sure the sound in their heads is going out properly. I learned from Hedwig Schilling my voice was that of a lyric tenor. After twelve years of studying, there I was (with the exception of a counter-tenor) the furthest male sound away from Charlie Koehn's voice. 

I only sang one tenor role at the Skylight, a minor one, Bardolph in Falstaff. It, like most of my roles there, was given to me at absolutely the last moment. I believe Clair probably had me in mind for every role I played there from the beginning but knew I was a quick study. He‘d dicker around with others up to the end. And why shouldn't he ? As he‘d be the first to tell you, it was HIS theatre ! 

To the best of my knowledge everyone was paid at the Skylight? The least member of the chorus received at least $ 5,00 a performance. With no pay for rehearsals this wasn't very much (often referred to as "car fare") but still it was important. It separated his theatre from community theatres where everyone who donates their time and talents rightfully comes to the conclusion that it's their theatre. The Skylight was not. It was Clair's theatre and he was absolutely paranoiac on this point ! 

I said earlier I got $ 25.00 a performance as the "King". A few years later having worked at Melody Top which required Actor's Equity membership, I had Equity contracts with Clair. This, plus the fact he knew I was bad-mouthing his direction changed the way it had begun. In my last few years there, I believe he only called me when he absolutely couldn't find anybody else.

The shortest notice I ever had for a role was as Lord Shayne in Noel Coward's "Bitter Sweet" which became known as "Bitter Vetch" by most of the cast.

Like "Knickerbocker Tragedy" it was a bad choice for intimate theatre and also had only one memorable song. Considering the fact all Lord Shayne had to do was come on and marry the heroine in the finale, one days notice was enough. It sounds like I got the girl but as we held hands getting married the heroine dwells upon her "true love" who was killed. The lights then close in on her for her personal bitter sweet thoughts. Without a good pin-spot the hand holding Lord Shayne was forced to share the periphery of the Skylight's poor spotlight as she sang her eleventy-third reprise of "I'll see you again". It wasn't that easy. She had very soggy hands.

Since I love to sing and had to be there, I volunteered to help out in the chorus. Clair's biggest directorial "boo-boo" in this show was his handling of the duel scene. He had all that was necessary. "True love" was a musician who obviously didn't know how to fence so he didn't have to know how. The fellow playing the officer who killed him was on the University of Wisconsin fencing team. He choreographed a quick neat effective duel in the "green room". It ended abruptly as he snapped his épée under true love's armpit. Without any back of his hand to his forehead true love was instantly dead. It made you gasp! Unfortunately, the only people who got to see it were the men's chorus. Clair had them all staged in a tight semi-circle, their rear ends facing out hiding the duel from the audience. It was painful to be a part of the ring. The only time I enjoyed it was the evening someone in the audience started chanting "Down in front", it started to catch on. Fortunately for the show, it was a very short duel. 

I've always imagined Clair, with only stage-hand background started directing because he couldn't afford to pay one. Unfortunately he decided he was one. Perhaps it was his secret desire? Perhaps he thought he was one? After all, it's simple enough. You just follow the italics. Another possible factor was he loved bossing people. Which reminds me...., he used to hire clean-up people from the Salvation Army Rescue Mission. There was one notoriously lazy black he'd fire and rehire on a regular basis. The reason he was rehired was Clair loved screaming "Roosevelt, come here!" and also loved pointing to the door screaming "Roosevelt, get out of here !"......, but I digress, back to directing. 

Why in the world did he think he could direct ? Why in the world would someone who can't deliver a line to an audience, an ostrich, think he could direct people who can ? Why would someone who knew nothing about music be directing operas ? I think he was tone deaf ? I don't really know because I never heard him sing a single note. He didn't even join in on many a "Happy Birthday" occasion. I know he knew nothing about singing. He once called Mitzi in Mequon from New York where he was auditioning singers and asked, "What the fuck's the difference between a mezzo and a soprano?" He knew absolutely nothing about dance. His choreographic visualization never graduated further than the traditional Gilbert and Sullivan shuffle kick. 

I believe the simple answer is he was stage-struck. There's an enormous cult of technicians and back-stage people who can not perform who are in awe of the stage and in love with theatre! They even research it. Having accomplished this, they feel they know everything that should be done and how to do it. How they can think this when they can't "do it" themselves beats the hell out of me. Unfortunately, their motivations are usually to be in charge. As a result, they invariably are. A performer's interests are always concentrated on improving their personal skills not being in charge.

Clair only hired directors who‘d already earned the title. I never 

found fault with any on them, but yes indeed, I did bad-mouth his 

direction. Bad directing not only wastes people's time, it's insulting to 

a performer who's done their homework and knows how to "do it" to 

be directed by someone who hasn't done any homework and hasn't 

the foggiest notion of how to "do it". A theatrical genius he was not !  

On the other hand, I praised his back-stage work, his sets, his 

public relations and his building of the theatre. It seems, only the 

bad-mouthing got back to him.    

My last exchange with Clair was after I saw his magnificent set for 

"Butterfly" in early '73. I was in the neighborhood and just roamed 

in to look around. The cherry blossom tree out of pink and white 

Kleenex was breathtaking. I saw him in the box-office and flew 

there. “Clair, that tree is absolutely gorgeous !  The whole set from 

the...".  He interrupted snarling, "But I can't direct, can I ?" 

