Stop Copying the Cast Recording: Why Originality Matters in Performance

by Chris Peterson

Aspiring performers, this one's for you.

I’ve seen it too many times. Someone steps onto the stage, opens their mouth, and out comes a carbon copy of Idina Menzel or Ben Platt or whoever made the cast album famous. And if it’s a play, I can almost see the exact blocking from the movie being mimicked beat for beat, complete with the same eyebrow raise or dramatic pause.

Here’s the problem. You weren’t cast to be a replica. You were cast to bring yourself to the role. And when you rely too heavily on a recording or a film version, you’re not acting. You’re mimicking.

It’s understandable. We fall in love with certain performances. The cast recording becomes the default in our heads. The movie version plays on repeat in our memories. But when admiration turns into imitation, something vital gets lost. The honesty. The spontaneity. The discovery. The magic that comes from watching someone fully inhabit a role and make it their own.

Not long ago, I saw a local production of In the Heights. The cast had energy. They had heart. But too many of them were glued to the original Broadway soundtrack. Every riff, every breath, every inflection from the album was repeated exactly. Instead of watching characters live and breathe onstage, I felt like I was watching a tribute concert. And that’s a shame, because the talent was there. What was missing was the risk.

The same thing happens in plays. I once saw a production of A Few Good Men, and the actor playing Colonel Jessup had clearly studied Jack Nicholson’s performance frame by frame. Every line had the same rhythm, the same snarl, the same intensity. But instead of commanding the room, he looked like a guy doing a Jack Nicholson impression at a party. The words were right. The costume was right. But the performance felt hollow, because it wasn’t his. He never asked himself what he thought Jessup wanted in that moment. He just copied someone else’s answers.

When you lean on someone else’s choices, you’re robbing yourself of the very thing that makes live theatre powerful. Audiences don’t want to see your version of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Usnavi or Jack Nicholson’s Jessup. They want to see your version. They want your voice. Your instincts. Your interpretation. Not a copy of something they’ve already heard or seen.

Let’s talk vocals. I know some of you have trained your voices to match every note and nuance from the cast album. But those singers made those choices because they suited their voice, their experience, and their understanding of the character. When you try to recreate it exactly, it rarely feels authentic. And more importantly, it limits what you might discover in your own delivery. You could be capable of something more moving, more grounded, or more personal. But you’ll never know unless you trust yourself to try.

And when it comes to acting, the same rules apply. It’s fine to be inspired by someone. We all are. But if your performance becomes a series of borrowed gestures and recycled deliveries, the truth of the character disappears. You’re not here to do impressions. You’re here to connect. That’s the goal.

This is especially important in community theatre and educational settings. These are the places where you’re supposed to explore. Where you should take risks and make bold choices. If you walk into rehearsal already trying to recreate a Broadway or Hollywood performance, you’re skipping the most rewarding part of the process.

I’m not saying you should avoid listening to the cast album or watching the movie. Do your research. Let it inform you. But then close the tab and come to rehearsal ready to discover. Ask yourself what your character wants. What they fear. What they’re fighting for. Let that guide your choices. Not a vocal run you heard on repeat or a monologue delivery you saw on screen.

Some of the best performances I’ve ever seen surprised me. A quiet and understated Judas in Jesus Christ Superstar. A Fanny Brice who didn’t sound anything like Streisand but still broke my heart in the best way. A Tracy Turnblad who brought charm and soul and rhythm without ever trying to be anyone else.

Performers, please believe this. We don’t need another Lea Michele. We already have one. What we need is you. Your point of view. Your truth. That is what makes a performance worth watching. Not how closely it matches a cast recording from twenty years ago.

So yes, go ahead and sing “She Used to Be Mine.” But sing it like it’s your story. Because if you’re doing your job right, it will be.