You walk into a rehearsal room and the layout is different.

Chairs in rows.

Music stands.

A full orchestra where there’s usually a piano.

In front of them, a line of microphones.

You don’t face the room.

You face them.

And the Musical Director.

Sitzprobe is the first time you hear the full score live, with the company singing. No staging. No movement. No lighting. Just sound.

Full orchestra.

Not reduced.

Not synthesised.

Strings. Brass. Woodwind. Percussion laid out properly.

You’ve been rehearsing with a piano for weeks. Clean. Functional. Precise.

Then the first downbeat lands.

And it’s not clean.

It’s huge.

You hear every instrument. Every bow change. Every breath in the brass. Percussion that feels physical rather than supportive. It’s raw in a way it never quite is once you’re in the theatre.

On stage in the actual building, the sound can feel distant. You rarely get foldback. You’re often watching the MD closely because certain entries are exposed and tricky. You’re relying on the baton, not the swell.

But in the rehearsal room, it’s direct.

You feel it in your chest.

Your heart rate lifts.

It’s one of those rare moments where you stop thinking about marks and traffic and costume plots and you just register what’s happening.

This is what the show actually sounds like.

You’re suddenly aware of the level of musicianship in front of you. Players who make the score breathe in a way the piano never could. The detail is exposed. The attack sharper. The dynamics wider.

And then the principals sing over it.

That’s the second shift.

You’ve heard them in rehearsal. You know their voices. But against full orchestra, something else happens. The scale changes. The sound lifts.

There’s a moment where you think, quietly, this is ridiculous.

In the best way.

Tempo doesn’t usually change dramatically. It’s been set. It’s agreed. Though you know from watching the show later that different conductors bring slightly different weight. A musical supervisor might favour a fraction more drive. Another might let something breathe.

It’s a balance.

But the first time you hear it all together — orchestra and cast in one room — it’s overwhelming.

Not chaotic.

Overwhelming.

You’re standing at a mic in a rehearsal room, no costume, no set, no lighting.

And it already feels like an event.

There’s something raw about Sitzprobe. No spectacle. No distraction. Just score and voice.

You’re aware of how lucky you are.

Not in a sentimental way.

In a practical one.

You are inside something substantial.

By the time you reach the theatre, it becomes controlled. Balanced. Mixed. Shaped for the space.

But Sitzprobe?

That’s the first time the engine turns over at full power.

And you’re standing right in front of it.

I was never a swing.

And I don’t think I could have been.

It’s harder than people think.

In a company of thirty-two or thirty-three, there were eleven male ensemble tracks.

Eleven.

When I did the show, there were two male swings covering them.

Two.

On paper, that looks efficient.

In practice, it means holding eleven separate choreographies, traffic patterns, harmonies, quick changes, prop plots and spatial maps in your head — knowing you might not physically step into one of those tracks for weeks.

Or months.

And still being expected to execute it cleanly at 7:30pm.

Swings don’t get repetition the same way the rest of us do.

If you’re in one track nightly, muscle memory builds quietly. You stop thinking about corners. You stop calculating traffic. It sits in the body.

A swing doesn’t live in one track.

They store multiple.

If we were doing an understudy run, that was their rehearsal too. If someone moved up to cover a principal, the swing would step into that person’s ensemble track. That was often their only chance to physically refresh it.

Otherwise?

They’re side stage.

During the show.

Watching.

Not casually.

Checking someone’s track. Noting spacing. Marking small adjustments. If something changed in a clean-up rehearsal — a diagonal altered, a lyric shifted, a new cross added — they needed to log it.

Because they are the backup system.

And mathematically, two swings for eleven tracks doesn’t always hold.

I remember nights when people were off and it was physically impossible for two male swings to cover everything. Other cast members doubled up on bits. Picked up traffic that technically wasn’t theirs.

It worked.

But it shouldn’t have been necessary.

Apparently there are four now.

That tells you something.

The biggest misconception is that swings are “just ensemble who cover.”

They’re not.

They can be swings and covers simultaneously. My swing was also second cover for Marius while I was first. So they weren’t sitting around on a show day. They were learning principal material, monitoring ensemble tracks, attending every rehearsal, adjusting to changes.

They are always ready.

An understudy can be called at any moment.

A swing can be called for multiple tracks at once.

That’s a vast amount to retain.

And unlike a principal cover, they don’t get applause for stepping in. They’re often invisible to the audience.

The brain strain isn’t loud.

It’s constant.

Standing side stage during a performance, tracking someone else’s route in case tomorrow it’s yours.

Not watching for enjoyment.

Watching for retention.

They are part of the company in a way that’s easy to overlook.

Without swings, people would work through illness.

Without swings, the structure collapses.

I wasn’t one.

But I watched them.

And it’s not for the faint-hearted.

I took a job at Butlins as a Redcoat in between West End contracts.

It wasn’t a grand career move.

It was a detour.

It was also a refuge.

I didn’t know what direction I was taking. I just knew I needed distance from the pressure and the politics. Butlins felt smaller. Contained. Manageable.

At the time, it felt like stepping sideways.

In hindsight, it was exactly where I was meant to be.

Because that’s where I met her.

She had been a dancer.

She understood performance.

She understood structure.

She ran a tight ship — but she was kind.

She said it as it was. No sugar-coating. But she respected you. She nurtured. She built a team that was genuinely fun to work in.

She could play tough. Especially with the younger ones. I was older, so I wasn’t intimidated. I saw the fairness underneath it.

Kindness. Leadership. Stability.

In a period where I felt untethered, she was structure.

Last Thursday, I sent her a long message.

She was already very ill.

I knew the end was near. I had been told she would be going onto morphine. That once they increased it, she likely wouldn’t come back from it.

She sent a video back.

Struggling to breathe. People around her gently telling her to stop. “Okay, that’s enough.” Trying to protect her energy.

But she kept going.

She wanted to finish.

It was the most wonderful message from a woman who knew she was dying — and still wanted to give something back.

Yesterday, she passed away.

Way too young.

Immensely sad. Immensely unfair.

Over the years, others have gone too.

Actors I’ve worked alongside. People you shared dressing rooms with. People who once felt permanent because they were central to that chapter of your life.

When someone from theatre dies, it hits differently.

You don’t just lose a person.

You lose a rehearsal room. A corridor. A shared joke before places. A version of yourself that existed when they did.

And you ask yourself quiet questions.

Was I close enough? Did I give enough? Did I really know them?

Most of the time, the honest answer is no.

You know the programme bio. You know the roles. You don’t know the full weight they carried.

In theatre, we perform beside each other deeply — but rarely fully.

There’s something strange about this industry.

We think shows last forever.

We think careers last forever.

We think there will always be another contract.

But they don’t.

And there won’t.

You can be in a major West End show and still be gone from the industry quietly a few years later. No headline. No ceremony.

The stage carries on.

It always does.

Butlins felt like a pause in the “real” career.

A detour.

A refuge.

Something temporary before the next big thing.

What I didn’t realise was that the detour would give me something far more lasting than another credit.

It gave me her.

A leader who showed that you can be firm without being cruel.

Structured without being rigid.

Strong without losing humour.

And it gave me a final message — one she insisted on finishing — when she could barely breathe.

In theatre, we think a career lasts forever.

It doesn’t.

The applause fades. The contracts end. The buildings outlive us.

What lasts — if we’re fortunate — is the way someone steadied you when you needed refuge.

And sometimes you only understand the weight of that… when they’re gone.