Gavin Creel stole my job. It’s true. In the late ’90s, I performed in the European tour of a show called Fame! The Musical (it was not great—apologies). When the tour decided to come back to tour the U.S., they made us re-audition for our parts. (Brutal, right?) And, well…if you ever heard Gavin sing, you can guess the rest of the story. Yeah. He got the job.
Many (most?) actors would probably harbor some resentment toward the actor who so egregiously plucked their role right from under them. But lovely Jenn Gambatese (who maintained her role in the show) assured me that Gav was terrific and a lovely human, so I took her word for it. She introduced us at some point, and yep—dang it!—she was right. He was infectious, charming, and kind.
Some time later, I stumbled on a video of Gavin singing Adam Guettel’s “Hero and Leander.” Holy Lord. It was unlike any voice I had ever heard. I instantly fell into awe and love with that voice. That sound, that purity, that honesty. I continued to be wowed every time he took on a new role.
By now I was solidly a Gavin Creel fan. So I was giddy-thrilled when, a few years later, I finally got my big break in the musical Hair on Broadway and learned that Gavin would be playing opposite me. Divine providence.
I could write page after page about Gavin’s voice, Gavin’s talent, his touched-by-God gift for songwriting. Gavin was a tireless crusader for equality and a generous teacher. But to truly give you a glimpse of the beauty of this human soul, I want to tell you about my friend Gavin, and who he was away from the public eye.
Wav (as I called him) was the friend that made every single moment better. Deeper, sillier, more joyful, more absurd, more heightened, more examined, more full of love. It was like he had a constant mantra circling in his head: How can we take this moment and make it fuller?
It wasn’t enough for Gavin to organize our cast team for the Broadway Bowling League. No. We would go…but Gavin insisted we would go in differently themed costumes every week. Disco, missionaries, nerds, togas. It was absurd fun.
Once a week, at the “five minutes” call for the top of the show, Gav would host a two-minute dance party for the entire cast in his dressing room. It was regularly scheduled joy.
It’s a common crummy thing that happens sometimes, that producers won’t include understudies or swings as singers on cast albums or allow them to perform with the cast on the Tony Awards or the Thanksgiving Day Parade because it costs extra money for more contracts. Gavin always volunteered to have his own pay cut so that the producers would agree to include everyone. And he never told anyone. I only know because I cornered him about it.
I have the most amazing collection of filthy voice messages that he would send me just to check in. The brilliant thing is, not only were they so profanity-laced they would make a Scottish sailor blush—they would often be delivered in song form. Angelically sung, masterfully constructed melodies, often perfectly rhymed, and almost always completely improvised. They always ended with some version of “I love you.”
While we were opening Hair on Broadway, I was going through a really rough divorce. Don’t recommend. On our opening day I got some very frustrating news about it, and I was telling Gav how I was afraid it would sour my whole experience of opening the show. Gavin said: “Absolutely not, Wilson! We’re meeting at the theatre at noon and we’re gonna put on music and paint our dressing room hallway with huge, beautiful hippie graffiti.”
And that’s what we did. Buckets of paint. Huge peace signs. Our favorite lines from the show. Beads, flowers, freedom, and happiness. Oh, and the song we put on repeat was “Ain’t nothin’ gonna break my stride,” which became our unofficial friendship anthem.
As you might assume from his open, exuberant purity on stage, Gavin radiated light and kindness. He lived in a constant state of searching for joy.
(Okay—as I wrote the above paragraph, my spell-check changed the word radiated to “radiates.” And then to drive the point home it also changed the word lived to “lives.” I am not kidding. And yeah, that is exactly the kind of shit Gavin would pull from the hereafter. I’m bawling on the train as I compose this thing.)
Gavin endlessly tried to strip away artifice. In his art and in his life. He lived in a constant state of yearning for self-improvement. Any room he walked into was suddenly a better, brighter room. And everyone wanted to be in it.
After he passed, I was struck (but not surprised) by how many people posted about how Gavin was one of their best friends. Of course that happened. And I completely believe that it’s true. He made everyone feel like they were his favorite. (Of course, I know it was actually me 😉.)
At the end of Hair, the final image every night was Gavin in uniform, lying dead on an American flag, while we, the tribe, sang a primal cry to “Let the Sun Shine In.” It was brutal and heartbreaking every single night to imagine Gavin no longer with us. It is brutal and heartbreaking now, but I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone in my life who “let more sun shine in.”
Broadway mourns the loss of one of its purest, brightest stars. Through his work and his example, he left our art form and our community a better place. A kinder place. A fairer, more equitable place. A far more beautiful place.
I’m not unique in that Gavin also left me a better person. Hopefully a kinder person, with a keener eye for finding beauty and a stronger hunger for creating joy.
We mourn the loss of an astounding performer, but I personally am mourning the loss of my brother, my teacher, and one of the great loves of my life.
Rest in peace, Wav. And stop messing with my spell check.
Will Swenson has appeared on Broadway in Hair, Les Misérables, and A Beautiful Noise.