                  

Claire de loon had another nickname behind his back. It was used on 

a fifty-fifty basis depending on what was being referred to, his 

eccentricities or his meanness. I never liked it or used it. I usually 

had more regard for Clair than for the people who called him "Uncle 

Ugly". For instance, the guy purported to have coined this epithet 

was also purported to be the fellow that set fire to the theatre's 

grand piano when it was sitting in the lobby. 

As far as I was concerned, anybody who didn't recognize Clair was a 

totally Machiavellian figure had only themselves to blame. He used to 

promise every soprano a "Tosca" next season if they'd only do this 

one little role for him. As far as I know, "Tosca" was never done at 

the Skylight. Josephine Busalacchi, who sang Tosca with the 

Metropolitan Touring Company, made a great comment about Tosca at 

the Skylight. “What's she supposed to do in the finale, jump off a 

folding chair ?".., but I digress, back to Uncle Ugly. Clair didn't only 

lie to potential Toscas. Due to his paranoiac tendencies, he feared 

any comradeship being established among his employees. He actively 

thwarted potential friendships by telling lies about other's opinions of 

them. This is not hearsay. There were several instances where I was  

involved. He loved this Iago type mischief. Anytime you actually 

criticized someone, his eyes would light up and then with a sweet 

smile say, "And they always spoke so highly of you". I must say, in 

the Jackson Street days before I got there, Billings and Puffer did 

steal one of his shows and presented it at the Hotel Schroeder calling it a production of the "Boston Light Opera Company"...., so....I guess...? 

Along this paranoiac line, he obviously had more to fear from 

directors than performers. He would always try to keep his directors 

off-balance purely to show them who was in charge at HIS theatre.  

I've mentioned "Herring", "Tragedy" and "Die Kluge" my first, second 

and fourth shows at the Skylight.  First impressions are usually 

lasting impressions. My third show, after a summer break, opened the '65-'66 season. I remember the first rehearsal. We all went down to the basement to have our dressing rooms assigned. It was a mess. Obviously neither Roosevelt or anybody else had been there for three months.  

                           

We all had our little make-up kits with us with the exception of 

Charlie Koehn. He had one the size of a physician's bag.  I think it 

was one. There was an incredibly dusty table in the middle of the 

room. He let his bag drop down neat and flat on the table. While the 

dust was swimming lazily throughout the filthy room, he sonorously 

said, "Well, here we are at the top !". This often quoted expression, 

when appropriate circumstances indicate, is what we all referred to 

as a "Charlie-ism". His observances were always humorous but some 

became classic and repeated trying to imitate his voice and manner. 

Back to the point, Jim Billings, the director of La Bohème, was 

furious with me because I didn't know my music. When I told him 

Clair had given me the small duel roles of Benoit and Alcindoro two 

evenings before and I'd picked up the score that day he was even 

more furious. He though it absolutely set with Clair three months 

earlier I do these roles. Clair threw Jim off-balance by contacting 

me at such a late date. He probably would have enjoyed throwing him 

off more by replacing me. This trait of Clair's worked to my 

advantage one time. I mentioned earlier there were two times in my 

Skylight life I really thought I was an artist. I warned you if you 

kept reading you'd be hearing about the second time. Here it comes ! 

It was another first blocking rehearsal and was my introduction to 

Bob Pitman, a marvelous director. He was the only local director I 

ever saw at the Skylight. I didn't know it but he'd just directed 

"Streets of New York" for the Milwaukee Players (a good community 

theatre group) and obviously thought he could move his whole cast 

into the Skylight. Clair of course wasn't going to allow anyone taking 

over HIS theatre in such a fashion. He sic-ed me on him to play the 

lead. “Streets" was a melodrama. The lead was the villainous banker 

Gideon Bloodgood, a first class Rudolph Rassendyll role. I not only 

didn't know any of the above. I'd never even heard of the show.  

When I went to this first session I hadn't even seen the script. I 

thought they only wanted to talk about it. I had no idea I was 

walking into a blocking rehearsal. As it turned out, the only person to be blocked was me. 

The opening scene is an extremely hectic six page monologue. It 

begins with banker Bloodgood running on to the stage full-blast 

swinging around a pole and frantically addressing the audience. It's 

Wall Street in the 1860s and his depositors are outside his bank 

screaming for their money. While explaining this in a non-stop patter 

song that moves faster than "Trouble in River City", he's rushing 

back and forth on a three level revolving stage. Essentially he's 

stealing all the money from a big open safe while running to and 

looking out of imaginary windows checking on the crowd outside.  

I'd never seen the script. When I asked for it Pitman said, "It's not 

necessary. He'll feed you the lines." pointing to his assistant, Harry 

Zummach. There were only a few other Pitman people around and the 

pianist. I started to smell a lynch mob. I'd get an action and a line 

or two. After I did this I'd get another action and a few more lines. 

We‘d then go back and "take it from the top". I could tell Pitman was 

out to prove I couldn't handle the role and instantly loved the 

challenge. It was like playing "Pack your trunk for Saratoga" and 

fast-break basketball simultaneously. The scene was memorized and 

blocked in that session without my ever having seen either the script 

or the music, which incidentally I'd never heard before. 

