A Chorus Line No. 36 - Paula Leggett
- Lauryn Johnson
- Jul 19
- 10 min read
HELLO 12, HELLO 13, HELLO LOVE…
I was 13 years old when A CHORUS LINE opened on Broadway in 1975. I had never heard of A CHORUS LINE, but when my best friend Paula Evans told me her parents had a Broadway record album full of songs with “sexy stuff” and “bad words”, I could hardly wait until school got out, dashing past the corn fields to her house. We headed straight to the basement where we could play the album on the big hi-fi without parental interference or judgement. We dropped the needle on that OBC album over and over. We giggled uncontrollably over “Dance: 10 Looks: 3”, and gleefully danced around on the concrete floor to I Can Do That, trying to imagine what this extravaganza looked like on stage. I remember Paula Evans teaching me how to do “pullbacks”, a jumping tap step where you tap the floor with each foot while hanging in the air before landing, ta-ta-ta-TA. Delightful! We did them over and over, ta-ta-ta-TA, ta-ta-ta-TA, galloping backwards around the basement till we collapsed into the sofa, breathless. Then there was Diana Morales’s song about her acting teacher “and I felt nothing, he called me nothing!”. We were southern Indiana girls who had never heard of “The High School of Performing Arts”, and New York City was far away, a dreamscape I imagined looked just like the Gene Kelly movies I loved. But like Diana, we understood how it felt to have a teacher make us feel small. I couldn’t get enough of these honest forthright characters who talked openly about their dreams, family problems, and insecurities. They expressed themselves with words I couldn’t imagine saying out loud, and I was profoundly moved by their stories. “One singular sensation, every little step she takes,” I sang out, slamming a styrofoam hat, a piece of advertising swag my dad brought back from an automotive convention, on and off my head as my top hat. I grasped that hat so tightly pieces of styrofoam broke off until I eventually demolished the entire brim!
Paula Evans and I couldn’t have known that A CHORUS LINE would become a huge part of my life. We were just two 13 year old girls, best friends, on the cusp of womanhood, having no idea where life would take us.
THAT AIN’T IT, KID…
My next encounter with A CHORUS LINE was in 1986. After college I moved to New York City, spent a year performing on a cruise ship and returned to NYC just in time to audition for summer stock in the spring. I had been a voice major at the prestigious Indiana University School of Music which at that time, produced major operatic voices and other professional singers for oratorio, recital and choir work. Musical theatre was considered a lesser art form, but I had landed there because, first of all, it was affordable in-state tuition, and, I loved to sing. Even though I quickly realized I wasn’t destined for an opera career, I enjoyed the training and made the best of it. So, coming from that background, when I sang my legit pieces for musical theatre auditions in NYC, my skills were appreciated, but the people behind those audition tables also took in my physicality, and expected me to be able to dance. I was strong, I could jump, and, I was extremely flexible. Dancing in a social setting, I was pretty fantastic, quite honestly. People would clear the floor and watch me. I had choreographed for The Singing Hoosiers in college, and had been a gymnast as a kid, so I was in touch with my body. But I had no technique. I couldn’t compete with trained dancers.
As I recall, no one could do a double pirouette in our summer stock version of A CHORUS LINE at The Mac-Haydn Theatre in 1986 except the woman they brought in to play Cassie. I played Sheila. So, for the “turn-turn-out-in-jump-step” in the opening audition sequence, we all did “HOP-HOP-out-in-jump-step” instead. We hopped around, facing back, then front. The show was put together by A Chorus Line alumni Patti D’Beck and Dennis Edenfield. Lucky for us, they were kind and patient, and passionate about sharing the show, so the experience was a joy. Someone suggested I drop my picture and resume off at the Shubert, so I did.
Much to my surprise, I got a call to audition for the Broadway company! They were looking for a Broadway vacation swing who could cover “Judy Turner" and “Sheila”. I reached out to Dennis for advice; “Yes!” he said, “you should absolutely go in!” He worked with me, teaching me the actual choreography that would be expected of me. Our “hop-hop-out-in” summer stock version wasn’t gonna cut it. The big day arrives, and I show up at the Shubert in my bargain-bin leotard. I’m intimidated by the “real’ dancers chatting away and warming up, but I’m also thrilled out of my mind to be standing on an actual Broadway stage. The Shubert! Wow!! Watch me, Grandma!
