by Derek Hough
I had no idea, but after Karen saw me at the Fame audition, she was thinking of me for this role. I could really connect with the character, a rebel living in a small, religious town who has a passion for dancing. It could have easily been my life story. The original movie was actually shot in Utah, about fifteen miles from where we lived, and they filmed a scene in the Roller Mill right near my old dance studio. I was convinced it was fate.
But it took a lot more convincing for the producers to hire me. I was called back over and over. I could almost read their minds as they watched me act out a scene or sing one of the songs: “This kid is so green. Can he really carry a show?” In the end, they gave me the chance. I was too excited to realize how unprepared I was for all of this. Most people take years to work their way up to a lead. I was just thrown into it. I didn’t have a clue what I was getting myself into. Everyone in the cast and creative team warned me that the role was very physically demanding, more than most roles in the West End. “Pace yourself,” they said. “If you don’t, you’ll never last for the four shows on the weekend.”
But I didn’t know how to tone it down. Ballroom is all about hitting everything full-on, giving 110 percent from start to finish. I remember I was in the middle of rehearsing “I Can’t Stand Still”—strutting around the stage, doing flips and dips, and I was so out of breath I could barely sing. I was not hitting my notes and I was struggling.
Karen looked nervous. “We have to work this out,” she told me. Translation: get it together or we’re going to have to replace you with someone who can. When we took a two-week break for the holidays, I went home to Utah but didn’t go on vacation with the rest of my family. Instead, I stayed home for Christmas and sang all my Footloose songs while sprinting on the treadmill. It was the only way I could learn to get control of my breath and bring my heart rate down. It was intense, but it was what I had to do to build up my stamina. I felt like I was training for a marathon. The responsibility of carrying the show weighed heavily on my shoulders. I didn’t want to let anyone down. I didn’t want the show to flop because I couldn’t cut it.
When I got back to London, I was ready. I had learned all my lines and songs, and I could sing standing on my head if I needed to. I remember Karen’s face lighting up: “Okay, now we got something. We made the right decision.”
When the show started, I also started taking voice lessons. I noticed that by the end of the week, my voice would start to thin out. I went to this famous voice coach, Mary Hammond. She was a friendly redheaded lady, and she has taught practically everyone in West End theater as well as a handful of pop and rock singers. One afternoon I walked into her studio just as Chris Martin from Coldplay was walking out. She taught me to always focus on my breath—no matter where I was, I would practice breathing in and breathing out, inflating my diaphragm and controlling the inhale and exhale so they were smooth and sustained. In the beginning, I had to constantly think about the technique. But eventually, it became second nature. I was training my breath just as I had trained my body for dance. The more I practiced, the better I got at it.
We toured first before settling in at the Novello Theatre on the Strand. When you tour in England, it’s nothing fancy. I was in charge of my own travel and accommodations. Sometimes I stayed in RVs or in little flats. One time I bunked in some old lady’s house surrounded by her cats. I can’t even remember the names of some of the cities we played in. It was all a blur, and I tried to get into the rhythm of eight shows a week. It was relentless and grueling and very different from the life I had known as a competitive dancer. I didn’t miss competing at all; what I missed was the ritual and structure of it. There was always a clear goal, a deadline, a buildup, then the satisfaction in knowing it was over and done with. In live theater, you hope and pray the show doesn’t open and close the same night. You hope it has a long run with no end in sight. I had never experienced that feeling—competing is more hit and run. It took some getting used to.
Opening night, all three Ballases were there. Shirley and Corky were surprised at how strong my voice was: they knew I could dance, but this was something new. Even though I was no longer a little kid, I wanted their thumbs-up. They might have been my dance coaches, but they were also my family. They never wanted me to get trapped in the world of competitive dance. They saw bigger things ahead, and this was just the beginning. Over the next few months, my entire family—my parents, sisters, grandparents—flew over to see me in the show. I actually got rave reviews from the London theater critics, but it was my family’s raves that meant the most to me.
