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COLUMN ........................... Amy Holtz The truth is, I’m a Minnesotan There’s nothing like the heat of the lights, the cloying smell of hairspray and greasepaint. Excited, nervous laughter and the flamboyant running of scales by someone who is, today, only in the chorus, but knows their time is nigh. And in the blackness behind velvet, the hammering of your heart is a roaring train that drowns out the voices beyond the curtains. The word, your signal – a step, then two, a shower of light – and then... your parents... waving frantically at you from the fourth row. I was, dear reader, a theatre kid. In a long ago, faraway time, I had... moments... scuppered largely by one thing. And if you happen upon me now on a Saturday night, at Bar Broadway, there shimmers the only slightly bitter spectre of a once-grasped dream, like Norma Desmond, gin-soaked and wafting about the tiny stage with the residue of what once was coursing through her bulging, aged veins. It all started when I, attention-hungry and nudging actual ability, tried out for a talent show. Actually... no, now that I think about it that one didn’t turn out so well. Dressed as one of Annie’s orphan pals (basically, in a sack), I mounted the stage to give my two-voiced rendition of Maybe, alto saxophone dangling from my weedy 11-year-old neck and panicked, spotting my dad smiling broadly behind the show’s director, giving a discreet thumbs up. I faltered. I tried to shake the rising panic, but moments later broke into a fit of hysteria, shouting at my beaming father, “Stop it! You’re making me MESS UP! GAWD.” Or something to that effect, before clomping down the steps and galumphing into the bathroom, rage-weeping. Anyhow, they say this sort of experience makes or breaks you and it wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to me onstage (probably top three). Things got better. Sophomore year, I was ‘chosen’ to do the spotlight for Into the Woods (vital, but sweaty work; no one brought me flowers), but then, a year older, my box step and jazz hands widening, style and certitude settling, I finally made it: as a wood nymph – with a SOLO – in Camelot. I was a village wench the rest of the show but complain? Moi? Dad was allowed to come along and sit near the back. That’s where he sat too when I was Liesl in The Sound of Music and a window fell over the top of me (a few scratches/mild concussion) but I was told I carried it well. When I actually won something once and had to sing for my prize, I relented and let Dad sit nearer the front. He looked nervous, fidgeting with his hands, and I couldn’t help but think, ‘Good gracious, here we go again…’ But of course, the show must go on. Midway through On My Own from Les Misérables, the mezzo opus us theatre nerds were wont to belt down the hallways between classes, I forgot all the words and had to improvise. (Really, though, who needs the right words when you have feeling?). I’m not saying it was his fault, but... ....45....