Somewhere halfway through you could sense what had begun as a 

lynch mob was now starting to root for you. About three quarters 

through I noticed Clair peeking from behind some posts. He reminded 

me of Pluto darting between the tree trunks. He had the same type 

of sniggering Pluto smile on his face. Obviously, He'd won ! 

     

                                                                                    

I got very good reviews for Bloodgood (even from Jay Joslyn) but by 

this time they weren't that important. Back at the beginning at the 

Skylight most of us would go out carousing after opening night. After 

we closed the bars we'd go to the Milwaukee Sentinel building and 

wait for the morning (5:00AM) review. The street level dips down to a 

wide one-way cobblestone drive-through with a full city block of 

loading docks on each side. The newspapers, in bundles of one 

hundred, would come flying out of shoots on either side and be quickly packed into the waiting trucks. The full trucks would then fly out noisily and be instantly replaced by noisy empty ones. It was a great scene played there, modern music and choreography in the wee hours of the morning. All those great big noisy trucks, the irregular blasts of their blaring horns, the squeals of their brakes as they backed into the docks combined with the over magnified echoes of shouting drivers and shouting loaders made a rare concert.    

Amidst this mayhem it wasn't always easy to nab a copy of the 

paper. What happened often was after someone managed to grab one  

we'd turn to the theatre section and there'd be no review. Then, 

because they didn't always put reviews where they belonged, you'd 

flip through the rest of the pages. When there wasn't any we'd wait 

for the next edition. There were times the review didn't come out 

until the fifth edition. 

The tour of my second Skylight "La Bohème" really put reviews into 

their proper perspective. It opened at the Performing Arts Center 

followed by four weeks at the "garage“ for 28 performances. We 

toured Wisconsin for another 28 performances. Each of these one 

night stands was reviewed. We had an extremely tight production and 

turned out the same product every night. The joke was "Who won?"  

It started with "Who won last night?", referring to last night's 

review. It developed into the speculation who won tonight after a 

performance. We then wondering who'd come closest to the next 

review. This was the beginning of Skylight regulars (in my time) 

whispering to their colleagues in the black-outs after a performance, 

"I think you won". Getting back to reviews..., twenty eight on the 

road and three in Milwaukee gives you thirty one entirely different 

personal opinions of exactly the same product. 

                    

               

You really learn how subjective a reviewer can be. Incidentally, all 

the reviews for this "Bohème" were extremely favorable with the 

exception of the last one. In Oshkosh, by gosh, they obviously sent a 

sports writer to cover this musical event. He didn't like it at all !  He 

never mentioned music or singing so it wasn't like we or Puccini got a 

bad review. He thought the story was a ridiculous soap-opera.  He 

went on and on about how corny the plot was. He obviously didn‘t 

realize what a great compliment he was paying us. He surely hadn't 

read the libretto in advance and yet he knew the entire story.  

Singing Italian opera understandably in English ain't that easy !   

As we all know, "the show must go on !" but it was somewhere in this 

"Bohème" tour that it almost didn't. We were playing on a gym floor 

with flats against one of its entrances while the audience sat in 

bleachers on the opposite wall. After the famous tenor-baritone duet 

that opens the final act, Schaunard (myself) and Colline (Paul Kiesgen) 

were supposed to bounce through the set's door with a big basket of 

food pleasantly surprising the starving Rudolfo and Marcello (Alan 

Rogers and Joe Budiszewski). While they were singing their duet 

Mimi's death bed was still sitting in the hallway. Clair was screaming 

insanely at the nice and, with this one exception, terribly efficient 

young fellow he'd hired as the Skylight's first full-time stage hand. 

There was no way Mimi could gracefully die in a chair or lying on the 

floor or a table. The bed had to be out there!  I suggested Colline 

and I bring it on with us. Clair bellowed, "That's ridiculous, it won't 

fit through the door!“ and on the verge of tears, "We'll have to stop 

the show “!  I winked at Paul, plopped our basket of food onto the 

bed and indicated, we'll go around. We picked it up at either end and 

we sailed "on" from around the sides of the flats on cue. This scene 

is so frolicsome I don't think anybody in the audience cared in the 

least. The punch line to this story was delivered by Marcello. His 

normal line while pointing to the basket, a tricky musical entrance, 

was "What's this, some bread ?".  Good old Joe Bud, right on cue as 

we swung around the flats sang, "What's this, a bed ?".   

A first act picture from the opening night  at the Performing Arts Center;

     That‘s me with the cap and scarf bringing goodies to Marcello and Colline.

                  

Returning to my first Skylight "Bohème, back to first impressions, it 

was the best attended Skylight show I remember. Before any show 

started someone would check on the audience from the back. In many 

shows, the report would be, "No sweat, we outnumber them", not this 

time. People were being turned away at every performance. The spot 

behind the last row where I watched the opening scene of "Herring" 

looked like a New York city subway car in the rush hour. I couldn't 

even get there! Normally Benoit appearing in Act 1 and Alcindoro who 

only appears in Act 11 can go home after the curtain calls for their  

acts. Clair insisted I stayed for the final curtain call. I‘d like to have 

been able to watch Act 111 and 1V but couldn‘t. The stairwell from 

the dressing rooms opened next to "Clair the light-man“. The aisle 

next to it had people sitting on top of each other. Most of the time, 

the next to last step up had people on their tiptoes trying to peek 

between heads.  It was on one of these occasions when I managed to 

get to the next to last step. Clair, happy as a lark, stuck his head 

down the stairwell displaying his devilish Pluto smile and rhetorically 

cackled, "Who thought an old fucking turkey like this would sell. 