After the show, everybody would go out drinking, but I was always in bed by eleven thirty. There was no partying for me; I was the boring one. I lived in constant fear that my voice would give out on me, so I tried to rest it, eat right, get lots of sleep. I ate chicken breasts and whole potatoes like they were apples to keep up my energy and maintain my weight. When I came home after the show, Nan would leave my dinner ready and waiting in the microwave, and I would just heat it up. The Ballases always had a thing about not eating alone. Even if it was midnight, Nan would hear me banging around the kitchen, come downstairs in her robe, light up a cigarette, and keep me company. We’d chat about our day for about an hour while I ate, and it was our time together. I don’t know if it’s an English thing or what, but getting my Nan to say “I love you” was like pulling teeth. I came from a family where it was said often, and I was determined to teach her. So I would joke with her and grab her: “I’m not going to bed unless you say you love me back!” She would kind of mumble it, but I would insist she say it properly until she eventually caved in. I continued doing this whenever we parted ways, until eventually it became natural for her to say.
After every performance, my clothes were drenched in sweat. On matinee days, I had to take them off in the wings and put them in the dryer for the next show. There was no time to wash them! When I’d leave the stage, I’d have to go and sit down for a good ten minutes just to get my breath back. That’s when I also decided it was time to kick my smoking addiction. In London, practically everyone smokes—men, women, kids. I had been smoking since I was barely a teenager—at first, to look cool, and later on because it was what everyone did. It had a feeling of community to it: we all lit up together and hung out. At least that’s how I saw it back then. There was a comfort in it—the taste, the smell, the feeling of puffing on a cigarette. I couldn’t imagine not doing it every day. It had been ingrained in me for so long.
But I realized the damage it was doing and how it was holding me back. If I smoked a pack a day, I couldn’t hit the high notes. When I needed to take a deep breath, it wasn’t there for me. It was preventing me from giving the best performance I knew I could give. So just like that I made a decision: no more. No agonizing, no weaning myself off, no going back. I learned in school that the word decide comes from the Latin word that means “to cut off.” So that’s what I did; I cut myself off from smoking. I trained my brain to associate the act of lighting up with pain, embarrassment, and failure. No more relaxation, no more comfort, no more camaraderie. Cigarettes became a symbol for all my anxiety. I would envision my voice cracking in front of an audience, then I’d let that feeling of humiliation and disappointment wash over me. It was the best deterrent, one that scared me a hell of a lot more than the potential health risks my family had pointed out for years. If this was what smoking might get me, I didn’t want it.
So that was it. I tossed out my last pack and didn’t look back. I replaced my daily smoking ritual with a new one: I drank hot herbal tea and let it coat my vocal cords and relax me. It was like I flipped a switch in my brain, turning the image of a cigarette from good to evil. Besides the physical benefits (no more wheezing; no more cracking on the high notes), I felt emotionally recharged. The high I got from beating my addiction replaced the high I got from nicotine. Even better, I did it all by myself. I made the conscious choice to break free. And when the curtain rose night after night, I never do
ubted I could do it. I’d beaten one of my demons, and I was ready to tackle any others that wanted to go a round with me.
LEADING LESSONS
Stretch your legs.
By this I mean you need to let go of the structure and rigidity of your life and do something different. There’s a saying: You don’t have to be great to start, but you have to start to be great. When I signed on to do Footloose, I learned about commitment on a whole new level. The tools I had called upon in the past to help me win dance competitions were not the ones I needed now. I had to find new ways to win at this as well. I had to let go of what had worked before and figure out new solutions. Flexibility is something all leaders need in their tool belt—the ability to roll with things, to shift gears, to approach something in a new and different way. The only thing certain in life is that life isn’t certain. Leaders know this, expect it, and change their hearts and heads to adapt to the situation.
Addiction is a choice.