When it’s time to sing, I heave a sigh of relief, and hand my music to the pianist, Nick Archer:
“Hello, I’m Paula Leggett and I will be singing Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man O’ Mine from SHOWBOAT, by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein.”
Can you even imagine??
I sang that beautiful but deeply old-fashioned 1928 song, complete with a high Bb at the end for A CHORUS LINE on Broadway. The stage manager, a crusty, direct, slow-talking older gentleman named Tom, dead-panned, “Do you have something in your book more like the show?” I brightly suggested, “I could sing it a 3rd lower? In Barbra Streisand’s key??”
ACL’s Dance Captain Troy Garza came down to the edge of the stage, “Paula, just do a simple double pirouette for me.” It was reasonable request, but unfortunately my “simple double pirouette” skill was, like the SNL Players, “not ready for prime time”. Facing the infinite swimming dark recesses of the Shubert house left me hopelessly dizzy and off-balance. In spite of my shortcomings, they liked me, or at least they were nice to me and made a concerted effort to get what they needed out of me, but it wasn’t my job. I simply wasn’t ready.
UP A STEEP AND VERY NARROW STAIRWAY…
I decided to try some dance classes at STEPS on Broadway. I started with tap; I already knew a few steps. After all, I had conquered “pullbacks” in the basement with Paula Evans, and with my music training at IU, tap was like playing drums with my feet, a logical place to start. This will be great! I was a 25 year old adult beginner about to get a crash course in humble pie. STEPS was an intimidating place in the late 80s, and still is.
I learned about class etiquette the hard way. In ballet I was harshly reprimanded by the teacher in front of everyone for not having my hair pulled back properly. I went out to fix it, choking back tears of humiliation. When I accidentally cut off a dancer in across-the-floor jumps, she scornfully snapped, “Please get out of the way, you don’t know what you’re doing.” She was right, I had so much to learn.
Undeterred, I got on the work-study program. I scrubbed down toilets, cleaned showers, and wiped down the sweaty mirrors in the studios at night in exchange for my classes, taking up to three or four a day while also auditioning. I waited tables and sang upstairs at a midtown family-owned restaurant called the Belcrep. Stephen Flaherty was one of my accompanists! When work was slow, I practiced pirouettes in the back section of the restaurant. Little by little, I improved.
I WAS PRETTY, I WAS HAPPY, I WOULD LOVE TO…AT THE BALLET
With encouragement from ballet teacher Peff Modelski, I went en pointe for the very first time, at age 27. I went down to Capezio, bought a pair of hard Pavlova pointe shoes and brought them uptown to show Peff. I sewed the ribbons on, the way she showed me, and took my first pointe class that day. At age 27! I emerged with bloody feet, new aches, and a joy spilling out of me I could barely contain. My technique soared to a new level. I thought, where have I been all my life? Why am I just now doing this?
When I was kid, I was always uncomfortable with my height. By age 14, I was 5’10” towering awkwardly over the boys. As a gymnast, I was acutely aware I didn’t have the ideal compact body type. I even wore flats with my slinky sexy prom dress because I didn’t want my date to feel like he was with a giantess. And there was a high school choir teacher I adored who told me I was too tall to be a dancer, and at the time, I believed him.
At STEPS, I saw dancers of all shapes and sizes. Studying ballet, I gained control over my tall lanky body—so much real estate to conquer— my once unruly long arms and legs became assets allowing me to express myself deeply through dance. One day in class, I caught my reflection in the mirror: I saw a swan! I had transformed; I was, in fact, beautiful. Oh, what would my 13 year old self think of this!
GOD, I HOPE I GET IT
When the Broadway company of A CHORUS LINE called again (amazingly they had kept my photo from my first audition two years prior), I showed up in a creamy white long-sleeved leotard, confident and ready. Tom the stage manager made his way down to the stage, “Paula. You’ve changed.”
The call came a day or two later, I thought it was Tom, but I wasn’t sure, because he didn’t identify himself:
Tom: “Is this Paula?
