Dancers on Tour | This Dancing Life

Dancers on Tour

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“I love touring, I really do.” — Penelope Keith

You’re going on tour — that’s a huge adventure. You’ll experience some extraordinary moments in beautiful places. Be warned, though. You’ll need stamina…

With one company we toured forty weeks a year, new venues every week, dancing seven or eight performances of two different productions weekly, travelling by coach from city to city. Dancers organized their own accommodation, using the “digs” list for each theatre. We were paid Touring Allowance (“TA”) at union rates, in advance. Not being rich (some things don’t change…), we lived on TA, making it last, saving our meagre salaries for rent and bills at home.

On tour you carry your own luggage — if you can’t carry it, don’t bring it. Dancers use masses of kit; practice gear, liniment, bandages, make-up, hair-dryers, towels, exercise-bands, weights; it gets seriously heavy, so we had “skips”, (boxes with webbing straps) to pack before each tour. They weren’t lockable, and space was limited. You learned to pack carefully.

On the road, company manager and crew are always first into each venue, doing the “get-in”, unloading sets, costume-boxes, racks, props, lighting, sound equipment, floor-coverings, wardrobe, make-up, barres, shoe-boxes, a travelling piano, wigs, skips, portable lighting board, sound console and an entire office, from trucks backed into the loading-dock. They work fast — the fit-up may take several hours, and a theatre with the loading-door open becomes extremely cold.

Costume staff hurry backstage with printed name-lists and tape, designating spaces for company office, wardrobe, make-up, and dressing-rooms. Dancers’ quick changes must happen near the stage, without flights of stairs to negotiate, zipping and buttoning as they run. Principals also want proximity to the stage, so a functional pecking order emerges. Some theatres have “star” dressing-rooms, always much in demand.

Wardrobe are dragging equipment to their quarters, unpacking costumes and hanging them in dressing-rooms or corridors. The Company manager is setting up files, computers, printers, internet, telephone, cast-lists, publicity, programmes, a safe, touring schedules, rehearsal schedules, orchestra schedules, dressing-room lists and company notices for the call-board. The floor-cloth has been unrolled to “rest” –stubborn PVC, cold from shipping, needs time to uncurl and lie flat. Electricians trolley pre-mounted lights, booms and cabling to destinations up- centre- or down-stage or in the wings. Electrics (“LX”), the stage carpenter and the technical director all jockey for space on the pipework grid in the “flies”, finding hanging-space for scenery, lights, borders, legs, teasers, tabs, crossover and the cyclorama.

Dancers intruding on this organized chaos will be invited to make themselves scarce. Nonetheless, you could discreetly take your skip upstairs, and set up. Choose your seat, mirror and table, unpack, and spread out make-up, hair stuff, tissues, mascots, and such on a towel in front of the mirror (usually surrounded by very hot naked light-bulbs), thereby delineating “your space” for the week. Find showers and toilets, routes to the stage, stage-door, green room, canteen, and the pass-door to the front of house, all useful information. Then search the city for a supermarket near your digs, a chemist, possibly a restaurant, (careful — your vital TA can’t stretch too far). There’s probably a pub near the theatre, for after performances.

Onstage, the floor-cloth has been taped down. Legs have been hung, cables have been run, taped down or swooping overhead. Backdrops have been unrolled, tied to pipes and hoisted into the flies. LX are adjusting cues or fine-tuning individual lamps according to shouted instructions from somewhere in the darkened stalls. The sound-crew are heaving speakers backstage and checking levels. (You need monitors — audiences can hear perfectly, but people onstage sometimes can’t; theatre acoustics often focus into the auditorium.) Backstage a props-table materialises, downstage is the stage-manager’s desk, quick-change spaces are built in the wings or corridor.

Presently the ballet-master, and conductor arrive to assess the venue. They’ll confer with staff to ensure that things work properly for everyone involved. Space is always a problem; one theatre may be so big that dancers can hardly cross the stage in time, another so cramped that one wing must be eliminated, changing entrances and exits, possibly even choreography.

Dancers appear, scanning the callboard, hunting out dressing-rooms, heaving skips upstairs, settling in. The wiser ones head home asap — it’s going to be a long week.

Early next morning, the crew are back. The floor must be mopped and dried, barres brought onstage for class, the piano parked somewhere, all leftover chores finished. Wardrobe are starching, ironing, doing last-minute repairs. The company manager is printing cast-lists and slips for the programme brochures.

Around nine, dancers arrive to change and warm up for class. Some theatres have ballet studios, but in most touring theatres you use the stage. Just before ten, there’ll be announcements from the ballet-master and the company manager. There may be developments; someone late or injured, entailing emergency rehearsal, a reception for sponsors (dancers’ presence required), a special-interest group watching class, or all sorts of other situations.

