The Making of “Not Your Average Church Lady”

Leslie O’Brien, the star of Not Your Average Church Lady and me, who plays the emotionally tone-deaf minister.

For the first time in four years, I wasn’t looking forward to my quarterly piano concert in which I welcome the new season. This one was Welcoming Winter, in which I mainly play Christmas songs. Why wasn’t I looking forward to it? I am bored with myself — What am I going to play, Jingle Bells and Oh Holy Night for the zillionth time? Even though I play by ear and so improvise each time, my boundaries aren’t that wide.

So I thought, what should I do? I reminded myself that I enjoy accompanying fine singers. So I called the choir directors of the two nearby churches with large choirs and asked them if they knew someone excellent who might sing a couple Christmas songs at a concert. Both independently recommended the same person: Leslie O’Brien.

I anticipated her singing two songs, my thanking her, and finishing the concert as usual. But I was amazed to see that Leslie has “the gift:” not just a top singing voice but excellent ability to, between songs, patter with me, and engage infectiously with the audience. So, after the second song, I asked her if she’d sing some more. She ended up singing for most of the rest of the concert, to my surprised delight.

I had accompanied many fine singers but none who, like her, have it all: sing, act, own the stage, interact with the audience and me, plus she seemed kind.

Indeed, her kindness continued off-stage. So I asked if she’d like me to create a show for her as I had done with another singer. She said she was flattered. So, I interviewed her to identify a theme — She’s a practicing Christian and yes, kindness, even a bit of Susie Sunshine, seems core to her.

So, I created Not Your Average Church Lady, in which, in word and song, she plays a deacon trying to get a too-serious pastor (played by me) to lighten up. But I’m a hard case.

We also agreed that with our ad-libbing ability, there’d be no script, just an outline. That accentuates authenticness. And ad-libbing means each performance will be fresh and that we’ll have to be on our toes.

Our first performance of Not Your Average Church Lady was, natch, at a church. When it was over, I felt great about it but, in her kind way, I sensed she wasn’t as happy. On probing, she admitted that she felt embarrassed by me — I was cartoonish, not a realistic minister. I felt sad and embarrassed by that but appreciated her honesty, and we agreed that next time, I’d try to be authentic, playing a version of myself: intense, intellectual, and a defender of truth over love.

The show got better and continues to. We’ve now done it a half-dozen times and tomorrow, we’re doing an adapted version as a fundraiser for Rotary: Not Your Average Rotarian, in which I play the too-serious president of the Las Vegas chapter of Rotary.

Perhaps you’d like to see the rundown. It’s long, so feel free to skip to the end.

Leslie tells me that at club meetings, attendance, membership, and fundraising are all down and the members think the problem is that I’m too serious. There’s even talk of removing me, the first time that would happen in the club’s 80 years.

I am shocked, defensive: “Am I really that bad?” Trying to recover my self-esteem I say that even though this is Las Vegas, it’s not the strip: Our members are car wash owners, used restaurant oil recyclers, and most of them are retired. Also, Rotary is on a serious mission — like stopping polio from reoccurring, and now dealing with Ebola. Also, I say that to make things entertaining, I do play the piano at each meeting but my nature is to not be silly,

She said that silliness has its place: Our members are human, and especially the older ones are hoping to laugh to escape their woes. Besides, regarding fundraising, we attract more flies with honey than vinegar. Silliness helps us all, maybe even you.

To make her point, from her oversized shopping bag, she pulls a pink and white cowgirl hat, dons it, and says, “Do you know the song, They Don’t Let You in the Opera?”

I say no and she says, “No prob.” and with a flourish, pulls from her bag, a “banner” of six pages of sheet music and smiling, gently places it my keyboard’s music rest and smooths it to emphasize her victory. She then sings it. My accompaniment starts restrained but her energy motivates me and by the end, I play it rousingly.

