Immediately after the musical Maybe Happy Ending began performances on Broadway last October, the show’s devoted following started clamoring—loudly—for an original cast recording.
This was no surprise. The score, by composer Will Aronson and lyricist Hue Park, was laced with the sort of exquisite melodies and intricate details that would reward repeat listens. It’s a Broadway score that’s less focused on launching flashy vocal pyrotechnics—or propelling dazzling choreography—than about supporting the heartfelt love story of Oliver and Claire (Darren Criss and Helen J Shen), two robots in near-future Seoul.
Appropriately enough, music appreciation is even part of the show: One of the lovelorn robot protagonists happens to be a vinyl-loving music nerd with a habit of droidsplaining jazz.
At long last, the Maybe Happy Ending original cast recording is available to stream through Ghostlight Records on Friday, March 14. (The release date for the physical version is yet to be announced.) But it was a couple of months ago, on a cruelly frigid Monday in January, that a convocation of instrumentalists gathered at the Power Station recording studio in Hell’s Kitchen to lay down their tracks. With the show’s small cast not due to arrive until later in the day, the musicians had ample time to perfect their parts.
“I’ve been thinking about this since the day I left my last show,” musical director and keys player John Yun said, wearing a Nirvana’s Nevermind shirt under a maroon cardigan. “I try not to think about it too much while we’re recording because then I overthink about how and what I’m playing.”
“Live performances are fleeting moments. Recording an album feels monumental. It’s something that lasts forever.” –John Yun
Asked to describe the show’s musical style, Yun admitted, “It’s hard to pin down. There are elements of chamber music, jazz, Burt Bacharach. But it’s also utterly its own thing. When I first read through the score, just seeing the ink on the page, I knew it was something special.”
There was a convivial mood in Studio C. Between takes, bassist Conrad Korsch tapped out a few choice notes from West Side Story. “Ooh, now there’s some music,” said Aronson. One of the violinists, practicing a rising-falling run meant to evoke the graceful flight of a firefly, suddenly tried a different tack, scratching out jagged notes that suggested something more like a predatory wasp. “Oh, I love that!” said Aronson. “Can we do that in the show?” As the drummer adjusted his cymbal setup, Aronson commented, “Ahh, we’re going to get some Red Lobster. You know, it’s all about the sizzle.”
Yun was full of praise for Aronson. “Will is extraordinary. He’s a composer, orchestrator, melody writer and book writer—all rolled into one. That’s rare. His ability to merge story and score seamlessly is unmatched. He’ll tweak a lyric or rework an orchestration in a way that deepens the narrative. It’s a holistic approach you don’t see often.” Park was in Seoul in anticipation of the Korea Musical Awards, at which the 2013 Park-Aronson musical Il Tenore took home the Grand Prize.
Aronson sat behind the control desk, listening thoughtfully to each take and issuing precise instructions with the amiable authority of someone who can tell the difference between an A9 and an A9sus. “Josh, can you do a second one where you’re actually noisier the whole time on that cymbal thing?” “I think the trumpet can probably be a little simpler now that we’re speeding it up.” “The strings: the last three chords we could actually bump the volume a little bit.” “Maybe it’s sort of like, think warm.”
During a break, he said, “It’s not like we have twenty violinists. Everyone is a soloist. Everyone has solos and they’re all incredible. We’re incredibly lucky we got this band.” The band also feels lucky to be playing Aronson’s music. “I truly love this entire score,” said violinist Rachel Handman Robison. “Even after more than a hundred shows, I don’t get tired of playing it.”
Drummer and percussionist Joshua Mark Samuels said the mellifluousness of the music is deceptive. “The score is very complex,” he said, pointing out how Aronson “uses call-and-response to pass off melodies between sections and instruments.” “Will truly is an amazing orchestrator and composer.” Violinist and concertmaster Cenovia Cummins agreed. “World Within My Room,” to pick one number, “is like an adrenaline shot in the arm. It requires a lot of precision.”
There’s a couple of subtle orchestration tricks to the score: the tintinnabulations of the vibraphone, for example, evoke the metallic world of the robots, while unmuted, lyrical brass signifies the human world and human breath. Julie Dombroski-Jones juggles an array of variously sound-muffling accoutrements for her tenor trombone. “At different times in the show, I use a straight, cup, harmon, pixie and plunger mute,” she explained. “The Rainy Day We Met” is a nightly highlight for her. “It’s so subtle,” she said, describing the blend of trombone, trumpet and clarinet parts. (It’s a favorite of others too; I was reliably informed the string players dance in their seats during it.)
For “Then I Can Let You Go,” Korsch improvises his own bass part at each performance, varying it slightly from night to night. “We felt it was better to let the bass player walk his own line, as he would have in the style we’re referencing,” said Aronson. “With all Oliver’s references to ‘improvisation’ in jazz, it seemed apropos.” Korsch assured me he was playing the bass part relatively safe for the recording, though it sounded gloriously unrestrained to these ears.
One piece of music recorded that Monday afternoon got right to the beating heart of Maybe Happy Ending: the instrumental “Memory Sequence.” Typical of the apparent ease with which Maybe Happy Ending asks audiences to contemplate huge notions and emotions, it’s a scene that touches on nothing less than the mortality of ourselves and everyone we know—the ultimate letting go we all must do. What music could a composer possibly summon to try to encapsulate ideas and feelings as big as these?
A single, solitary B-flat note repeats tentatively on the piano, a data transmission signal in the darkness. The strings stir yawningly to life. Solitary piano notes turn to chords in waltz-time while deep, rich cello notes creep forward and violins quake and tremble overhead. Soon, piano lines descend like rain as a pair of violins reach ever upwards. And then: a swooning, romantic theme—a reprise of a melody first heard in “Goodbye, My Room”—beautiful and yearning and hopeful and sad as life itself.
With no warning, there’s a new urgency in the music. The strings agitate; the cymbals swell. Everything is hurtling, plummeting—the sound of a life speeding up or flashing before one’s eyes. There’s a breath-held pause. Finally, as the strings power down with sliding downward notes, the piano tinkles away with one last lovely melody, as if lulling itself to sleep. Then—silence.
“Even after so many performances, it’s impossible to play that scene without feeling its weight,” said Yun. Cellist Jessica Wang echoed the sentiment: “The music is so beautiful and powerful during this moment. And the visuals happening onstage are just as magical.”
In the cutthroat world of Broadway, there’s no guarantee that even the most passionately loved show will stick around for long. Thank goodness, then, for the original cast recording of Maybe Happy Ending, and the implicit assurance that the show will stir and captivate future audiences for a long, long time.
Until after we ourselves are gone, in fact. It’s not hard to imagine an inquiring music lover in, say, the year 2066, the 2120s even, discovering the audio evidence of a strange but charming little musical from the distant year of 2024—a relic of the distinctly 20th- and early 21st-century art form that was the Broadway musical.
“Live performances are fleeting moments,” said Yun. “Recording an album feels monumental. It’s something that lasts forever. To know that what we’re laying down will be shared, not just now but with future generations, makes it deeply meaningful.”
