Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (47 page)

We removed our shoes and stood in the order called in our stocking feet. When there was debate about who was taller, the girls in question would stand back to back. Then the entire creative staff rubbed their chins and furrowed their brows and discussed ad nauseam which girl was taller until they came up with a consensus. Great care was taken to make sure that someone a fraction of a hair taller than someone else was not placed out of order. It seemed like a silly detail to me, but it was of utmost concern to the staff.

Our lineup spots were significant not only to the staff, but also to us, because they dictated whom we danced next to (and on which side of the stage) for almost every number in the entire production. Consequently, we were stuck dancing between the same two girls the whole show, and we hoped to high heaven that they’d be easy to work with. We also sat in lineup order in the dressing room, so our off-stage time was affected as well as our on-stage time. Tough luck if we were placed next to someone we really couldn’t tolerate. I danced stage left, fifth from the end between a seasoned Rockette and former
Will Rogers Follies
Broadway dancer on one side and a phenomenally talented newbie Rockette—the only African American in the group—on the other side. Thankfully, both gals were nice to me.

After setting the line-up, we began learning the opening of the show, which was a tap number to “We Need a Little Christmas” from the musical
Mame
. Everyone called the number “Wreaths” because our props were giant wreaths, about three feet in diameter. They came up to about hip level when resting on the floor and were made of shiny, gold foil-y stuff on one side and either green or red foil on the other side. When I saw the wreaths come out of the box, the knot in my stomach got a little bit tighter. Having a prop to maneuver was just one more trauma added to the mix. Each of us was assigned either a red or green wreath and everyone made a mad dash to the boxes to claim theirs.

Not only were we learning the choreography but, right off the bat, at the same time, we were taught our spacing. One of the tech guys had outlined the exact dimensions of the Grand Palace stage, the stairs, and the set pieces with varying lengths of red, green, blue, and white tape. The all-important number line was taped across the front of the room (downstage) and again in the back (upstage) with zero in the center and even numbers spaced two feet out from zero starting with “two” on either side of the zero. It was all very precise. If the numbers were off, our formations would be off as well. We used the number lines at the front and back of the stage to determine our placement stage left and right and the lines of colored electrical tape at various depths going across the stage from left to right to determine how far down or up stage we were supposed to be. 

Julie, the dance captain, referring to her Bible of notes, announced, “Holding your wreaths in front of your face, start stage left on the number I just assigned you, toeing the white line, and stomp brush step, stomp brush step, stomp brush ball change, stomp brush step (‘shim sham’), in out in out, stomp scuff hop step step. Now flap six times and step feet together moving down to heeling the red line stage left, on the second number I just assigned to you. Lean right, lean left, straighten up, and flip wreath to the colored side. Do two triple time steps and flip wreath to gold on count 8.” My brain was filling up quickly and it was only our first day of rehearsal and our first number out of four. 

Occasionally, if Linda needed to fix something that we weren’t getting right, she would let us gather in front of the mirrors at one end of the rehearsal hall to learn the moves properly. Other than that, we rehearsed facing the tables where the creative staff sat and had no idea what we looked like. It was dancing by Braille. We just had to hope and pray and feel that we were doing the moves as shown. This way of working blindly completely threw me off. I was used to rehearsing in front of the mirror where I could see if my arm needed adjustment or if I looked stupid and needed to amend a move. In my past experience, only after learning the number completely would we perform it away from the mirror (a change that goofs everyone up initially). Using this new method, I was insecure without the mirror telling me what I looked like. No crutch. No way to cheat by watching what the other dancers were doing.

Under such pressure, I found it hard to think with a clear head. Whenever I got that nervous, my brain would simply shut down and the choreography would go in one ear and out the other. Nothing would imprint on my memory. I got so worried about not being able to pick up the choreography that I couldn’t pick up the choreography. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. In addition, a good portion of the women had done the show before, and the choreography was taught at warp speed as if it was all just review—a “brush-up.”
Quit doubting yourself and have confidence. Pull yourself together. Relax. Breathe. Focus. You can do it.

