The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Review
‘You’re seeing us with our pants down’
Backstage at a Don Quixote musical, with Frasier star Kelsey Grammer, soprano Danielle de Niese – and a dog
It’s probably not uncommon for people of a certain generation – and a certain level of televisual commitment – to ask themselves, in times of crisis: What would Frasier do?
Dr Frasier Crane, smoothvoiced radio psychiatrist by profession, hapless son, brother and occasional seducer in his private life, occupied TV screens for 20 years – not counting reruns, which continue to this day, and a proposed reboot which now seems imminent. As Frasier fans know, the eponymous character emerged from an earlier American TV series, Cheers, so all in all it seems as though the actor who played him (Kelsey Grammer, now 64) has been Frasier for longer than most non-fictional people have felt like themselves. Indeed, Frasier – who for comedic purposes was unrepentantly intractable by nature – has outlasted most of
Grammer’s own marriages. (He is on his fourth, and has seven children between the ages of 35 and two.)
Frasier also sings: disastrously, within the series, and routinely outside it, in the form of its theme song, Tossed Salads and Scrambled Eggs. Much of that theme tune is instrumental, some of it is spoken (“Scrambled eggs all over my face!”), but Grammer’s baritone is unmistakable, and when I meet him in a rehearsal room in northwest London, he humours me with a little reprise. “Baby
I hear the blues a’ callin’…” He chuckles, then smiles, succinctly.
He is sitting alongside Danielle de Niese, the 40-year-old American opera star, during a break in rehearsals for Man of La Mancha. This will be the first time the musical has been put on in the West End for 50 years, yet it’s well known for its most famous song, The Impossible Dream, which will be sung by Grammer. The pair play Don Quixote and Dulcinea, errant knight and noble prostitute, and are, in conversation, generous with each other to a fault.
“If you’re American you grow up with Frasier!” de Niese tells me admiringly, before comparing the character to other goods indistinguishable from their brand names, such as Kleenex.
Grammer smiles patiently. I suppose that depends on your age, I suggest.
De Niese explains: “What I mean is, there’s not a person in America who would not know Frasier and Cheers.” She turns to Grammer. “So I could recognise your voice if you just said, ‘Hello’.”
“It’s pretty recognisable,” he agrees.
“And then when I met Kelsey I was going, ‘Oh my God, so wait a second. Rewind. The timbre of Kelsey’s voice is entirely different than the timbre of Frasier.’ I’m a singer so it’s the first thing I noticed. And I just literally was like, ‘Oh my God: to do that so consistently over 20 years!’ I was very, very impressed with that.”
Another taut smile from Grammer. “I’m no longer considered just that guy who played Frasier,” he says, attempting to move the conversation on. “I think the industry, especially in America, they want to kind of keep you in one place. So you have to fight them and change their minds.”
Nevertheless, I say unhelpfully, many people must still make the connection. How does that feel?
An invisible arrow shoots from Grammer’s eyes.
“It feels like success,” he says. De Niese steps in, sweetly: “And of course, to hear you sing… You’re very touching as a singer…”
A small stretch of the lips. “I’m kind of a lazy son of a bitch. I tend to sort of drift flat a little bit. That’s something I have to be careful about. But they’re helping me.” (Grammer is taking singing lessons every morning before rehearsal.)
In any case, if, as de Niese says, Grammer’s voice is different from Frasier’s (this may be less perceptible to non-singers), presumably no one in the audience for Man of La Mancha will think Frasier is singing the songs?
“No, no,” de Niese replies, shaking her head emphatically.
“No,” says Grammer. “That would be tragic.”
When I enter the main rehearsal room in West Hampstead, La Mancha’s director, Lonny Price, has a small dog under his arm. The space was once the Decca recording studios, and its main claim to fame is as the site of one of the most egregious misjudgements in musical history: the label decided against taking on The Beatles here.
Behind Price, a bank of prompters sits armed with scripts; the musical director has a pencil poised in the air; the grand piano is amplified. The dog – white, fluffy, by the name of Charlie – is carried, and occasionally sort of waved, throughout the giving of notes.
Price is a veteran director of Broadway musicals. He has done Sondheim and Bernstein to great acclaim, and three years ago he directed Glenn Close in the revival of Sunset Boulevard in London.
Just now, he is addressing de
Niese, who is wearing a corset and torn skirt and no shoes. She has red highlights in her dark hair. They’re considering some options for blocking during her upcoming song. The dog’s hind legs are dangling.
Grammer is sitting by the piano, in a white open-necked shirt,
black jeans and grey trainers, staring at his lines. Nicholas Lyndhurst – looking eternally youthful but white-haired, as if Rodney, his character in Only Fools and Horses, had seen a ghost – is waiting morosely for a pink broom to be delivered as a prop for his character, an innkeeper. At the back of the room, a man in Lycra is doing the splits, and another, not to be outdone, is stretching one leg behind him while holding his toes.
The action begins. De Niese falls to the floor. Grammer rushes to comfort her. A man with a plywood shield walks in and addresses him, in a Yorkshire accent, as “Don Kihoti di La Mancha”. Fauxarchaic lines are pronounced
(“A gallant knight? No, an ageing fool!” “The masquerade has ended!
Confess: thy lady is a trollop!”). Grammer utters no lines without a prompt.
De Niese begins to sing, almost inaudibly, but gesturing with all her heart.
They take a break. Charlie the dog runs around.
Price greets me.
“This is our first day staging this,” he says, “so you’re seeing us with our pants down.”
On arrival in the smaller practice room, Grammer is wearing sunglasses. They’re very dark, and the frames are made of luminous yellow Perspex. He may or may not have been outside in the interim.
“I got the script about two weeks ago,” he says, and calculates: “I have to be cleanly off book by the