                   

As successful as this production was I've always wondered how Dick 

McComb described it to the elderly couple he met in NYC shortly 

after. Dick had a beautiful lyric voice. It made you cry. He wasn't 

too convincing in heroic roles but the prototype of a tenor non-hero. 

As Albert Herring, the substitute King of the May when a virgin 

Queen couldn't be found, as "true-love" the struggling musician in 

"Bitter Sweet", as the hypochondriacal prince in "Oranges" and as the 

poet Rudolfo in "Bohème" he couldn't be beat. Dick sang Rudolfo's big 

aria in English at what's known as a "Producers Audition" in NYC.This 

type audition isn‘t for a specific role. It‘s a show-case for singers to 

display their talents to prospective employers. He was approached by 

a nice old couple and asked if he'd sung the role anywhere. As said 

back in the first paragraph of this tome, performers have a tendency 

to exaggerate. I'd love to know exactly how Dick answered. Obviously 

he was going to puff it up. We'll never know how much. He talked to

Ruth and Thomas Martin. Their excellent translation for "Bohème" was used by the Skylight and Clair had never paid royalty fees. 

I'm sure Clair never paid royalty fees unless forced to do so. I'm 

also certain of two other planned Skylight shows that never "opened" 

due to royalties and I suspect a third. Oddly enough royalties aren‘t 

that expensive. For amateur theatres they're minimal. If admission is 

charged you only add a small percent of the gross. The two cancelled 

shows were both Kurt Weill pieces.  Clair identified himself with 

Weill. He thought of Weill and himself as "avant-garde" theatrical 

people. “The Rise and Fall of Mahagonny"  was in rehearsals when 

someone thought it a great idea to call Lotte Lenya in New York City 

and invite her to a performance. The result was no "Mahagonny" !  

This caused the "Pirates", after which I auditioned to open earlier 

than  planned. The other show was "Lady in the Dark". The rights to 

which belong to Kitty Carlyle, the widow of Moss Hart who wrote the 

show. I recall from amateur theatre days it was difficult to get 

music and scripts for this show without filling out all kinds of forms. 

Other catalogue listings weren‘t a problem but permission to do this 

was frequently refused. "Lady in the Dark" appeared as coming on 

many a Skylight program. I don't believe it was ever done there...?.. 

I believe the "someone" who called New York to invite Lotte Lenya 

was Mary Pat Connell. I'm absolutely sure of the following "call New 

York" story. The amazing Mary Pat went back to college after her 

eight children were old enough to allow it. In the middle of a class at 

U.W.M. they were discussing what W.H. Auden really meant in one 

of his poems. She excused herself, found a pay-phone, got Auden's 

number from N.Y.C. information, spoke with him and brought back 

"the last word" before the class was over.  

While on Mary Pat getting the last word..., she always did this at 

the ending of Act 1 in "Streets of New York". Gideon Bloodgood was  

forcibly evicting a poor widow (Mary Pat) and her daughter. The last 

line was mine. I thought it so stupid I started substituting others. I 

don‘t remember the original line or its replacements. It was like 

ending a big melodramatic scene with, "That's the way the cookie 

crumbles" or something like that. It was fancier, but the idea similar. Often I'd spend the entire day wondering what line might surprise her. What ever line I gave her she'd always have the last word. For example, if I delivered the above "Cookie" line to surprise her, in tears and in character she'd stammer, ",,,and all we get are the crumbs..". BLACKOUT !  I'd spent all day thinking about it and off the top of her head she'd top me every night ! 

There was only one role that I had securely memorized before a first 

musical rehearsal. It was Nick Shadow in Stravinsky's "Rake's 

Progress". The only role at the Skylight that I had a full year's time 

to learn. It was a bass-baritone role and at my own expense coached 

it with Henri Noel. When Mitzi was finished with her session with 

Grace Welsh at the conservatory she'd come over to Henri's studio 

and accompany me. I was so looking forward to playing it.   

I'd learned so many parts much too quickly at the Skylight. I can't 

tell you how many times I'd be waiting to go "on" and couldn't 

remember my first line. I'd usually come up with it and simply settle 

for that. I never worried about subsequent lines. They'd come and 

always did. There were even times I'd make an entrance without 

remembering my first line. I'd say to myself, "Well, here we go" and 

stride out on cue. The lines always came. I don't know how or why. 

                       

   Ah, but finally to do something of which you were sure. The Skylight 

programs always included a list of coming attractions. In my years I 

was in every show. It was a slow count down to the "Rake". I believe 

it started with six. Whatever new show I was doing I'd check the 

back of the program. "Ah, three to go". Then “Ah, two to go !". 

When finally I should be saying, "Ah, here it is !", it wasn't there!  

I ran to Clair. "What happened to Rake's Progress"?  Clair 

majestically drew himself up and looking down on me said, "It's a 

fruity show. We're not doing it".   