Class starts, everyone carefully trying this stage out. How’s the floor? Some stages are hard, others may be resilient, or conceal rigid edges under the floor-cloth. Some are “raked” (tilted forwards at a slope of 1 in 23), making ballet technique unnecessarily complicated. Pirouettes require perpetual adjustment. (It helps to “spot” slightly higher than usual). A manège on a raked stage is easy going downstage — you travel effortlessly. Cornering or heading uphill feels like climbing Everest, and cutting across, facing upstage, you’re fighting not to land on the back of your head. Even barre feels weird. Facing upstage, ronds de jambe fly loose at the back and jam into the slope at the front. Turn around; the reverse will be true. Working sideways on to the rake, front and back feel almost normal, but everything à la seconde lifts off the floor. There’s no ideal solution; just keep trying and hope for a flat stage next week.

Class finishes around eleven-fifteen. After the break, there’s a run-through for placing (different for each theatre). If tonight’s piece hasn’t been danced recently, it must be rehearsed. Ballet-masters try to conserve dancers’ energy, so it won’t all be full out — some bits, though, need proper rehearsal. Other sequences are marked — even then, do the musicality, acting and arms full out, every time. Sloppiness becomes habitual and shows in performance….

“So many dancers rely on some sort of magic happening on the stage. They never, for various reasons, work full out in rehearsal. That’s very uncreative. They don’t discover the kinds of things that add up to a remarkable performance.”
— Benjamin Harkarvy

Stage-calls end around one-thirty; the crew need time for technical “tweaks”. Perhaps there’s rehearsal for second-cast soloists or principals who’ll perform later in the week. Dancers head for a hasty lunch, some quick shopping and a nap, returning to the theatre around half-past five to change, prepare, and get to the stage for a six-thirty warm-up. Warm-up prepares both body and mind — always do it. Make up beforehand; repairs can be done after the barre.

Around seven, the stage manager closes the main curtain tabs, accompanied by the sinister rumbling of the “iron” (the fire curtain). The auditorium opens — you hear the murmur of people filtering in to take their seats. Check your costumes, props, exits and entrances, crossovers, quick changes and the rest. If everything is alright (if not, tell someone immediately), get into costume. Some people go onstage now, and walk through their entrances. I always found this a reassuring ritual.

Performing is euphoric. This unfamiliar theatre, with different acoustics, sight-lines and distances, demands all your concentration. That’s exciting, challenging, part of the fun. The final applause is the best possible end to the day.

After the show, ballet-masters hurry round the dressing-rooms, notebook in hand, delivering corrections. There’s very little modesty in dance companies — it’s quite normal for them to be surrounded by sweaty, naked dancers, all changing and showering as they listen.

Afterwards, musicians, dancers and crew may gather convivially in the stage-door pub, pleased with themselves and each other, relieved that everyone’s combined efforts have paid off. These are wonderful moments. Most dancers won’t stay long, though — there’s class, bright and early tomorrow morning. Musicians may not be in until the performance, so they can party on. You’ll be glad tomorrow if you sleep tonight — try to make a habit of it.

Wednesday may be matinée day, with shows afternoon and evening. This is rough. Four acts of ballet (think “Swan Lake”) are hard. Eight acts in one day is forced labour. If the matinée isn’t Wednesday it’ll be Thursday, with everyone even more tired. Energy conservation becomes crucial. Between shows, dancers frequently sleep on dressing-room floors in full hair and make-up, head pillowed on rolled-up track-suits, and a dressing-gown over them, to regain energy for the evening performance. Afterwards, the crew strike the show and fit up the new one, often working overnight until everything’s ready.

“Yeah, touring can get rough sometimes and draining, but I always have to pinch myself and realize that I’m doing what I love.” — Jonny Lang

On Friday the second programme opens. There’s class at ten, then full rehearsal. You pray nobody’s off, which would mean emergency measures, stress and tension for everyone. After rehearsal there’s just time for lunch, shopping, laundry, and a brief nap, then it’s back for make-up, hair, warmup and the show.

On Saturday, you may have to pack and move out of your digs, bringing your luggage to the theatre. There’ll be a short class but probably no group rehearsals. Matinées are when second-cast soloists and principals are presented, so they may be rehearsing in the morning.

“Even today when I rehearse, I give it everything that I’ve got. If I’m in a performance and the lights go out, I glow in the dark. When you’re working before an audience, you have to make them feel like they can touch you. That’s the dancer within, reaching out.” — Mitzi Gaynor

After the last show, you drag your packed skip to the loading-dock. The “get-out” is underway, crew packing and shifting gear at high speed. Wet, icy air and lorry fumes whistle through the loading door. Dress warmly, keep your eyes open, stay out of danger. You’ve got shows next week; don’t get hurt, don’t catch cold. Tonight, tomorrow or on Monday you’ll be off again, to the next city, the next theatre, the next week’s performance (no-one said it would be easy…).

