Choi - Shut up, youre welcome : thoughts on life, death, and other inconveniences

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Dear Mike,

This book is dedicated to you.

Love,

Annie

Dear Musical Theater,

Let me be frank: I do not understand you.

I do not get it.

Im deeply confused and possibly offended.

Theoretically, musical theater is something I should understand. For one thing, I understand music. As you know, I play in an indie rock band thats so indie and so edgy, we havent even heard of ourselves. Im also classically trained in piano and flute as well as a traditional Korean instrument called a gayageum. Its strings are thick and tough, and whenever I played too much, I got blood blisters. Question: How many people do you know who can shred on an instrument that dates back to the sixth century? Answer: Only one. Thatd be me. So, really, I understand music. One might even say Im a connoisseur; just check out my Deep Purple collection. In case you didnt know, Deep Purple wrote songs about trucks. In space.

I, of course, understand theater. Someone talks and then someone else talks back. Then one of them yells or sobs. Most of the time, they do both. One of my friends has been involved with a number of avant-garde plays that explore different topics but always feature nudity. Those have been pretty good, I guess. They wouldve been better had they starred Captain Jean-Luc Picard (fully clothed). I know that if the play is by Shakespeare, there are a lot of words like thine and hast and questions like Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal? If its by Mamet, there are questions like You think this is abuse, you cocksucker? I enjoy theater because it asks the questions we ask ourselves every day.

So yes, I understand music and I understand theater. But put them together and it becomes a riddle wrapped in a mystery stuffed inside an enigma, served with a side of trombones. Seventy-six of them to be exact.

Im not sure why I dont get it. It all seems so simple in concept: Something happens, something else happens, then another thing happens, and then curtains close, applause, applause. Then we get out of our seats and wonder if we should take a cab home or take the subway. Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, their families dont approve, the families fight, blah blah blah. Oh no! There is death! Sad face. The end. Taxi! Its all very classic. You cant go wrong with classicthats why I have four black sweaters. But the problem is the singing. And the sheer amount of it.

Its not subtle singing either. The entire cast belts it out; their vocal cords are practically bursting through their O-shaped mouths. And the voices! Theyre piercing or booming or breathy or deep or nasal or raspy, and with plenty of vibrato. Words are so annunciated that every syllable gets its own solo, its own spotlight: Oak-ka-la-ho-ma, oh-kay! The high notes last forever. And ever. And they keep going until the audience starts clapping. They wipe tears from their eyesoh, that was so magical! Id like to remind you that theres no such thing as magic.

But wait! Theres more! Theres dancing that goes along with this singing. There are jazz hands and spirit fingers. There are pirouettes and tap-dancing, shuffle-ball-change, ta-da! There is skipping, sashaying, swooning. At some point someone leaps and does the splits in the air and touches his toes. Its almost always a guy, because its impressive when a guy can touch his toes. The ladies get twirled around and lifted up. Sometimes by the crotch.

Lets not forget the acting. There are big, fake grins and wide, gleaming eyes. There are gaping mouths to show horror! Surprise! Disgust! Flailing arms to show humor! Frustration! Outrage! There are plenty of overzealous jumps for joy with overzealous cheering, hip-hip-hooray! Who even says that anymore?

Perhaps whats most confusing is the combination of dialogue with singing and dancing. Theres talking and talking and then you feel the conversation build up to something and then slowly the music sneaks in and theres this sense of Oh my God, everyone, we are about to sing a rousing number, get ready for a kick line, and then soon people are singing while falling in love or dying or teaching a valuable lesson about life or wondering how to solve a problem like Maria, which is quite an awful thing to say, especially when it comes from a bunch of nuns. Nuns. A musical starring nuns. You can see why I might be puzzled. Why sing when you can talk? Why dance when you can just wave your hand once or twice?

What I simply cant get over are the ridiculous segues into songs: Well, partner, let me tell you a little story, and it goes a little something like this... (cue music). No, no, this wont do. Any writer, editor, teacher, or lover of English will tell you that the transition doesnt work; its clunky and lazy. Plus in real life, no one ever introduces a little story that goes something like thisand then sings. There are rules and conventions we all follow. Without them its chaos, which is why at this very second theres a pompous ass named Joseph singing about how his coat has so many amazing colors.

I do know people who enjoy musicals. I even know people who star in them. Theyre all upbeat and enthusiastic and kindhearted, and theyre the people who show up to every performance, reading, or event Ive ever been involved with, no matter how painful it is. Im going to generalize here and say they are among the most loyal people I know and perhaps have the highest pain threshold. But I just dont feel the way these people feel about song and dance. Maybe something is dead inside of me.

Listen, if a guy came up to me wearing a white mask and wanted us to be lovers, I would Mace him. I would kick him while he was down, steal his wallet, and make fun of his cape. Oh yes, I would do all of this. Heres what I wouldnt do: break into song.

If an absurdly wealthy and very bald man wanted to adopt an adorable redheaded girl, I would say, Good for you, ace! Thats great. But please, dont sing about it. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have adopted at least a hundred children, but they never sing about it. I think we can all agree that this is a good thing.

If a group of cats were whining in an alley and prancing around the garbage cans, Id have them spayed or neutered. I like cats, I really do. So imagine what Id do if I didnt like them.

I am 99 percent positive that Eva and Juan Pern did not sing to the people of Argentina.

What Im trying to say here is that Im confused. And perhaps this confusion is leading to some stronger emotions. Like rage. But I want to understand. When I watch a musical, I want to think, Oh, this is what its all about . I do not want to feel hate. Or disgust. I want the pain to go away.

So please explain yourself. You can start by answering this question: What the fuck?

Your friend,

Annie Choi

I think my dad is gay.

But Im not sure.

He does exhibit many of the stereotypical signs. For example, he adores Barbra Streisand. He owns several of her studio and live records, and he even has best of compilations that include songs he already owns (But now all song in one place!). This seems pretty gay to me, though I could be wrong. My fathers been known to sing The Way We Were at karaoke with varying degrees of success, depending on your definition of success and, for that matter, singing. When he tries to nail the high notes, his face contorts and his eyes roll back into his head. It looks like hes caught his leg in a bear trap.