After, she sees my smiling and nods approvingly. That embarrasses me and I revert to type: “Leslie, that’s you, not me. You’re among the youngest members and well, the perkiest, Susie Sunshine. Most members are old like me and they come to meetings mainly to eat, chat quietly, donate a little money, grateful they’re still young enough to come to lunch, and then creep out and back home. “

She says, “Might you be projecting? Even old people want to live. Indeed, the older they get, aware that their life’s hourglass’s sands are dropping, many try to squeeze out as much life as possible.” She gets an idea: “Marty, play a bouncy vamp in C.” I reluctantly do and she sings, Time to Start Living/No Time At All. During the song, she goes into the audience and plays with them — e.g., sitting on the oldest guy’s lap, and at the chorus, inviting the audience to sing along.

I can’t help but be moved and after the song, switch my argument from “There’s no need to be light” to “I can’t be light. It’s not in me, I’m just like my father, serious.”

She replies that she wasn’t always fun, that her husband helped bring it out in her — dancing in the kitchen. She sings, I Could Have Danced All Night.

I’m now feeling contrite but avoid acknowledging my feeling that I can’t change by saying, “I am aware that when I took office, I promised to try to be a good president, but apparently, I’ve broken that promise.”

She acknowledges that we’ve all broken promises but it doesn’t mean there’s no hope. She sings Broken Vow.

After the song, I make a candid admission: Leslie, I don’t fit among humankind. I am meant to be alone. I joined Rotary not so much to give charity, but to see if, among those kind people, I might find at least one kindred spirit. But now, you, indeed the members are making clear that I am meant to be alone.

She responds, “Whether or not you’re the president, you’ll always have the people of Rotary…(she quips:) As long as you pay your dues.

I can’t restrain a laugh and then, emboldened, she sings You’ll Never Walk Alone.

By now, she’s made some progress with me and asks if I’m willing to try to lighten up. I lament that I view that as a long shot. She nods but then sings, The Impossible Dream.

After, I suddenly explode: Show tunes are going to change my DNA?!

She bows her head in defeat. “Maybe you’re right.” Dispirited, she paces the stage, then talks to the audience: Do you have any ideas for how to get Marty to lighten up, even a little? Raise your hand” Then go into the audience for their advice.

She reacts dubiously. Just as everyone thinks she’s giving up, she has an idea. She comes back on stage and asks me, “Would you try one last experiment? First, play Ode to Joy like you did at our last meeting. (I do, a very serious rendition of the first few bars.) She interrupts and says, “Now, think of the most joyous moment of your life.” I struggle to, but finally come up with something — my face is only mildly upbeat. I start to play Ode to Joy in a moderately upbeat style. At that moment, she drops her fairly modest shift dress to reveal a hot orange dress underneath. I’m shocked, amazed, and can’t restrain staring and enjoying. She says, “After all, this is Las Vegas.” I then vamp more enthusiastically and she sings, Joyful, Joyful with increasing abandon, and I accompany following suit. We get more and more into it. Near the end, she reaches into her shopping bag to pull out a large orange boa, exclaims “Vegas!” and tosses it around my neck. I laugh unrestrainedly and we finish the song exuberantly. Right after, seeing my beaming face, she exclaims, “You can do this!” I laugh, “Maybe.” I then break into the bow music, reprising No Time At All. She takes her bow then points to me. I bow my head with a grateful smile. With a flourish, she pulls the boa off me and flounces with it off stage, I end the song with a flourish, and bemused by it all, smile wryly as I walk, then skip off.

So, that’s the plan for tomorrow. I’ll admit to being a little nervous: We’ve not done this variant before and we don’t have scripts — It’s a high-wire act. We’ll see if we get to the other side of the trapeze or fall on the net. (P.S. It went fine. We omitted a few lines but it had no impact.)

Our next performances after that is to adapt the show for a synagogue: Not Your Average Temple Member and then for a retirement community: Not Your Average Old Person.

I read this aloud on YouTube.

Marty Nemko’s real job is career and personal coach, specializing in scientists and professional performers. His 36 books including Starving Artists. You can reach him at mnemko@gmail.com