Stravinsky

What had really happened (I believe) was this was the third show I 

mentioned earlier that didn't open due to royalties. The horror to me 

is I think I was the one who pointed out to him Stravinsky was coming to conduct a symphony in Milwaukee at the same time "Rake" was to open. I'm sure Clair would have learned this but think I was guilty of the same Mary Pat-Lotte Lenya naiveté. I really thought Stravinsky would have loved seeing his "Rake" performed at the garage. I suggested to Clair he invite him, think of the publicity!  I recall Clair's stunned expression. I didn't correlate it at the time.   

I hope whoever happens to be reading this is familiar with "Rake's 

Progress" and with the people I'm about to name. One of the few 

regrets of my lifetime is that I never got to play Nick Shadow with 

the following : Dick McComb as Tom Rakewell, Patty Zapf as Anne 

Trulove, Charlie Koehn as her daddy. Charlie's wife, Joanne as Baba 

the Turk, Mary Pat Connell as Mother Goose, Wally Tomcheck as 

Selim the auctioneer and Mitzi as the musical director and 

accompanist. I've gone on and on about the superb casting of "Albert 

Herring". This dream cast, who like myself, had been working on had been working on 

their roles for over a year, had the same potential.   

   

              These Hogarth pictures of Tom Rakewell are what inspired Stravinsk‘s opera.                          

It was when Mitzi started saying, "That can‘t be!  How could you 

have done these things you claim you did?", I knew the honeymoon 

was over. In response I made out a resumé in chronological order. It 

included all the things she'd been questioning and we've been living 

"happily ever after" since. It's lost now. I really don't remember how 

many plays, reviews, musicals and operas I've been involved in as 

performer or director. My first time on stage was shortly before 

seven years old. I sang the children's chorus of "Carmen" with the 

Brooklyn Opera Company. My mother told me Carmen was Rachel 

Sternberg and later changed her name to Rise Stevens. I believed 

this for many years until I looked it up. The names were correct, the 

change occurred before this production. The reason I sang in this 

chorus was my mother was accompanist for Father Bracken's Boy's 

Choir. The Brooklyn Opera Co. used them when they needed boy 

sopranos. If you recall the movie "Going My Way", Bing Crosby played 

Father Bracken. My being allowed to sing with them at such a tender 

age solved a babysitting problem. I've been on stage ever since. 

I remember this resumé. It wasn't only theatre activities. It 

included sports, education and employment as well. I made it out on 

one of those great big, double page, bookkeeping sheets with sixteen 

vertical accounts and only a few millimeters between each line. I'd 

made it out for Mitzi but thought I might as well show it to Clair.  I  

remember showing it to him. It was at his exotic two story hothouse 

which sat on top of the "garage". Jefferson Street didn't have a 

skylight on the roof. It had a hothouse on the roof. The skylight was 

on Jackson Street. Clair maintained a tropical garden paradise up 

their on the roof. He also lived there in his loft apartment. He was 

between marriages when I knew him. The manner he'd invite ladies up 

to see his "succulents" would lead one to believe there was a den of 

iniquity up there not a botanical garden.  Incidentally his standard 

oft repeated comment about women was, "Women are just like plants. 

The rougher you treat them the more they bloom".., but I digress. 

What was surprising to me was he actually read the entire resumé. 

The more he read the more tragic his expression became. He was 

crushed. I was no longer his "Clair Richardson Discovery".    

  

I showed Clair this resumé  because I knew he was unaware of my 

background. I was hoping he'd hire me as a director. It was a 

mistake. Clair never wanted anyone around who indicated they knew 

more about anything than he did. To qualify this point, let me tell you about one of Roosevelt's successors. I only saw him once. It was 

during the rehearsals for "Oh, Lady, Lady" one of the Jerome Kern, 

Guy Bolton, P.G. Wodehouse early 1910s Princess Theatre 

confections. This particular rescue mission man and I were alone in 

the lobby. He was pushing that smelly green stuff around with a 

broom on the waxed floor. I was going through my lines. Clair and the director, Joe della Sorte (out of N.Y.C. of course) came in 

concernedly discussing whether the italicized stage directions were 

referring to a telephone or an intercom next to the elevator doors 

(which really didn't matter anyway). While they were going on and on 

about this, the man with the broom stopped next to them. He 

haltingly asked, "What's the time of your play?". He was the 

prototype of a shaking alcoholic but still managed a sort of faded 

elegance. Joe answered, "A New York City penthouse in 1913" . 

"Then you can have either" he said.  "Alexander Graham Bell invented 

the telephone in 1893.  Twenty years later they weren't exactly 

ubiquitous (amusingly alluding to a currently ubiquitous Ma Bell 

telephone ad) but you would surely have found one in a New York City 

penthouse". Clair's reaction was unbelievable. He drew himself up 

taller than I'd ever seen. He was absolutely livid !  He pointed to the 

front door and sputtered, "I'm not going to have any G** D***** 

sweeper around here that's smarted than I am. Get the hell out of 

here !". This unbelievable story is not hearsay. I was there and the 

quote is verbatim. He did not say.., "that (thinks) he's smarter".  