“A lot of people can’t stand touring but to me it’s like breathing. I do it because I’m driven to do it.” — Bob Dylan

Of course, not all touring is like this. When I was a student, we did weekend “out-and-back” tours, sometimes to faraway cities, taking hours to reach, especially in winter. We travelled in a big, silver Greyhound bus. I remember the excitement, gathering at the studio amid exhaust fumes and the bass throb of diesel engines. We sang or slept all the way there (coming home, we just slept). We toured schools, community halls or cinemas, learning to deal with everything as we went along. They were wonderful weekends, but there were sleepy faces at school on Monday mornings.

Later, in Europe, we travelled overnight after performances by rail, on a tight schedule. These were strange, wonderful experiences, everyone tucked into curtained-off upper and lower berths along the sleeping car, hurtling through icy darkness, towards the next city. It’s practical of course, combining accommodation and transport, but there was more socialising than sleeping. People were pretty exhausted by the end of the tour.

“There’s parts of touring I like. I like the actual performance part, but the bit when you’re in the airport waiting at the carousel for your bags to come around, I don’t like that a bit.” — Bernard Sumner

I toured the United States with the great Sol Hurok organisation. We had lots of dancers, a vast support staff and a full orchestra, touring for ten weeks in New York, Chicago, Boston, San Francisco, Seattle, Memphis and many other cities, from sophisticated to primitive. Usually we flew, or ran a fleet of vehicles — two coaches for dancers, another for orchestra, another for technical and administrative personnel and four wagons of sets and lights, leap-frogging each other across that vast country, carrying equipment we would need the week after next. We stayed in large hotels, sometimes miles from the theatres, sometimes in dangerous areas, which we were warned not to enter alone. It was unforgettably exciting — the administrative details must have been nightmarish.

“Touring is tough. You’re almost in a haze because you don’t really know where you are half the time: You’re in a hotel room one moment, and the next thing you know, you’re onstage performing for 60,000 people, then you’re back on an airplane. It’s very hectic and I couldn’t do it without my family.” — Vanessa Hudgens

After Sol Hurok’s organization closed, that kind of touring became rare, although remarkable tours still happen. Once, in the deep South, we found the entire staff on strike, refusing to allow a technical rehearsal. We got ourselves onstage with minimal lighting. The first ballet, in four scenes, featured big painted set-cloths flying in and out at specific moments. The crew had a list of the fly cues, but without technical rehearsal, they didn’t know the timings. When the stage-manager gave their first cue, they ran the entire sequence, one drop after another, as we darted desperately about onstage, trying to avoid yet another large cloth arriving fast and unpredictably from above our heads. It was a memorable experience.

Once, near Bordeaux, the coach lurched unexpectedly into a vineyard, where the impresario had secretly arranged lunch. We piled out, and were ushered to long, vine-shaded tables for a delicious, expansive meal, courtesy of the vignoble, a ballet fan. In Brest we lunched on a French navy submarine, courtesy of its commander, another balletomane.

“I love touring in the United States. It’s dramatically different wherever you go. North to south, you’re going from snow to palm trees.” — Greg Lake

I’ve toured in theatres with dressing-rooms deep in standing water, in places where it rained directly onto the stage, with thunder drowning out the orchestra, in theatres infested with rats, gold-leaf-covered theatres inside great palaces, in cinemas and circuses, in towns where the police had to protect us from rioters protesting election fraud, in immense outdoor theatres where performances would be held up by thunderstorms, where men with mops and squeegees would dry off the stage at two in the morning so we could perform. Once the curtain was delayed for an hour because our coach was surrounded by herds of reindeer, blocking the snowy road. In Rome, where the audience included a legendary star (whom we wanted to guest with us), the electricity failed. We, the audience, and the legendary star, waited for hours in the dark, velvet night until service was resumed, then trooped, blinking, back into the theatre to finish the show.

“I really have to dance more often, and so I travel around. If I don’t, I will crumble“. — Rudolf Nureyev

In Canada, we performed for the inmates of prisons, mental hospitals and long-term care institutions, who were delighted to see us and wonderfully grateful. We played the exquisite Theatre Royal in the beautiful Regency city of Bath, to be joined afterwards by one of the royal family, who danced with us all night. During one trip we danced in parks on a portable stage, laid across two flat-bed lorries, dressing in caravans, with planters of holly to mark the wings. There was a tour across the Soviet Union, where the door to our decrepit plane wouldn’t shut, and we flew for hours at a height of a few hundred feet, as freezing air whistled through the cabin.

And of course, there were tours when everything ran smoothly, and nothing odd happened at all. It’s just the luck of the draw; you never know what to expect.