Wacky Theater Stories Vol. 1: A Backstage Wardrobe Nightmare

Who doesn’t have a wacky story to share from their time spent in the theater. Some are inspirational. Some are educational. And some mostly prove that Velcro, adrenaline, and live entertainment should probably come with a warning label.

More than 40 years ago, I worked on a creative team that produced shows for theme parks across the country. It was the Golden Age of theme parks, when every detail—from trash cans to storefronts—was designed with artistry, and live entertainment often mattered as much as, if not more than, the thrill rides.

We created it all: musical revues, character shows, magic acts, circuses, and even ice shows. I’m proud to have been part of that work at Great America in California and its sister park in Chicago, both of which were known for their entertainment departments. Each day featured multiple theater shows, street performances, and even an elaborate parade.

The flagship venue was the Grand Music Hall, a 1,600-seat auditorium with an elaborate fly system, state-of-the-art sound and lighting, and a big, ambitious production. The 50-minute show ran eight times a day, usually to packed houses. More than 10,000 guests saw it daily, and they expected to be blown away.

Making that happen required two casts of 18 performers—a day cast and a night cast—two 22-piece live orchestras in the pit, two crews of eight technicians, two dressers, major sets flying in and out, and spectacular costumes that seemed to change in the blink of an eye.

Which brings us to our tale: the wardrobe nightmare.

It was spring 1983, the night before Great America opened for the season. By tradition, the employees, administration, and owners gathered in the Grand Music Hall to celebrate the kickoff of another year. The evening would culminate in the premiere of the new Music Hall show: The Evolution of Rock.

The production traced rock ’n’ roll from its beginnings to the present day—or at least, the present day as defined by the early eighties. It had big production numbers, spectacular effects, and impersonations of rock legends from across the decades.

Like every opening night in the history of theater, the room was full of first-night excitement: an enthusiastic crowd, palpable energy throughout the building, and a cast that could have used two more days of rehearsal—especially once the wardrobe arrived and turned the whole thing into an athletic event.

In a 50-minute performance, most of the performers wore seven to ten costumes, many with hats, wigs, props, or other small pieces that somehow became impossible to find at exactly the wrong moment. And because this was a revue, there were no long monologues or power ballads to hide behind while everyone transformed backstage. At that final stage of rehearsal, when a show is struggling toward opening night, quick changes can become the true nightmare. That was certainly true here. Because the show was new, we did not fully understand the number—or the severity—of those changes until the wardrobe run-throughs. Once we did, those of us with dressing-disaster experience stepped in with advice, encouragement, and the kind of calm you perform when there is no actual calm available.

Some of the solutions were practical, if not exactly elegant. A few of the men underdressed pants over pants, so at the top of the show they could barely walk under all those layers. Back in the day, everything seemed to involve Velcro, the unsung hero of live entertainment. Younger people might relate more to the more modern hidden magnet technology. But in a show built around impersonations, clothing was only part of the problem. There were sideburns for Elvis, cornrows for Stevie Wonder, glasses for Elton John, padding for Mama Cass, and those strange red wedding-cake hats for Devo.

With each run-through, we found another small solution. The veteran cast members usually solved their own problems first, then jumped in to help the newer performers make it back onstage in time. That mattered, because there were only two dressers backstage, and this production had more than its share of newcomers discovering, very quickly, that choreography is not limited to what happens in front of the audience.

The final run-through ended only two hours before the crowd would be let into the theater. As a temporary fix, two more dressers were added backstage until the worst of the changes could be solved properly in the coming days. The show itself was in good shape, but some of the most important changes were still being missed by a few of the newcomers, and the audience was already beginning to gather on the theater steps.

In theater, a deadline is not a suggestion. Opening night was coming whether we were ready or not. So a few of us from the artistic team made the decision to stay backstage and help troubleshoot the danger spots in real time. It was the first—and possibly only—time I experienced an opening night without seeing it from the audience.

During the short interval between reset for top of show and the opening performance, I interviewed cast and crew backstage to discover where I could be the most help. The biggest train wreck was near the end of the show. As rehearsed - Devo sang the last strains of “Whip It” and as they exit, the Village People would appear, followed by the entrance of lead singer, the Motorcycle Cop. Since adding costumes, even in the final dress rehearsal- only the Cowboy was making it to the stage, so really it was only a Village Person. I worked quickly with the 5 guys and helped them with some tricks and some mini rehearsals to solve problems. I was hopeful for all but knew the Motorcycle Cop, Roger,  was going to need my help. Roger, was new to the world of theme park revues. Although very talented, he was not yet completely clear on how to make certain parts of this kind of job work. I must give him credit though. Rather than panicked or desperate he was calm- maybe too calm. I don’t know if he realized we were in a do or die moment.

Showtime arrived, and The Evolution of Rock hit the stage. The audience was with us immediately. They loved Little Richard and his towering pompadour. They roared when the Beach Boys popped out of the trunk of a GTO. Sonny and Cher got big laughs. So far, so good.

Then we started barreling toward the eighties: Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, Boy George. Backstage, Devo was waiting in the wings, and the Village People were trying to make the impossible possible. The Cowboy was ready. The Cop, the Construction Worker, and the Indian were nearly there. But Roger, our Motorcycle Cop, was moving at a pace best described as scenic.

Devo hit the stage to a wild reaction, while four members of the Village People grabbed final costume pieces and raced toward the wings. Roger, meanwhile, had his pants around his ankles, his shirt unbuttoned, his tie askew, and his helmet only halfway under control. Onstage, Devo was reaching the final phrases of “Whip It,” which meant Roger had seconds, not minutes.

The other Villagers glanced back to see if he was coming. What they saw was Roger calmly fastening his Velcro shirt and tie while shuffling, pants still at his ankles, toward the prop table in search of his sunglasses. Apparently, he had prioritized mystery over mobility.

The other four were already onstage, giving the first of five enthusiastic “Hey!” responses. I had been coaching Roger through the change, but now we had crossed from urgent into absurd. As he finally put on the sunglasses, I said, “Roger, you have to go. How can I help you?”

He looked at me with complete calm and asked, “Is my tie straight?”

That was the end of my helpful coaching voice. I said, with all the compassion opening night allows, “Pull your pants up and get out there!”

He made it onstage just in time for his first response: “Macho Man.” The audience loved them. In fact, the Village People were the hit of the afternoon.

That show went on to become one of the most successful theme park productions ever staged. It ran for ten years by dozens of casts in parks across the country and was performed thousands of times. Over those years, many performers learned to master the Motorcycle Cop change, and I am sure the process became far more civilized than it was on that opening afternoon.

Still, I like to think Roger made an important contribution to the unofficial training manual: first – Priorities!, and – Black Tie Optional.