So you think you can dance?

There was news recently that the Rock Eisteddfod was not going ahead this year because it could not get sponsorship. It's really such a shame because I know first hand just how fantastic the Rock Eisteddfod competition is and how much effort schools put into them.
I was in Year Ten when I was first able to be a part of one.
My school had never entered before but I know we all used to watch it on the tele and it was freakin awesome.
Audition time came around and I put my name down without question. Though looking back, I probably should have asked many questions and all of them to myself.
I didn't actually have any history as a dancer. Sure I was part of a physical culture troupe, but that was when I was three and that was also when "participating" was viewed as a skill.
I did take some dance classes when I was about ten. My friend Nicole really really wanted to take classes but her Mum would only let her if I would do them too. So her Mum spoke with my Mum and I did them. I should point out that Nicole was four years my junior and well, when I say we were friends, it was more like I was her chaperone. So I took lessons, at ten with all the six year old kids. And they all danced rings around me. Probably because I was too busy being awkward and embarrassed and constantly mistaken as the "simple" older child who had to "stay back" with the beginners.
So though my previous dance experience would not have necessarily lifted me to the status of an actual dancer, I still believed I had what it took. I mean, I could throw some shapes.
The day came around and I, along with dozens of other hopefuls all took part in a gruelling round of chorey.
The judging panel consisted of an English/Drama teacher, a PE teacher and a History teacher - all three very experienced at Rock Eisteddfods apparently and all three assured us that we had done a great job and that the decision was going to be a tough one.
A few days later, on the Year Ten notice board, a list of names was posted. These were the successful few - the chosen ones. We all crowded around searching for our names .... and there it was.
Amanda Buckley.
Wait a minute - that was my name!
Amanda Buckley.
Wait a minute - that was my name AND there something else after it.
Amanda Buckley. Set Assistant.
Wait a minute - WTF?
Set Assistant.
Or as it turns out, painting. Painting pieces of material. Dressed in a smock. Way way way out of sight.
Oh they could pretty it up as much as they wanted:
"still part of the team"
"sets are the most important thing"
"the dancers can't do anything without the crew"
Yeah yeah yeah yeah whatever - I have heard that before. I am the LAST person you want painting your set - back then my motto was "Oh it'll do" - the master of slap up and slap dash.
This was not a consolation. No, alas, my Rock Eisteddfod dreams were in tatters. There would be no jazz hands for me. No dramatic message communicated through a step ball change. No raging without alcohol*.
If memory serves, when the time came around for our school to show off our wares, I sat in the audience, arms crossed moodily, and, preparing to deliver my harshest critique yet, found myself completely blown away by how amazingly it had all come together. Our school ROCKED!


The set looked amazing.



*the primary message of Rock Eisteddfod was drug and alcohol awareness and the slogan was "Rage without Alcohol". Just so you know.

Writers Block.

For the past 18 months, I have been both struggling with / and avoiding the plan to write a little one woman show.
I like to sing. I like an audience. I like to sing in front of an audience even more. And there is my dilemma. To get an audience to come and spend an hour or so with me, I need to show them the courtesy and respect of actually giving them more than a few snappy numbers I reckon I sing alright.
I have thought about doing an Ethel Merman tribute. An ode to Mama Cass. A show where I would sing songs from musicals that I would never be cast for called Amanda Buckley is Out Cast (yeah, clever I know). A show called "Just your Standard Cabaret Show" where I sang, yep you guessed it, jazz standards. (just being cheekily clever now really aren't I?)

I was then reminded about the time I was asked by Queen Latifah if I "could get any more white?" Um well, I mean, I AM white. And quite white. But freckly. Actually more pink than anything else. Hey, What you talkin' bout Latifah?

Wait... could there be a show in this?
And what would I sing?
I know what I could call it.
And I have someone who has even made a poster for me.
But what to sing?
I could probably tell some stories about just how white I am.
Hmm, what would make a good soundtrack to that?
And what, apart from the obvious pigmentation, actually makes a person "white"?
Is it racist for a black person to call a white person white?
Is it racist for a white person to call a black person black?
Do I feel like Carrie Bradshaw in SATC when I ask questions in my blog? (Yep! teehee!)
And really, what would be a good selection of songs for this venture?

I ask these questions almost everyday. I attempt to write about this, everyday. It's there. Somewhere. Just a little bit out of my reach.
Damn you life and your interfering ways! How dare you send me MasterChef, 30 Rock, Mad Men and The Amazing Race to distract me!!!

But seriously, who thinks they know what I should sing?