The oboe opened with her A, and all the other instruments followed, the sound of preparation, the sound of anticipation.
With a hush from nowhere in particular, the audience stilled their lips and focused their attention. Once the tuning came to an end, the only musical qualities that could be heard in the theatre were the lifting plates of the media drones, making their staccato, stuttering D-natural hum as they flew above the audience and down to the stage, for the viewers at home and abroad.
It was opening night.
The stage was entirely darkened. No one saw her walk out, just a bit stage right of the center.
The orchestra started a jaunty, forthright tune, and in her soprano that won her a lead role, she opened, two bars later, the beat the lights clacked on:
"We all know Godot won’t show /
"We all know what the pistol’s for /
"And atop the barricades she swore /
"For a moment, at least //
"But all the destiny was written for them /
"You knew their path when your ass was sat /
"And now the oracle’s gone, so that was that /
"No protection, no fear, this story’s all mayhem /
Oh no, this isn’t to the script, her co-lead came out two lines early–and he wore glasses! She improvised cause he did it already, that suit’s broken early, and she entered a delicate two-step pose with him, his arm around the small of her back, her arm over his shoulder.
Alcohol on his breath. Oh lord.
And the libretto scrolling, the text backwards, on his glasses.
And without any further announcement or heraldry, his vomit on her chest, all down her dress.
She was an idiot to expect anything else. He was the son of the director. He never auditioned for anything whatsoever. And she was enraged. She stormed off the stage, the audience abuzz, the house lights coming back on.
She grabbed her purse and tried the back door out past the dressing rooms, desperate to get away, but oh no, the reporters were there, they found her. Cameras hovered, whirred and clicked. She couldn’t push past them.
One reporter shoved his way up to the front and shouted,
The oboe opened with her A, and all the other instruments followed, the sound of preparation, the sound of anticipation.
With a hush from nowhere in particular, the audience stilled their lips and focused their attention. Once the tuning came to an end, the only musical qualities that could be heard in the theatre were the lifting plates of the media drones, making their staccato, stuttering D-natural hum as they flew above the audience and down to the stage, for the viewers at home and abroad.
It was opening night.
The stage was entirely darkened. No one saw her walk out, just a bit stage right of the center.
The orchestra started a jaunty, forthright tune, and in her soprano that won her a lead role, she opened, two bars later, the beat the lights clacked on:
"We all know Godot won’t show /
"We all know what the pistol’s for /
"And atop the barricades she swore /
"For a moment, at least //
"But all the destiny was written for them /
"You knew their path when your ass was sat /
"And now the oracle’s gone, so that was that /
"No protection, no fear, this story’s all mayhem /
Oh no, this isn’t to the script, her co-lead came out two lines early–and he wore glasses! She improvised cause he did it already, that suit’s broken early, and she entered a delicate two-step pose with him, his arm around the small of her back, her arm over his shoulder.
Alcohol on his breath. Oh lord.
And the libretto scrolling, the text backwards, on his glasses.
And without any further announcement or heraldry, his vomit on her chest, all down her dress.
She was an idiot to expect anything else. He was the son of the director. He never auditioned for anything whatsoever. And she was enraged. She stormed off the stage, the audience abuzz, the house lights coming back on.
She grabbed her purse and tried the back door out past the dressing rooms, desperate to get away, but oh no, the reporters were there, they found her. Cameras hovered, whirred and clicked. She couldn’t push past them.
One reporter shoved his way up to the front and shouted,
(this fragment cuts out early)