One extra dancer, Megan, stood on the sidelines learning the choreography. Besides Julie, she was our only other “swing.” A swing is a person who has to learn every role and yet may perform none of them publicly. She gets that title because she swings in and out of different roles instead of holding her own track; she is basically a replacement person in case of illness, injury, or vacations. This position requires an extreme amount of mental work and memorization in addition to the ability to remain cool and calm in emergencies. On a performance night, for instance, if no one has called in sick, a swing may opt not to put on make-up or warm up that night, but then just as she is ordering dinner, a cast member gets nicked in the leg by the moving ice rink and is forced out with a sprained ankle. All of a sudden, the swing gets paged, and she has to throw off her clothes, put on a costume, grab her notes, and race to the stage. Just when she thought she was free and clear. A swing’s job can be very exciting or very boring. She either sits around getting out of shape with a lot of time on her hands to knit scarves, or she is rushing around doing something different every night. To succeed as a swing, one has to have a clear head, do her homework, and be prepared.

Rockette swings had “cheat sheets,” tiny little pieces of paper they folded up with mark numbers, L’s and R’s (lefts and rights), and secret decoder ring Sanskrit clues as to what each and every Rockette’s part was. When performing, they shoved them in their cleavage, so they could study them any spare second they had before going on stage for each number. While I was flipping out just trying to learn my own track, Megan had to learn
everybody’s
tracks. “Good luck to her,” I thought. “She must be a genius!” She was.

In the opening number, we held our wreaths in front of our bodies, elbows bent, with our hands about shoulder level so our faces would show through the middle, encircled by the wreath like a smiley face smack dab in the center of a donut. The director and assistants walked down the line adjusting wreaths, putting us in the perfect position. “Ladies,” Linda commanded, “you must get a feel for how high to hold up your wreath so that your face is perfectly centered. And you cannot tilt the wreath forward or backward at all. It must remain absolutely vertical. Now memorize how this feels so you can duplicate this exact posture every show.” Easy for her to say.

Throughout the number, all while tapping, we flipped our wreaths from the gold to the green or red side and back for a great color change effect. It was festive and beautiful to watch on stage. The wreaths were so heavy, however, that my arms ached from holding them up for so long, and my fingers became raw from flipping them back and forth. The tapping wasn’t difficult, but muscling the heavy, awkward wreath was.

An even greater challenge was the final kickline. Getting the Rockette signature move perfect was, perhaps, the most crucial task during rehearsals. If that looked bad, the rest of the show would be a failure. Hence, we started working on it the very first day. That would give us three weeks to get it right. As we kicked those final eleven, eye-high kicks, we were to flip our wreaths from gold to green or red in a follow-up, down the line and then back to gold in a follow-up back up the line. Keeping our eyes forward, we had to use our peripheral vision to determine when the girl next to us flipped her wreath. Then we were to immediately follow by flipping our wreath. The flipping didn’t happen on any specific beats in the music; it was more like an organic wave. But it did have to end on the same beat that the kickline ended, and that was tricky, tricky tricky.

“Ladies,” Linda further instructed, “the kicks require the tip of your toes to be directly in front of your eyes, no lower, no higher. Your back must remain absolutely straight. No gooping. You must jump on a stationary dime. In other words, no letting your jumping leg move a millimeter off its designated spot. And NO jumping side to side into your neighbor’s space. Yes?” We all shook our heads to say that we understood. “Good. Then let’s take it from the kickline.”

The drummer set the tempo followed by the musical director’s lead in, “A five, six, seven, eight.” (A perfect kickline required a perfect tempo. Too slow, and the line would look wavy. Too fast, and we couldn’t yank our legs down in time.) We started kicking. Linda watched from the front. Dennis and Julie watched from the sides of the line. My stomach muscles were on fire. This was excruciating. I tried to remember all the notes Linda had given while counting my kicks and keeping watch in my peripheral vision for the wreath follow up. I was trying not to fall down. It was slippery kicking in tap shoes on the varnished wood floor. It was so much to think about at the same time. 

