Remembering Hugh & Adam
Over the last two weeks, I lost two dear friends and mentors.
Here are some memories I have of each of them.
Hugh Wooldridge (1952-2026)
Hugh Wooldridge was the first theatre professional to take an interest in my work. As undergrads, my writing partner Aaron King and I wrote a musical adaptation of Cyrano; as only undergrads can, we’d turned it into an 80-person project, with a huge cast and orchestra and a special make-up designer i/c The Nose.
We somehow got wind that a director from London – someone unknown to both of us – wanted to attend. Very exciting; we set aside a ticket. Lo and behold, on opening night, a tall, aquiline man with a big smile and shock of white hair came up to box office and introduced himself as Hugh. After the show, he found me and told me he had notes. Could we come down to London sometime?
We were starstruck and naturally imagined he planned to give us the keys to the West End. But the following weekend, when we hopped the train to London and met him properly at a Caffe Nero, he gave us something different but perhaps no less valuable: his time. Thus began a conversation that would last many years.
Hugh Wooldridge was a big man in every sense: towering, exuberant, passionate, generous. He cried freely. He always had a twinkle of mischief.
Beginning in our final year of university, he mentored us seriously without a penny’s compensation. As we worked on another (much smaller) musical, Nice Guy, he would drive to my house during the holidays to listen to our new material and set us assignments. He worked us hard, once nicknaming us Lazy and Indolent. His anecdotes were the stuff of legend; he once let slip that he had introduced Alan Jay Lerner to his eighth wife. We often agreed; we often disagreed. I learnt so much from our disagreements. He taught me about my own taste and how to collaborate.
After university, I went to America and we stayed in touch mostly via email. His missives were usually a mix of heartfelt encouragement and and (sometimes unsolicited) advice. Some representative excerpts:
“Raising money to put on a production… Three (legal) ways”
“The endeavour was totally scuppered by inept direction, a not very interesting story and poor dramaturgy. And principal members of the company who were, how shall we say, so what? And this for $230.00.”
“PLEASE OPEN A CHRISTMAS HELLO!!!”
“Dearest Both, Just wishing you another triumph – may your Come Dine With Me be as hot as Colman’s Mustard”
…and so on.
He remembered my birthday each year, attended every show I ever did and sent me thousands of words of encouragement and notes. He was always forthright: I once took him to a Broadway show and, afterwards, he told me quite sincerely that it was the worst thing he’d ever seen. But he was a deep believer in the moral power of theatre. He once quipped that our job was to heal the healers, and was outraged at how, during the pandemic, actors were not considered essential workers. He was funny and kind. He died suddenly at the age of 74, and I will miss him.
Adam Lenson (1985-2026)
I met Adam Lenson by that rarest of routes: a cold email. It was 2022 and I knew him only by reputation as a passionate, punchy advocate of new musicals. We met for coffee in Kentish Town. He showed up carrying a fold-up Brompton bike, characteristically wearing a loose shirt and razor-sharp cap.
We hit it off immediately. Adam was clever and omnivorous and warm. We chatted about podcast musicals, the US vs UK theatre ecosystems, our lives. He told me that he’d survived a round of cancer, and that the experience had essentially abolished his tolerance for bullshit. In theatre there’s a lot of piety and a lot of deference. Adam had no time for that; he spearheaded campaigns to promote Jewish inclusion and took aim at institutions that paid lip service to new musicals without actually supporting any. His activism, often fierce, was positive in nature. He wanted to make things, or make them better.
As it happened, our relationship would consist of a series of infrequent two-hour chats. We met up and ate cake on the Upper West Side of NYC. We had drinks on the South Bank of London outside the BFI. We went on a walk round Kentish Town. We ran into each other, bizarrely, at the after-party of London Road, which (as far as I could understand) we were both semi-gatecrashing.
I loved his tastes. He introduced me to my favourite ever novel, The Bee Sting by Paul Murray. He showed me the cast album of Fangirls and the work of his friend (now Olivier-winner) Darren Clark. And in addition to having excellent tips, he was a supportive mentor, programming an excerpt of Come Dine With Me: The Musical at his Signal concert series – the first time any part of it was performed in public. It saddened me to realise, in writing this piece, that we never took a photo together.
Two things he said will always stay with me.
The first: “Everyone thinks musical theatre is a genre, but it’s actually a medium.” In other words, people associate musical theatre with a certain aesthetic (something like Hairspray), but musicals can and should be as free-wheeling and wide-ranging as books. For that reason, he disapproved of show titles that included the words “The Musical” (which, alas, included mine).
The second: “Build your own bonfire”. Rather than waiting for anyone else’s blessing, he was a big believer in making something on your own and trusting that others will be drawn to the glow. Little wonder that, on top of producing Signal, he was a tremendously gifted director, dramaturg, writer, and, eventually, performer. Flyby, Wasted, Cable Street, Precipice, Public Domain, Anything That We Wanted to Be, Is It Too Late Now to Say Sorry? – the list goes on. I’m reminded of Christopher Wren’s epitaph: Reader, if you seek his monument, look all around you.
Adam Lenson was just 41 when he died. It’s not just a desperately sad loss; it’s a tragic one. And yet it’s been heartening (if unsurprising) to see the enormous outpouring of grief and anecdotes from the British MT-writing community. He touched so many lives, answered so many cold emails, met for so many coffees. He always believed that we lift each other up.
If you have memories of Hugh or Adam that you’d like to share, I’d love to hear them.