AIKEN NEWS NETWORK AUGUST 27

...and from the annals of Clay. Enjoy:

A "Wide-Eyed Wanderer" Finds His Place: Clay on Broadway - Part 1

by Kristen (2004/05/30)

The sun blared hot above a rather sweltering combination of high humidity swirling in between the mammoth skyscrapers and hazy heat seeping up from the sewage drains - never a good combination for my mop of hair. It was set just right as I left my house bound for the bus station and by supper time, it was a rat’s nest.

A miniscule little detail in the grand scheme of the day yet a proverbial hiccup in my gene pool, I only complained for a third of my trip about the unruly locks atop my head before stifling it’s obnoxious frizz by twisting it into a classy bun prior to your big debut.

But I digress. In a place like this, my hair must be the last thing on my mind.

New York City is precisely what Norah Jones proclaims it to be - a beautiful disease.

The way the buildings loom overhead as the industrial protectors of the Big Apple’s inhabitants that hurriedly move about the concrete walkways, the way the cab drivers seem to envision an empty road ahead of them - one that is unclaimed and free to conquer and they proceed to drive accordingly, the way the hustle and bustle of passerby’s is a fascinating combination of pure exhaustion and exhilaration all at once, the way that nature still finds a way to stake her claim as she litters these city streets with the occasional grassy park only to have it completely occupied by working folk sweltering in their trendy business attire, the way that the electricity pumps from traffic light to person to pavement to sky all the while sucking you along for the ride.

I’m addicted to it.

But there is one thing - one thing above all else that has me simply hooked to this city for all eternity.

That is Broadway.

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve performed with song and dance. Granted, the horrid yellow and brown tile kitchen flooring was a far cry from the million dollar theaters that dotted the entertainment maps of the greatest city on earth, it was still my stage and my love for it bloomed with each new play I witnessed.

There is something about watching an entertainer under a white hot spotlight in a room filled with people who for if only an hour or two, distance themselves from the chaotic awesomeness of such a busy hunk of civilization that enraptured me. It was an escape for me personally, not just from my ratty city hair, but from the dizzying lifestyles of true New Yorkers.

Once inside the doors of any of New York’s grand theaters, I felt a sense of calm. There were no honking horns and there were no satanic pigeons. There was simply the pure, raw and unrestricted respect and awe of true professional aesthetics.

These famous unknowns were my heroes. They rarely graced the covers of teen magazines and their work was never showcased on tongue-in-cheek countdown shows that boasted being cutting-edge with the ever present and ever irritating WOOO’s after every “shout-out.” They didn’t need it. They were there for the music, not the glory. Did they care about being Friday’s number one request? Oh no, not them. These people had class.

I can remember sitting in the twelfth row of the Majestic Theater in between my mother and grandmother as a massive crystal chandelier rose above my head and over the crowd while the orchestra played a haunting tune. The Phantom in all of his anonymous glory sang songs of love and desire and sent chills up and down every inch of flesh of the lucky house of patrons. I watched as the stage before me lit up with the vibrancy of colorful costumes and was made audible through professionally trained and highly impressive voices.

Voices that I thought had no match until you came along.

Mr. Cowell thought it an insult to label you “too Broadway” for this competition. To him I ask - what is so wrong with being able to move even the coldest and toughest city hearts to tears with a song? What is wrong with walking through life truly devoted to your craft and gaining such a respect from such a fortunate group of people? Is a Tony Award that insignificant to him?

Mr. Cowell was wrong and right all at the same time. And on Monday, Clay, you proved it.

Initially, I thought it wrong of me to agree with Simon that your voice was not what that competition was looking for. When I had stepped back from the debate at hand I came to the conclusion that he was right. Your voice wasn’t right for American Idol. It was beyond. So sorry for Simon too, he couldn’t profit from you the way he had hoped.

The thin vocals and sappy love lyrics of the pop world are no where near the caliber of what I know you to be capable of. From the tender age of seventeen, as a high school senior belting out a melody from “Jekyl and Hyde,” it was clear that your vocal chords had been blessed and destined for nothing short of the best. Then came the “Velveeta Fest” that was American Idol.

