When my first musical opened on Broadway, I was only a little older than the characters in Glee, with dreams just like theirs. This is the account of my first opening night in my memoir "Inside Inside":
The show opened on a chilly November night at the historic Winter Garden Theater, where Jolson had sung and, in the years to come, Cats would play 7,485 performances. But on that night when my show opened, I stood alone at the back of the theatre, wrapped in a tuxedo and impenetrable gloom, dead certain that Nowhere to Go but Up would fail, deservedly, and slink off in the direction predicted slyly, if unconsciously, in the first word of its title.
As the couples hurried past my post at the rear of the orchestra, women in evening gowns, men in black tie (in the sixties, evening dress was de rigueur at musical opening nights), I had to fight the impulse to apologize to every one of them for my inadequacies, with which the poor innocents were about to be inflicted.