I'd shown Clair my resumé hoping he might consider my directing, but 

I never asked him if I could direct a show. I never asked him if I 

could do anything. This always annoyed him. I'm sure he would have 

enjoyed my asking. I believe he would have enjoyed my begging. He 

said to me several times, "Xxx and Yyy (guys who would have done my 

parts well) always address me as Mister Richardson". This was 

followed with a rhetorical, "Why should I hire you?". I withhold their 

names to protect the innocent.                          

I don't think begging would have done any good. In his mind he 

couldn't afford to hire me in the end.  If I received plaudits as a 

director, he felt it would make him look bad. Since I said he was no 

director, he said I was no tenor. Another reason for his repeatedly 

saying this was to put down Elena Fels Noth. Elena, who brought my 

voice to its proper place, was always out there "batting" for her 

students. She'd phone anyone, including Clair, she thought might have 

an outlet for them. Clair didn't want her suggestions and thought she 

was a meddling old busybody. Elena thought he was a very silly man. 

Eventually, due to roles I'd sung elsewhere, he‘d have to have known 

I was a tenor but since he'd made such a stink about my not being 

one it made hiring me as one difficult. Besides, it was easier for 

Clair to hire people from out of town after he could afford it. They 

not only called him Mister Richardson, he didn't have to deal with 

them again if they didn't get along together. I imagine this will come 

as a surprise to you. I always LIKED Clair Richardson ! 

This statement concludes my comments about our personal 

relationship. Now that the diatribe is over, I'd like to share a few 

pleasant assorted Skylight remembrances..... 

*****************************************************************

************************************************* 

Clair hired a German coloratura soprano (?) to sing The "Queen of 

the Night". She came by taxi directly from the airport. She was 

standing in front of the stage and asked, "Vhere isst das Theater ?". 

She thought she was in a rehearsal room, 

..... another first time. Alan Rogers, a rather prim and proper 

church tenor from Chicago, had made an appointment to see Clair for 

the first time in front of the theatre. I quote Alan. "I was sitting 

there in my car before the theatre and this bum started knocking on 

the windows. I threw the door locks on and started the car. I 

wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. This bum ran in front 

of the car and was jumping up and down with his hands on the hood 

screaming he was Clair Richardson".   

                          

    ... another time Clair helped me make a first entrance. I was 

replacing Karr Wolfe as Strephon in Iolanthe. 

                        

              Clair had extended the show two weeks. Karr told Clair he couldn't 

be there at this time. He was very good but never played there 

again. Strephon's first entrance is to his own twenty first birthday 

party. I was standing there in Karr's costume waiting to go on. It 

was a bit tight but I was in pretty good shape for thirty seven and a 

half....,which was ten or twelve years older than Karr. Clair looked 

at me aghast, grabbed my shoulders and with genuine anguish said, 

"Oh God !  You look so old !". You had to have a sense of humor 

working with Clair. Like the "apples" in "Herring", I had to physically 

break away from him in order to enter on time. It was so funny to 

me I laughed right through the singing of my first line, "Good 

Morrow, good mother !".  My mother was the fairy Iolanthe played 

by Joanne Koehn. While she was singing "Good Morrow" back to me, I 

knelt before her and my cute silver blue loosely buckled satin 

breeches literally ripped in two. I guess we can't blame Suzy. The 

pants weren't made for me. At the top where a man's fly begins 

there was a single stitching running down the front under the crotch 

and up the back end. The only thing that was holding the totally 

separated pant‘s legs was my loose belt. 

Holly Berry was taking off her make-up at one of the community 

sinks. She was topless with the exception of her tiny skimpy bra. 

Saul Zitron was running his hands lasciviously up and down her back 

murmuring how smooth it was, not distracting Holly. With no pause in 

her cleansing she unemotionally said, "What did you expect, calluses“?  

                      There was the opening night Clair turned off the lights on Cal Wenzel 

when he was playing Bacchus in "Ariadne auf Naxos". His costume was 

a one strapped leopard skin "Sheena, Queen of the Jungle" sarong. It 

kept riding up on him and he indulged himself playing the cute old lady 

tugging at her girdle. 

I mentioned the penthouse telephone and/or intercom earlier. I was 

type cast in this show playing a Brooklyn burglar. My girl friend, 

played by Marcy Goldman, was the kleptomaniac shop lifting maid. 

Clyde Miller was a detective. The phone was next to the up-stage 

elevator doors. I was to enter through these doors and go down-

stage center to speak with Clyde Miller. Clyde was the biggest up-

stager known. At the Skylight most directors left after opening night 

and Clyde kept progressively up-staged me. I started going less 

down-stage. It didn't matter. He'd still up-stage me. Finally as the 

elevator doors closed, I leaned my back against them.  

After every opening Charlie Koehn with his inimitable booming voice 

saying, "You were the best !" as he shook hands with each performer. 

Another Charlie-ism, when we went back-stage after a friend gave a 

dreadful recital what can you say?. Charlie grasped both his hands 

and with booming sincerity said, "By golly, you did it again" ! 