Now, now. Before you get steamed, allow me to explain. I respect and appreciate all that this fine, fine establishment has done for you, yet I fear that all of the pounds of British profit that 19E has garnered over the years is still not enough to do justice to all that you have to offer.

And you have since left them in your wake - smart, smart, SMART boy. I applaud that act and metaphorically kiss your freshly unshackled feet.

Nevertheless, American Idol did aid in the success you’ve obtained thus far. But to put it in my perspective, it’s like a garden. They planted the seed and it was up to all of us to water and cultivate you as you grew.

Yes - I’m just as cheesy as that glorified karaoke competition. I admit it. But - cheese is so good!

Alright, you owe them thanks for the exposure and the little “boost” they gave you into the spotlight. But believe me; you are so much better off without them.

You turned heads this week and hopefully one head in particular.

Clive Davis was in attendance on Monday and unless one of the most gifted and successful men in the music industry has malfunctioning ears, then he should thank his lucky stars each and every single day for having you on his roster of recording artists.

And I mean that with everything I have.

I spent that sweltering day with a dear friend meandering lazily about the city all the while trying to contain my excitement for the evening’s events. Truth be told, we did look for you. I couldn’t help but be curious as to how this sweet little country boy handled the big bad city now that he was free from the “coverage” of past management.

Sure I had seen you twice in the city before and it surely wasn’t your first time there, but it was really my first time exploring it as unaccompanied as I assumed you had been. The eagerness of having limitless opportunities in such a fascinating place romanced me and I wondered if you felt the same.

It’s odd I know. And perhaps I’m making too much of just wanting to sneak a peak of you in the casual setting now that I had a small window of opportunity to do so.

Yes - that’s it.

Several bathroom breaks, poses with wax statues, dressing room visits and frowned-upon-by-the-parental-units-Tiffany’s-purchases (it was just such a pretty necklace - I couldn’t resist!), five o’clock neared and it was time to meet up with an undoubtedly anxious group of fans.

We congregated at Applebee’s which was conveniently a hop, skip, and a pounding heartbeat away from the theater. There was a loving buzz resonating about the second floor of the restaurant as we all anticipated your big Broadway debut.

Greetings and uncovering of internet identities were exchanged upon seating ourselves next to the large window that overlooked 42nd Street and all I kept picturing in my mind was that image of you backed by an eighteen piece orchestra.

What would it sound like? Heaven, no doubt, but my mind was still reeling over the fact of you taking the stage with Broadway legends. Voices that I fell in love with before I had ever been blessed to hear yours would be able to listen to you in what I’m now convinced is your element.

I could barely finish my barbeque chicken sandwich though the delightfully tangy sauce begged my taste buds to intake more of itself as it mixed with cheesy, bacon-y goodness from atop a bed of crisp lettuce. My stomach was in flip-flops with the sheer excitement of what I would witness two hours from then.

And finally, the time had come. After a day’s worth of occupying myself with all of the enchantment of the city, it was time to escape it all as I had done so many times before. Only this time, it was you that I was escaping to.

The entrance of the theater was swarmed with everyone from high-rolling financial supporters to women who sported your mug on a button fastened to their jacket.

“Those with tickets in hand, stay in this line. Those for will call, over here!” shouted a theater attendant. I’m not sure why I rushed the way I did. The show wasn’t due to begin for another forty-five minutes. I succumbed to an overwhelming urge to zip past bag checks (which were weakly done - Thank God) and bolt to the elevator that took me to my balcony seat. My mother insisted that fifty dollars for one song was crazy - until she heard the slyly obtained MP3.

The house was positively freezing yet a welcome climate change from the grossness of the outdoors. Seated comfortably in our third row seats, my friend and I bounced unconsciously much to the amusement of those who, at the time, “didn’t get it” as we gushed on and on about how gorgeous the theater was.

The architecture reeked of a whimsical day dream in some far off fairytale world as four purple, blue, and green peacocks surrounded by flourishing floral designs marked the top, bottom, left, and right of the grand ceiling. There were four lengthy, sprite-looking figures watching overhead as well. But their faces gave me chills, so I tore my eyes away as soon as I could.

I averted my gaze to the crimson and gold curtain that draped in front of the stage. In wild and exotic shapes intensified by the muted reds and blues of the lights, the patterns were representative of an African piece- which makes sense. This was the theater where “The Lion King” is held.