Me: “Yes, this is she.
Tom: “So, when can you come in?”
(Does he mean for a call back??)
Me: “Well…when would you like me to come in? What do you want me to do?”
Tom: “To rehearse! When can you start?”
(muffled screaming)
WHAT I DID FOR LOVE
A CHORUS LINE ran for 15 years on Broadway, long enough for me to grow up, move to the city, learn to dance, and make my Broadway debut in the last year of the original run. I played Vicky Vickers--“Any Ballet? “No!” “Then don’t dance!” I covered Sheila, Judy Turner, and Christine. You know, all the tall ladies! I seemed to be on for one or another of those roles, all the time, which suited me fine. I desperately wanted to play Cassie as well, but there were already four excellent Cassie covers in the building! After we closed on Broadway, I played Judy Turner on the post-Broadway “Broadway Tour of America.” I returned time and again to “The Line” in regional and stock productions of ACL, playing Judy, and eventually almost exclusively, Sheila, but I also had offers to play Cassie, and Val.
In 1995, I had just left Damn Yankees on Broadway when I got a call at 10 am to come down to North Carolina Theatre to pinch hit that evening for their Judy Turner who had broken her wrist. I hadn’t done the show in four years, but I hopped on a plane with my show shoes and my old Judy Turner leotard, arriving at half hour, and did it. My friend Paula Evans lives in North Carolina so she came to the show and we got to catch up. Returning to the line was like reuniting with an old friend, or slipping into a beloved pair of perfectly broken-in jeans. It always felt good; felt right. The show has been a touchstone throughout my life. I even met my wonderful husband Broadway music director and arranger David Chase on a production of ACL at Paper Mill Playhouse. I’ve taught the show to young people, I’ve examined it minutely; its effect on me, and especially, how it made me for a time, fear age:
ZACH: “What do you do when you can’t dance anymore?” BEBE: “Kill yourself.”
I loathed Zach’s pointed question, when I was younger, especially since I was such a late bloomer, coming into my own as a dancer in my late 20s. “But I just got here!”
I’m now in my 60s. My husband and I have raised two fine young men, I’ve enjoyed a long wonderful career working in this business, and happily, I still do. It’s amazing to think that A CHORUS LINE has been part of my life for 50 years, almost as long as my dear friend Paula Evans. I’m proud of my age and understand it to be the blessing that it is. As a dancer I can’t begin to do what I once did so easily, and that’s okay. “The gift was ours to borrow.”
So “What do you do when you can’t dance anymore?“ The answer is, you never stop dancing. Yes, the body changes, it weakens and surrenders to time, but the heart of the dancer remains. And the heart will always dance.
Epilogue: LOVE’S WHAT WE’LL REMEMBER..
I have keepsakes from my all my Broadway shows, but my finale hat from A CHORUS LINE is one of my favorites. Maybe it’s because I played with a broken styrofoam convention hat in Paula Evans’s basement, but I truly believe my ACL hat holds a special bit of Broadway magic. Iconic, immediately recognizable, it’s rendered in champagne silk with beading and Austrian crystals by the late great milliner Woody Shelp. It was given to me by our legendary Wardrobe Mistress, Broadway’s Alyce Gilbert on April 28th 1990, our final performance on Broadway.
(top left) Paula Leggett in the finale costume at the Shubert, closing night
(top right) Understudy announcement that was displayed at the Shubert when I was on for Sheila.
(bottom left) A photograph—a gift from the first line to the last.
(bottom right) Gwen Verdon and Al Lewis during the last year of the Broadway run
I gently place it on my head, at a slightly jaunty angle, with my fingers placed just so; no tension, just like Troy Garza taught me in the Schubert Theatre so long ago. I’m aware of how far I have come from that 13 year old girl I once was. I feel my body assume the elegant art deco shape; the hip rolling up, pressing forward, informed by the high turned-in passe and the graceful hard-earned articulation of my feet. There’s that expressive forward rolled shoulder; the arabesque stretching back and back, then contracting suddenly, step and step, step and step. The sensuous ease of the movement awakens my muscle memory and fills my heart, my grateful, forever dancing heart, whispering: “One singular sensation, every little step she takes…”
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