The Fiddler Fell Off The Roof, and Died.

As Demetri Martin once said, "A musical is like a burlap sack. I would not want to be in either." Since I have fortunately not been in a burlap sack, I will only be able to offer my reflections on the former.

The year was 2004. Or 2005. I don't remember. I do remember that I was in 8th grade. Our class had chosen Fiddler On The Roof as our class play that year. I'm not gonna lie, I liked the play alot. It was a touching, heartfelt, humorous, sad and inspiring tale of love and tradition, of struggle and hardship, and of many other things that can be learned through googling "Fiddler On The Roof - Plot summary". Oh, and the music for the play was great. 

I got a singing part that year. I was so proud of myself, and so motivated to do well. But then I realized something. I was in 8th grade. My voice had not changed. I spent many a night crying myself to sleep (figuratively of course) just re-enacting the manly baritones of my male classmates in my head. I ended up making our pianist - an eccentric fellow named Alan Dynan who played brilliantly but mumbled while he played - play my song in an obscure key that should not exist on the piano. I would have felt bad, but I didn't. I did what I had to do. I had to make my song as low as I could possibly sing it. I had to salvage what was left of my 8th grade manhood. 

Apart from some uncoordinated dance steps and several extremely ill-timed sneezes, the play went very well. As Borat might say, it was a "GREAT SUCCESS!" But what I will always remember about that experience is my high voice ringing out alone, as I myself  dreamt about being trapped in a burlap sack.