A Wandering Minstrel I

Maybe it's because he turned out to be such a competent performer; that he fit himself so well into the role. When I watched the stage, I didn't just see my son doing a surprisingly good job in his first theatrical performance and thus fill up with pride. I saw the Mikado, grave one moment, giggling the next, then silencing the townspeople with a glare. I saw the Mikado singing in a reasonably accurate bass about letting the punishment fit the crime, the punishment fit the crime. At some level I knew it was my son and at that level was amazed at his ability, heretofore unguessed. But on the surface (which is evidently where I normally experience the world) I was just enjoying the show, the music familiar from listening to D'Oyly Carte records when I was a kid, the updated lyrics that made Koko's song about his list and who won't be missed something to laugh out loud about. I haven't burst yet. And maybe I won't. We're a family of performers, of a sort. I might have inherited a tendency to be serious and critical, happy for the effort, but happier still if it's done well, something my father makes no bones about. He's not afraid to note a seventeen-year-old singer's lack of depth. But my parents met while in the chorus for H.M.S. Pinafore, and their children and grandchildren all do musical performance, so maybe a relatively light portion of merely sentimental appreciation is to be expected. We all had a lovely time in any case, and the lady who gathered these talented thespians, who ranged in age from thirteen to twenty-two, did a phenomenal job getting their act together.