I don’t care how much you think you need cigarettes, food, alcohol, drugs, whatever—the point is you are choosing to need those things. I truly believe that. You are choosing to relinquish your power and let a substance or a habit control you. To take the lead in your life, you have to decide what’s important. For me, it was a no-brainer. My voice was more important to me than my need to smoke. People ask me all the time how I kicked the habit. As I wrote, I just visualized smoking as a negative; I attached that label to it and I attached pain to it. I had all these embarrassing thoughts in my head about losing my voice onstage, and smoking was always the cause of it. That was my leverage. Find yours. What is your addiction doing to hold you back? Once you align that to the addiction, it reprograms your brain. I used to smoke a pack a day, and now when I’m around someone who smokes, I can’t stand the smell. I will never smoke again. But I knew I couldn’t just cut back; I had to quit cold turkey. When I found that self-discipline, my confidence soared. We often think of invoking discipline as a chore, but really, it’s the ultimate freedom. It’s liberating to take the power into your hands. For me the reward was complete control and freedom in the same breath.
If you want something, ask for it.
Another thing I learned while living with the Ballases was that if you want love or affection, sometimes you’ve just got to ask for it. This is tough for a lot of people. As adults, the fear of rejection or embarrassment often stops the words before you ever utter them. But leaders aren’t afraid to ask for what they want and need. Even if someone shoots you down, you’ve put it out there in the universe. I’d tease Nan or Shirley: “I’m feeling kind of down today, get over here and give me a hug, dammit.” And they did. The people who love you want to come through for you; you just sometimes need to make that easier by saying what you need. It isn’t selfish or bossy or demanding. It’s respecting yourself and your worth. I loved the freedom of not being afraid to just ask for something instead of waiting and being disappointed if it never came. Asking for something is simply the best way to ensure that you eventually get it.
* * *
REFLECTING ON DEREK
“Derek taught me to never stop striving to be your best! There isn’t one day that I worked with Derek or spent time with him that he didn’t want to do or be his best. He would arrive at warm-up early to do extra push-ups and sit-ups and would perform every night as if it were the last. Even recently when we went to Disneyland he made sure that we had the best time; there wasn’t a ride that we didn’t go on and there was always a certain way to approach a ride to get the maximum thrill out of it. Derek is a true friend and the ultimate professional and it was pleasure to have worked with him in Footloose. His direction, presence, charisma, and belief are the things that I love most about my buddy. Any dream big or small is a reality in his world, and since I’ve known him, it’s been a reality in my world. He is a true gentleman who changes people’s outlook on life for the better.”
—GIOVANNI SPANO
* * *
12
REACHING FOR THE STARS
WHEN I FINISHED Footloose in the West End, I was utterly exhausted. I felt like I had crossed the finish line in a marathon, and all I wanted to do was go home, put my feet up, and veg. I also wanted to see my family—it had been nearly nine months. Idaho and my grandma and grandpa were my first stop, then Utah. I was enjoying catching up, filling them in about the show, when Julianne called me.
“Hey, D. I’m doing this tour called Dancing with the Stars and they need another boy dancer.” This was the tour right after Season 3, the first time they had ever done a tour following the season. Cheryl Burke and Drew Lachey were going to do their whole “Ride a Cowboy” freestyle, and the two Joeys—McIntyre and Lawrence—along with Lisa Rinna and Harry Hamlin and Willa Ford—were all signed on as well. The tour would take them through thirty-eight venues, starting in San Diego and ending in Atlantic City.
“Well?” Julianne asked me. “What do you say?”
“Absolutely not.” I had just killed myself for the past year and a half, and the last thing I wanted to do was to go dance on this tour.
Jules was persistent. “It’s going to be all big arenas,” she tried to convince me. “And five-star hotels. We’re going to be traveling in rock star buses!”
I mulled it over. It did sound like a pretty sweet gig, but what really convinced me was my sister’s honesty: “I don’t want to go out on tour alone.” She guilted me into it.
