I find myself increasingly disconsolate.
I have been singing (mezzo-baritone), as you know, in that five-man barbershop quartet, Ring-a-Lung-Dung, which interprets the works of overzealous German nationalist composer Richard Wagner (of “Ride of the Valkyries” fame) through hand-puppet mime performances. We routinely give our all, outfitted in “Scream” masks and tight beige leotards, to overemphasize our shared humanity, and yet our efforts continue to meet with universally abject reviews.
“Wretchedly pitch-imperfect,” reads one particularly unfair recent screed. “Their silence sings with a deafening lack of musicality. Also, that one guy is hella fat.”
As I am in it solely for the art, I persist, despite the utter lack of critical and community support (I mean, how can we have a negative number of ticket sales? That shouldn’t even be possible, right?).
Our finances are dwindling, and we have had to resort to playing the local dog park, though only after it is closed for the day, as first the dogs, and then their owners, began attacking us. One of them (an owner, not a dog), urinated on Curtis (our soprano) during a particularly plaintive aria. I have to believe the dogs could hear his silent screams of dismay.
I share this with you now only to say that I have tried, and you, you so-called arts community, have failed me.
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