“Cut!” Linda shouted. “That was terrible. Marcia and Bonnie, you flipped your wreaths on the same count. It is a
follow-up
. And the kickline was wavy. Ladies, everybody’s kicks have to peak precisely at the cymbal crash in the music or the line looks wavy. Those of you with longer legs have to yank your legs down to lower them in time to get them back up for the next cymbal crash. And does everyone know what I mean by kicking
eye-high
?” We all nodded like scared kindergarteners. “Then why aren’t you doing it? One at a time, let’s see you kick eye-high. That means the
top
of the toe is at your eye level.”

Linda got up from behind the table.
Oh no. Not one at a time!
She and her assistants clumped together and with notebooks in hand went down the line examining each girl’s kicks. Like a team of scientists, they dissected each and every move, intensely observing every minute variation in each Rockette’s performance. A few girls had such elastic inner thigh muscles that when they kicked their legs went over their heads and well beyond the desired “eye-high” destination. Their kicks were spectacular, but they’d be useless as a Rockette until they could get the height right. “You have to control your legs, Ladies.” Linda rebuked.

That wasn’t my particular problem. It was my non-kicking leg that was going haywire. “Kristi, make sure your base leg stays in one spot and doesn’t move forward or backward while you jump,” Linda remarked. This was nerve-wracking. Even my gynecologist hadn’t examined me that thoroughly.

After every girl was scrutinized, it was time to try it again. “This time forget about flipping the wreaths. Just hold them in place. Focus,” commanded Linda. The music began, and we kicked our eleven kicks. Except for Karla. She kicked twelve. All eyes from the creative staff shot daggers her way. “ALWAYS count your kicks, Ladies,” Linda warned as if our very lives depended on it. “Kicking out”—kicking when the rest of the line had stopped, or stopping when the rest of the line was still kicking—was a sin worse than murder in the Rockette world. Karla “the Kicker-Outter” cowered and tried not to cry while pulling the knives from her chest. I prayed that would never happen to me. I was mortified for her.

“Better, Ladies. This time let’s add in the wreath follow up,” said Linda. With no specific counts to the follow-up, we had to feel when the girl to our right flipped hers; as soon as we could feel her starting to flip, we had to flip ours. Then we had to wait for the follow-up to return a second time, going the other direction. All the while we had to keep track of how many kicks we had done and where we were in the music. We practiced over and over, before we ever got it right.

That first year I danced with the Rockettes, I got so many notes I felt like I’d never had a dance lesson in my life. I was afraid to move for fear it would cause the entire creative staff to pull out their pencils and frantically scribble my misdemeanors in their notepads. They were the police squad issuing warnings for our criminal offenses. It was nearly impossible not to take their reprimands to heart.

This type of precision line dancing can be very traumatic. Squelching my individuality and trying to dance exactly like the twenty-plus girls around me was a special skill. As an entertainer, I typically trained to stand out and be noticed. Being a Rockette required that I never stood out. By nature, performers want to attract attention and be different. This job quelled those creative instincts and desires. 

Not only was I keeping my artistic passion in check, I was also dealing with the personalities and attitudes of twenty-some other dancers. Every move I made affected somebody else. We were almost always either dancing in such close quarters that incorrectly moving a fraction of an inch in any direction would cause us to invade someone else’s space, or we were linked arm-to-arm with the girls next to us in a kickline or some other formation. Then we really had to be careful.

As Rockettes, we couldn’t interpret the steps our own way. There had to be no question as to what every move was, what path it would take to get to the next move, and on which beat it would hit. The breaking down of steps was tedious, as was our abundance of nitpicky questions regarding the details. But attention to detail is what makes the Rockettes so awesome to watch. Most everything we did was excruciatingly difficult to master. I doubt I’ll ever see a precision dance troupe as polished as the Rockettes, because no one else is crazy enough to try to be that perfect. “So this is what it feels like to dance with the best. This is hard-core Broadway-caliber performing,” I thought to myself, impressed. Scanning the rehearsal hall, our high-caliber staff with their high expectations, and the mega-talented Rockettes, I felt like I’d truly made it.