As I looked around at the crowd, I noticed that when we (your fans) want to, we make our presence known. The females in the balcony area clearly outnumbered the males two to one, which made me giggle a bit considering the rather large group of men behind me. My friend and I squealed upon seeing your name in the Playbill and they thought it was the funniest thing. And I’m sure it was, we did set ourselves back a few years with that squeal.

The lights go down and I could have sworn my heart stopped beating.

Applauds rang through the house as the curtains opened to reveal one of the most astonishingly talented female vocalists I have ever heard in front of a casual looking orchestra.

Her tall, lean, muscular frame stood proud and confident behind her microphone stand - much like the way you do. Her arms hung ready at her sides before they trailed up the cold metal of her stand. She rested her weight on her left foot as the other stretched out to the side in a manner that commanded the stage and promised one incredible night of music.

The moment she opened her mouth, I did too. It was my jaw dropping to the floor.

Heather’s CD does her live voice no justice whatsoever. Goosebumps peaked on my arms and remained there for the duration of the evening. Each note dripped with passion and her entire performance was just soaked in effortless magic. She too was a pro at charming and playful banter with the audience as she mocked her own self and situations she had met during her career. Her whole persona led me to ask myself one question.

Fantasia who?

The woman in front of me was a willing slave to her craft as she moved in tune with the melody and belted out the lyrics like no one I had ever heard before.

I’ve never once seen your unique mix of confidence and humility in another performer until I saw Heather. She was so unaffected with herself and that element brought a delightful and refreshing contrast to the self-proclaimed “divas” that own today’s airwaves. They ought to be ashamed to boast vocal talent in her presence. I was and still am in complete and total awe of her.

She transformed from proud powerhouse to giddy school girl when she proclaimed she needed someone “cute” to sing the final song of the first act with. Her cheek met her shoulder as she shrugged meekly and twisted back and forth while praising your talent.

The first chords of “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” played soothingly and Heather fell into character once more. Her electric yet controlled movements decorated the notes and I quietly hummed along. The theater training in her was made clear. She lived that song exactly as Elton intended it to be sung - in a manner of utter love.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began in a low tone. And as a bright smile washed across her face, she extended her arm out to showcase her very charming and very qualified partner in song. “Clay Aiken!”

A tidal wave of applause crashed down upon the stage as you humbly - if not timidly - walked to your place. Dapperly done in you crisp cream suit and feet the size of boat oars, your eyes locked directly onto her. I found that to be different than your other performances.

True, you were not the headliner tonight. But try and tell that to the seventy some people who gathered because of you this astounding fact and hear something completely opposite. You seemed aware of your role as a guest in the whole production. Though you did acknowledge the audience at key points in the song, this performance was unlike what we had seen of you before.

You sang to her. With her. For her. It was beautiful. Maybe it’s my romantic side winning the battle here but you looked to be just as in awe of her as I was. I don’t recall seeing you look at any other performers quite that way before. A look that spoke of respect and pure admiration with a slight twinge of unworthiness, tonight - you were most humble.

I was reminded of taking master classes from my ballet instructors as I watched you watch her on stage. I can remember sucking up all I could from those two hour long sessions and just feeling lucky enough to have the opportunity to learn as much as I could from one so gifted. Something tells me you felt the same way. A student learning from a fantastic teacher but one that practically wrote the book on style and class when it comes to vocal performances.

The song progressed and with each passing bar, you warmed up to the unfamiliar stage. Heather’s fervent delivery of the song got to you too and consequently, you were put to ease. Eventually, the confidence you oozed during your recent tour seeped out of your fingers and the tips of your toes and you lived those remaining phrases in such a way that brought the entire theater to tears. You mirrored her intensity which made for one of the most captivating stage performances I have ever seen.

Vocally stunning and even more so visually, you have once again melted my whole self.

I knew my heart was racing, but I couldn’t feel it within my chest.

I knew I had bones to support my structure, but my every appendage seemed to wobble fluidly as I attempted to applaud and simultaneously wipe away my streaming tears.

I was shaking at the magnificence of it all.

When you took her hand - my God - it was just so perfect. You softly reached for her and she placed hers in your grasp.

I squealed.

Again.