It's hard for me to recall the Skylight without thinking of the 

fantastically filthy bar around the corner, "Walter's". It was always a 

joy!  If you wanted to build a Bowery bar set and fill it with a cast 

of derelicts you couldn't top this place or its steady clientele. They 

all had their regular places at the bar and staggered in every night. I remember pointing this out to Tom Brennen, a good N.Y.C. director 

and commenting, "It's like they're screwed to their stools". He 

astutely returned, "It looks more like they're stewed to their 

scrools". I could write a book about Walter's. I'll settle for one 

unforgettable shot. A fat old gal (over the hill Mae West type) 

drunkenly shoves the fat old guy next to her who's been rambling on 

an on (an over the hill W.C.Fields type) and manages to splutter, 

"Come off of it. Your asshole ain't no bed of narcissus !". It's hard 

to believe but poetry of this sort abounded at Walter's every 

evening. Unfortunately, it was replaced by an immaculate totally 

uninteresting "George Webb" hamburger joint in '67 or '68.  

A thought provoking comment on the serious business of being 

funny..., "Salad Days", the longest running, very dancy, London 

musical ran from Thanksgiving through New Year's Eve at the 

Skylight in 1968.   

In one of my four roles I was a police inspector who only had one 

    scene with the Bobbie, the star and choreographer, Jeff Webb.  

The scene had a painfully awful Abbott and Costello dialogue (Who's 

on first? What's on second? time). As Bob Pitman the director, Sy 

Schonberg the musical director, Jeff Webb the dancing Bobbie and 

myself the "..who doesn't like to dance, but would rather like to try"  

inspector approached it doubtfully in rehearsal. It seemed interminably long. We  

cut about a third of the dialogue. In spite of this every time Jeff 

brilliantly tap toed over to my desk to report our eyes met and 

mirrored terror. Can we possibly get away with this? We‘d then 

painstakingly execute the game plan. The fact there was no audible  

reaction made the scene seem even longer than interminable. The 

same opening night reaction happened every performance through to 

New Year's Eve. When you exited left at that time you had to half bent 

over get your way between metal stage supporting struts back to the 

dressing rooms. While doing so there was an explosion!  The applause 

was the loudest and longest I remember at the Skylight. It happened 

every night. The main point to this story is what occurred in the final 

performance. There were two shows on New Year's Eve. In the 

second and last Jeff brilliantly tap toed over to my desk and our 

eyes finally met with secure delight. Unsaid we mutually smiled and 

agreed, "O.K., this time we'll really do it !". As we exited under the 

stage there was nothing. It bombed ! ! !   The audience are the ones 

who are supposed to be having the good time. 

        Thinking about playing more than one role in a performance,  

  

 The Good Soldier Schweik comes immediately to mind. 

I'll never understand why this piece didn‘t receive more attention. It‘s good modern music and its anti-war story (in 28 scenes) is both 

hilarious and bitter sweet. I had the good fortune of playing two 

juicy parts. As Lt. Lukash I won Schweik as an orderly in a poker 

game amusingly complicating my life. The other role was as a Looney 

Bin physician who thinks Schweik is faking and has an appropriate 

medicine he prescribes for malingerers, “Give them an enema three 

times a day“. The bumpy train car duet with Charlie Koehn as a 

General dressing Lukash down for the incredible misdeeds of Schweik 

still runs through my mind on occasion.  

  I loved changing costumes and make-up for different roles in the 

same piece. The greatest compliment for these changes came when 

playing both Alcindoro and Benoit in La Bohème. Bohème opened the   

‘65-‘66 season. The last show before the summer break in 65 was 

“The Wise Woman“. Tom and Patty Zapf were in the Bohème 

audience. Tom asked Patty, “Hey who was that guy? He was good“ !  

My motivation for writing this bit of nonsense came from Kathy Le 

Mieux. Mitzi accompanied Kathy innumerable times. I've sung a lot 

with Kathy but never thought of her as a Skylight "regular". I only 

did one show with her there. She sang an exquisite Nannette in 

Falstaff. She and her husband Sal are included as our life long 

favorite people. About six months ago (since Mitzi and I were 

considered as lost Skylight originals) she sent us some forms which if 

properly filled out in twelve words or less might possibly be posted in 

the lobby of the new Temple of Apollo. I thought no. I'd rather 

write what you've been reading.  

It started with writing down reminders in a note book. The Salad 

Days paragraph was simply "Jeff-New Year's". One of my jotted 

notes was "that's all". It referred to the endings of the "Looney 

Toon" movie cartoons. Elmer Fudd stuttering sang "Tha-tha-tha-tha-

that's all folks !". I don't know how many performances I've done at 

the Skylight but a habit of mine started with "The Wise Woman and 

the King" in 1965. When we all left the stage in the dark after the 

final applause, whatever the nature of the piece, I'd always sing a 

little falsetto "Tha-tha-tha-tha-that's all folks" !                           

It never occurred to me until just now that no one ever mentioned it. 

It couldn't have been no one heard it. The theatre was too small. I 

remember as Bardolph in one of the ensemble numbers leading to 

Falstaff's final humiliation substituting "Scramble his Wheaties" for 

whatever Wheaties rhymed with and an echo came from someone in 

the audience " Wheaties"?  Well, the hell with it !  If no one heard 

my Looney Toon ending at least it amused me. 

