Confidence I'll Never Have

Returning to The Rocky Horror Show

The woman in the front row seemed to know every word. Not just the songs—every line of dialogue, every callback, every moment to thrust her props into the air and scream along with the ushers. A few rows behind me, a drunk guy kept bellowing “BRAD!” in a voice he clearly found hilarious. Around me, the audience was living their best lives, fully committed to the ritual of The Rocky Horror Show at The Carnegie.

And there I sat, white-knuckling my armrests, terrified someone might notice me.

I hate audience participation. I really do. When I go to the theatre, I don’t pay money to hear Sue Jones from the suburbs sing off-key while trained, hardworking professional actors perform. Put me on the spot where I’m not in control, and I’m hiding under the table. This is true even on my birthday at a restaurant when servers start clapping and coming over with free dessert. The promise of FREE isn’t enough to make me want to participate in that nonsense.

So watching Dusty Ray Bottoms command that stage in full drag regalia, oozing confidence and charisma with every flick of the wrist, every perfectly timed eye roll—it’s fascinating and terrifying in equal measure. Drag queens are bold, aggressive, sometimes raunchy. Everything I’m not. And yet I can’t look away.

Last year, I wrote about this production and confessed something: I hate this musical. I’ve always hated it. But Eric Byrd’s production was so technically excellent, so precisely executed, that I couldn’t help but admire it. I even went back to see it a second time—and I took a friend.

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This year, I returned for the remount—almost the exact same cast, with just a few minor changes—and something had shifted. The performers were more at ease, more confident. They’d been to this rodeo before. They knew this audience would love what they were doing, that all the envelope-pushing sexuality and silliness would land. And it showed.

Dusty Ray Bottoms was even more phenomenal this time around, if that’s possible. What presence. What command. Every moment felt lived-in and dangerous and electric all at once.

But it wasn’t just Dusty Ray. Tommy Sanders as Brad Majors has a vocal range that shouldn’t be possible, and under music director Steve Goers’ direction, he hits notes that seem physically impossible with precision and power. His character work matches that vocal prowess—he’s earnest and wholesome in a way that makes his and Janet’s journey make sense. Caroline Rakestraw as Janet has a presence that screams “star.” She matches Tommy’s energy with wholesomeness of her own, but there’s something luminous about her. She’s not just playing the ingénue—she’s commanding the stage while doing it.

Ethan Kuchta’s Rocky is a marvel, and not just because of his otherworldly physique (I’m careful about commenting on people’s appearances, but since it’s part of the character I think it’s important to note just how committed he is to his fitness regimen). What impressed me was his vocal precision, his physicality in both movement and dance, and a self-awareness as an actor that’s unusual for this character. He’s not playing Rocky as just dumb—he’s innocent. There’s a difference, and Ethan knows it.

Sam Evans opens the show as Magenta with incredible belting that sets the tone for everything that follows. Savannah Slaby, in her Playboy bunny outfit as Columbia, nails the voice and ditzy nature of the character with just a hint of spookiness underneath. Kyle Taylor as Riff Raff is intensely physical in his portrayal, and his charisma oozes off the stage—creepy, scary, and silly all at once.

Sean Miller-Jones could read the phone book and I’d show up for it because he’d find a way to make it seem like hundreds of personalities live inside him. Here, there are just two—Eddie and Dr. Scott—but they’re wildly distinct and both wildly entertaining. Eddie is a rock star cameo, but one you got on sale, and Miller-Jones leans into the camp of it all with abandon. Dr. Scott’s German accent is hilarious, his comic timing is precise, and he’s impossible not to watch.

Pam Kravetz as the Narrator brings a different energy entirely—she’s not a trained actor but one of Cincinnati’s most respected visual artists and arts advocates. That choice feels intentional in a show about people stepping outside their comfort zones, and her charm comes from exactly that authenticity.

All of this is elevated by Tyler Gabbard’s set design and Julie Cowger’s lighting. Gabbard’s work looks expensive—and I mean that as high praise—with video projections that move the story forward seamlessly. Cowger’s lighting is equally exceptional. I love a well-timed blackout. I love when lighting brings energy to a number. I love when my eyes go exactly where they’re meant to because the light directs me there. She does all of that in an extraordinary way.

Eric Byrd’s direction was another reason I returned this year. Despite this show being ridiculous in terms of plot, Byrd makes it easy to follow. He keeps the action moving—the blocking and choreography all happen at a pace that prevented me from watch-checking, which is rare in the TikTok-infused attention-deficit era I’m trapped in these days. Everything in the show feels focused and clear, even amid the controlled chaos.

Because that’s what this production is: controlled chaos. The ushers guide the audience’s participation like a Greek chorus, and when the audience plays their part as invited, it makes the show exponentially more fun.

So, when I am tempted to fold my arms and audibly say “Harumph,” I know that I’m the problem. I don’t like chaos. I don’t like people having TOO much fun, I guess. Something about that scares me. Much like when I went to the Renaissance Festival and didn’t “get it,” I’m the outlier who doesn’t understand that this kind of joy—messy and loud and uncontrolled—is exactly the point.

The Carnegie has created something genuinely rare: a production that works both for people who want to scream and sing along, AND for people like me who just want to watch theatre executed at the highest level. The fact that both experiences can coexist in the same space—that the chaos doesn’t diminish the craft, and the craft doesn’t diminish the joy—is actually remarkable.

I still feel that clench of panic when someone near me gets too loud, too free, too uncontrolled. But I can’t deny what I’m witnessing: a community of artists and audience members who have found a space where they can be bold and free in ways they might not be anywhere else.

Though I’m not sure I’ll ever have that kind of confidence myself—the kind that lets you throw toast at a screen or do the “Time Warp” in the aisle during the curtain call—I can still recognize it as something beautiful. Something worth celebrating.

Something worth seeing again.

The Rocky Horror Show continues at The Carnegie through November 2nd. Tickets and more information can be found at thecarnegie.com.