So off we went—Jules was just eighteen, but they had hired her as a company dancer. I was one of the background dancers, which for once in my life was just fine by me. Let me fade into the woodwork for a few months. I had had plenty of the spotlight doing Footloose; I was comfortable letting someone else shine. It was a blast—especially being with Julianne again—and when we wrapped, I headed back to England. Julianne was offered a spot as one of the pros on Dancing with the Stars Season 4. I wound up going to L.A. to do a guest spot with her: we did a groovy little number in week 6 to Joss Stone singing “Super Duper Love.” We choreographed it in a few hours and it was the first time we really danced together.
After the show, one of the producers, Rob Wade, came up to me backstage. “Hey, Derek. Great job. You have any interest in joining us next season?”
I didn’t even need a minute to think it over. “Nope,” I replied. “Thanks, but it’s not really what I want to do.”
Back I went to England. Mark and I were traveling around with our band, Almost Amy, doing the grind. We were focused on the music, and we were very much a team. I didn’t want to just go off to America without him. A few months passed and my phone rang again. We were still living with the Ballases, but in a new house. Corky and Shirley eventually divorced, and now we were living with just Shirley. The producers were still interested in me. Like Julianne, they seemed to have a hard time taking no for an answer.
I talked to Mark about it. I knew it would be a big transition—relocating my life from London to America. While I was mulling it over, Mark got a call, too. He had sent in an audition tape and they were interested in him as well.
“Dude, if we’re going to do this, then let’s do it together,” I told him. So that was it. We literally just packed our guitars and one suitcase apiece, and boarded a plane. I was aware that being on a live TV show in front of millions of people every week would likely change my life forever. I went into it very excited but also nervous. I knew a lot of the pros already through the ballroom circles, and I knew how good they were. I was coming in as a world youth champion—which is a big step below being a champion in the amateur or professional divisions. But on DWTS, the playing field was leveled. We were all starting from scratch, not knowing how good—or bad—our partners would be on that first day, and how much work we would need to do to shape them up. No matter how good we were, our partners were half of the equation.
I landed at LAX and went straight to Jennie Garth’s house. I knew who she was from Beverly Hills, 90210 (I used to watch it and had a crush on he
r), but I kind of still pictured her as Kelly, the blond, spoiled teenage princess—not a married mother of three. She greeted me with a baby on her hip. I don’t think I was what she bargained for, either. I had recently lost some weight and I looked waif-thin and much younger than twenty-two. She gave me the once-over, and I could read her mind: “Who is this little boy who’s supposed to teach me? I’ve been watching the show for a couple of seasons and I’ve never seen him before. They gave me a novice and a child?” But she was polite and shook my hand. “Well, you’re just a cute little thing! You look like you’re twelve!”
I was mortified. I laid it out for her. “Look, I’ve never danced with someone who is a beginner and I’ve never taught someone who didn’t know how to dance. But I’m game if you are. I want to win this. Do you?”
She nodded, and we made a pact. We’d both give it our all. But I was concerned right out of the gate that Jennie lacked confidence. “I’m worried I’m going to pass out on live television,” she told me. I was still learning a lot at that point, too. I admitted I was really nervous as well—I was still finding my way. Thankfully, Jennie was graceful and a quick learner. But I knew I had a lot to prove. I was the new kid, so I never felt entitled. I had to earn my place there.
When it came time for the first live shows, Jennie was a basket case. “Nerves are good,” I told her. “It shows that you care.” It was a huge moment. During our second routine, the absolute worst thing that could happen did. I stepped on her dress and we both fell down—as Len put it—on our bums. As if that weren’t embarrassing enough, they had to replay it in slow-mo while they interviewed us.
If Jennie was a wreck before that week, she was worse after it. But I tried to make her understand, this wasn’t just about mastering the steps. She had to stop doubting herself. The fear was what was holding her back from achieving her true potential. “Listen, your worst nightmare happened. That’s it. We got it out of the way. Shit, we did it—and guess what? Now we have an opportunity to come back next week and redeem ourselves and kick butt.”