It's not possible for me to think of Falstaff without Mitzi's amazing 

feat coming to mind. She got a call from Clair at 2:30 AM on the 

Sunday morning after it opened. Alan Lewis, the musical director and 

accompanist had just broken his arm leaving the “cast“ party. I was 

already home. Mitzi started working on it immediately. With Alan, 

arm in cast setting tempos, giving musical cues and turning pages with 

his good arm, Mitzi played the performance that Sunday evening. 

Part of what made this impossible task possible was Mitzi had 

coached my role and Kathy Le Mieux's which meant she was familiar 

with all the beastly ensembles, but still...... 

When Mitzi played her first Falstaff performance there was a Mequon gal in the audience who wrote articles for our local paper. Since Mitzi and I were Mequon people she wrote of the event. Her articles were always forwarded to the Milwaukee papers, some were printed and some not. This was. The posed picture taken after the show shows Falstaff (Jack Strawbridge) with his antlers holding Meg, myself with false nose as Bardolph and Mitzi in the rear.  

                          

Another Mitzi trick of this nature occurred on whatever Sunday 

afternoon happened to be the first of April in the late sixties. Leon 

Petrus, the musical director, was warming up the cast of Gilbert and 

Sullivan's Ruddigore before a sold-out matinee performance and had a seizure. I'd worked with him for years. He was in Herring. I had no idea he was an epileptic. I thought he was playing an April Fool's joke. I was playing Robin Oakapple (which I always referred to as 

Robin Roadapple). Mitzi wasn't doing anything at this time and was 

singing in the chorus (the only time I've seen this) just to keep me 

company. Clair frantically asked her if she could play it. She said, 

"Let's give it a whirl". The fact she played this show with no notice 

whatsoever may sound like a greater feat than the Falstaff miracle. 

On the other hand, Sir Arthur ain't no Giuseppe Verdi. 

The "skylight" was on Jackson Street. I never played there. I've 

seen it only once. A gal in the chorus of "Knickerbocker Tragedy" 

took me on a tour of the vacated premises one sunny Sunday 

afternoon. This was back when Mitzi's last name was Mabie. The 

architecture on Jackson Street was typically German. There was a 

cobblestone drive-through between buildings leading into what I, 

after living in Germany, must call a Hof. The term "courtyard", which 

it was called, seems much too elegant, conjures up royal carriages 

and the like. The skylight was on the second floor roof facing 

Jackson Street. The room wasn't any larger than a big living-room. 

Clair had contrived a different theatre behind the Hof on a hill 

between two buildings. Their brick windowless walls provided the sides 

and the roof was canvas. There was a single center aisle leading down 

to the stage which had the dimensions of the type you'd find in front 

of the screen of a movie house, wide and not deep enough for a 

proper theatrical production. After examining this we went back to 

the original skylight house. This time we looked at it from atop the 

roof. As some inspired lyricist might put it "I've looked at the 

skylight from both sides now"...., but I digress. At this time in 1965 

Juneau Village wasn't even a gleam in a developer's eye. You could 

see out on Lake Michigan without obstruction. It was a warm, sultry, 

sunny afternoon.  Rather than telling you what happened up there on 

the roof, I think I‘ll close now with my favorite Claire de loon story. 

  Jim Billings and Ted Puffer were classmates at the music school of 

Boston University. Both were excellent pianists, singers and 

performers. They've been known to play separate roles in a show and 

replace each other at the piano without missing a beat as the other 

got on stage, a glorified version of musical chairs. They were the 

first artistic directors of the Skylight Theatre. They were preparing 

for a "Pinafore" in the Jackson Street backyard. Clair got the 

brilliant idea for a low budget approach. He walked in on Jim and Ted 

and plumped a big can of paint down on the stage. Instead of 

expensive sets they'd paint the entire up-stage wall stark white and 

with powerful lights the show could be done entirely in silhouettes. 

They tried to tell him the audience would have a migraine headache 

before the end of the opening number. While they were vehemently 

arguing in walked "Screw-loose Lautrec". I don't know his real name 

and he wasn't a dwarf. He was a very short French painter with a 

goatee and a wide brimmed hat whose portfolio was as tall as he was.  

He was a very persistent little Frenchman. In spite of not speaking 

English he kept butting in and added greatly to the confusion. Clair 

finally screamed, "Who the hell's this guy and what the fuck does he 

want?". Billings spoke French. He spoke with him and explained to 

Clair he wanted to hang his pictures in the courtyard as an exhibition. An irate Clair pointed to the paint can and said, "Tell him he can hang his pictures as soon as he paints that wall !". He then stormed over to the bar across the street. Since he was the boss, Jim and Ted didn't have any choice. They decided they'd better soften the stark white. They bought baby-blue pigment and added it to the can. “Lautrec" was high on a ladder painting the last corner when Clair got back. Clair could put away a dozen martinis then and obviously had had about that many. He was standing at the top of the center aisle when he first saw it. "No, no !  It's too blue !" he screamed. "Lautrec", brush in hand, turned to him smiling and proudly 

commented, "Oui, oui, tout bleu.“  Clair kept coming down the aisle 

blurting, "No, no, you don't understand. It's too blue !". "Oui, tout 

bleu, tout bleu" was Lautrec‘s ever cheerful response. This exchange  

repeated itself several times as Clair made his way down the aisle 

and finally sobbingly collapsed into a front row seat. 

 Tha-tha-tha-tha-that's all folks !