The Toast of Chichicastengo from 1933 to 2024, Chita Rivera
Birdie was the first Broadway production that I ever witnessed. Ten minutes later, I developed an irreplaceable affection for Dick Van Dyke. I didn't aspire to be exactly like him; he was emaciated and slender, with extremities and arms drooping, and he resembled a clown in the body of an attractive man. I desired to embody his persona. Because one of the significant benefits of that transference was that it would enable me to dance with Chita Rivera, a mesmerising, beguiling, spark-emitting dynamo who was standing by his side. Having had a childhood fascination with musical films, I had naturally witnessed numerous individuals dancing on the big screen. It was, however, astoundeding to witness someone dance in person in that manner nonstop while singing and then continue dancing without summoning a five-minute break.
It was nearly beyond this child's comprehension to manoeuvre in such a manner, exhibiting remarkable grace while travelling at an astounding velocity. Nevertheless, I was captivated by her. It was as if you were to suffer a brain freeze from inhaling your favourite flavour ices from Lemon Ice King of Corona too rapidly, yet you continued to lick. Upon the completion of Rivera's monumental composition, "Spanish Rose," I was ensnared in a trance that persisted for the subsequent half-century. I witnessed each of her cabaret performances whenever possible and never missed an appearance on Broadway.
Although Rivera was a magnetic presence due to her extraordinary ability and electrifying luminosity, it was not her razor-sharp footwork or extensions that inspired our universal admiration. It was not as if she were dancing for the rest of her life that brought a sparkle to her eyes, delight to her countenance, or dedication of her body to choreography; rather, it was dance itself that brought her the greatest sense of vitality. Had producers been capable of encapsulating that elation, cases would have been depleted during interval.
Rivera also possessed a voice that was ideally suited for performing in a live theatre setting, particularly prior to the era when everyone was miked as if they were serenading Allegiant Stadium. It lacked the melodic quality of Kelli O'Hara and the belltone clarity of Sutton Foster, but instead possessed a piercing quality that imparted an indelible imprint on each note. Even in imperfect productions, she left her impression. Using Google, locate the song "Don't Ah Ma Me" from the ramshackle musical The Rink by Kander & Ebb. Behold, the manner in which she dispatches her daughter, portrayed by Liza Minelli, with a furious, mile-a-minute tirade that would intimidate even the most knowledgeable of Gilbert & Sullivan devotees. There may have been some clunkiness in the performance. Despite this, Rivera won a Tony.
However, the more compelling rationale for the fact that I have never encountered anyone who stated, "I don't care about her" (a statement that would terminate our friendship immediately) is that she was an ebullient delight offstage. During her relationship with Mr. Allen, she frequented Joe Allen's, the renowned theatre restaurant, where I was employed as a steward. Rivera, who was only 5'3", entered the dining room as if some spectral electrician had programmed a pin spot to capture her. In that era, all employees at Joe's were performers, singers, dancers, or what was formerly referred to as "gipsy" before that term was discontinued. Rivera consistently conducted herself as if she were one of us, inquiring about the go-
sees we had attended and offering counsel on audition songs and head shots. In order to maintain privacy, her perennially impassive partner had to reposition us; it was not that we were an annoyance to her, but rather that she was so at ease in our company. Rivera exemplified the term "gipsy."
Evidence of her association with all those who have ever performed in front of 1500 strangers occurred when, prior to the Broadway debut of the musical Chicago, an Actors Equity strike halted operations, primarily due to the inadequate remuneration of supporting actors, understudies, and swing actors (those who filled in for multiple roles simultaneously). Until the strike was resolved, it was Rivera and her equally distinct co-star Gwen Verdon who led rallies in Shubert Alley nearly every day. Both of these extraordinary individuals never strayed from the memory of their days spent in the chorus, yearning to take the stage.
As a result, while the 1975 season of Chicago was overshadowed by the revolutionary A Chorus Line (although the current revival is currently the second longest running musical in Broadway history), the opening night of the original production was among the most exhilarating nights I've ever witnessed in the theatre. This was not only due to the fact that these two legendary performers entertained and danced as if their lives depended on it, but they also managed to captivate the balcony with 'gy