The premiere performance of Ballet Chicago was a colossal production; it consisted of nine ballets, four of them performed by guest artists who arrived in town only the day before the event. The single rehearsal that preceded it, uniting for the first time all the dancers, costumes, and music, was hardly a graceful undertaking. It was a battle of wits and will between two groups who barely spoke each other’s language: the dancers, cranky and tired, who use an esoteric sign language to indicate the steps that they’re too tired to dance, and the musicians, cranky and tired, much of whose jargon is Italian, the rest odd mathematics. In the background are the directors, huddled in a little knot of nerves, whispering and sputtering as the dilemmas unroll: Would the dancers stay on the music? Would the music follow the dancers? How much would the musicians’ overtime cost? Would the conductor pop a vessel?
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“I’m sorry–I think we should take this adagio just a weensy bit slower,” she drawls. Daugherty nods, cries “Mezzo forte!” and the music begins again. Again Parker stops. “I don’t know why I can’t seem to get more out of this,” she whines.
“This is taking too much time,” Daugherty mutters to Daniel Duell, the artistic director, who is seated behind him. But they play it again.
The curtain finally rises. The Ballet Chicago dancers prance on, in Joseph Duell’s Jubilee! Two girls in the corps bump into each other; the two principals are out of sync. One stops, frustrated; the other dances on, oblivious.
“Take the last seven bars again,” Daugherty announces. “Hopefully we’ll go on, if we don’t crash and burn.”
“The very beegeening,” Guerra repeats. “Leetle slower.” He shows his pose from the entrance.
“He really leaves the stage?” asks Daugherty. “He really leaves the stage,” sighs Blair.
