Sondheim, Slightly Inappropriate Stories,
and Spiritual Whiplash:
Claybourne Elder Unplugged

Best known for roles in Company, Torch Song, and HBO’s The Gilded Age, Broadway and television performer Claybourne Elder now steps into the spotlight as, well, himself in If the Stars Were Mine—a new cabaret blending song, stand-up, and deeply personal storytelling. Currently touring nationwide, the show arrives at Hollywood’s Catalina Jazz Club on July 16, followed by an appearance at CV Rep in Cathedral City on July 17, 2025. Equal parts raw honesty and gentle humor, Elder’s solo evening offers a glimpse into the man behind the roles. Offstage in this conversation with Stage and Cinema, he’s as thoughtful as he is funny—reflective about faith, fatherhood, and the courage it takes to live like a mensch.

If the Stars Were Mine blends cabaret and stand-up—what inspired this hybrid format, and how does it reflect who you are as a performer and person?

I think I’ve always existed somewhere between a song and a punchline. When I set out to make this show, I wanted to include both sides of myself. Cabaret gives me the intimacy to really connect through song, and stand-up gives me the freedom to be brutally honest. I like to say it’s like if Judy Garland and David Sedaris had a baby.

The show tackles themes like sex, fatherhood, religion, and love—what was the most surprising or vulnerable moment for you in crafting this piece?

When I first started writing, I asked myself: what am I most afraid to talk about in front of people? And that’s where I began. The list was longer than I expected—sex, fatherhood, religion, all tangled up in love and identity. The most vulnerable part, though, isn’t any one story; it’s the act of being fully seen. Not as a character or filtered through someone else’s words, but as myself. Standing onstage and saying, “This is who I am, no filter, no script,” felt scarier than any role I’ve played—but also the most honest.

Claybourne Elder as Joe Taylor Jr. in Allegro (Matthew Murphy)

How does your experience as a gay ex-Mormon dad shape the emotional core of this cabaret?

It shapes everything. I come from a place where identity was something you prayed away. Now I’m raising a kid to embrace every part of himself—even the weird ones. This show is me stitching together parts of my life I was told couldn’t coexist: faith and queerness, masculinity and softness, Broadway and Whitney Houston. It’s a love letter to contradiction.

Your set list moves from Sondheim to Whitney Houston. How did you choose the music, and what do those songs mean to you?

I wanted the songs to feel like journal entries. Sondheim taught me how to think, and Whitney taught me how to feel. Each song is there because it says something I was too scared to say myself. There’s something liberating about going from “Finishing the Hat” to “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” It’s not a random playlist—it’s a map of my heart.

You’ve worked with icons like Patti LuPone and starred in some of Sondheim’s most challenging works. How has that shaped your storytelling here?

Sondheim once said that when he’s writing, he’s acting—and that stuck with me. His songs don’t just sound beautiful; they live. Every lyric is an action, every note is a thought. That taught me to approach storytelling from the inside out. Even the most personal story in this cabaret still has to have a dramatic arc.

How has becoming a father changed your relationship to performing?

Before becoming a dad, I wanted to impress people. Now I just want to be honest. My son doesn’t care if I hit the high note; he wants to know if I’m present. That’s made me braver onstage. Vulnerability isn’t just a tool anymore—it’s a responsibility.

Katrina Lenk and Claybourne Elder in Company (Matthew Murphy)

Audiences know you from Company, Torch Song, or The Gilded Age. How does this cabaret show a different side of you?

If you only know me from stage or screen, this show might surprise you—and I love that. Those roles are versions of me, but filtered through someone else’s words. This cabaret is unfiltered. It’s messier, funnier, more personal. I get to show the side of me that isn’t wearing a period costume.

You’ve been featured on This American Life and CBS This Morning. How is telling your story in cabaret different?

My mother was a personal essayist; she wrote a column about her life for our local paper—funny, unfiltered, and deeply honest. That’s how I learned to tell stories: taking messy moments and turning them into something people could laugh at or see themselves in. Cabaret lets me do that directly, like she did—not polished, but human.

Humor plays a big role in your show. How do you use comedy to explore heavier themes like faith and identity?

For me, humor isn’t just about laughs—it’s a way to tell the truth. Some of the hardest moments—coming out, leaving my faith, learning to be a dad—were also absurd and awkward. Comedy creates a space where people can hear something difficult and still stay with me. If I can make you laugh, you might trust me enough to go somewhere deeper. And sometimes the only way through the heavy stuff is to laugh at how ridiculous it all is.

What do you hope people walk away with after seeing If the Stars Were Mine?

A friend once said, “I left briefly wanting to be a better person,” and I loved that. I hope audiences leave feeling a little braver. Maybe they’ll think about the stories that make them feel vulnerable. And I hope they hum a song on the way home—something that reminds them healing isn’t linear, love is messy, and joy can sit right next to sorrow and still make you want to dance.

With so much happening politically in this country, what does it mean for you to live openly as a dad, an actor, and a spiritual being?

When I sat down to create this show, I knew I didn’t want it to be a linear biography. I have this separate life doing stand-up, and I wanted to blend that with cabaret to tell the stories that feel most honest to me right now.

One of the biggest shifts in my life over the past decade has been rediscovering spirituality—leaving Mormonism behind and asking what it really means to live a good life. When I first moved to New York, my manager told me not to tell anyone I was gay; he’d even sit in interviews and say, “He doesn’t want to talk about that.” But I did. And pretty quickly, I decided I wasn’t going to hide. I probably lost some jobs because of it, but visibility felt too important—especially coming from Utah, where I never saw openly gay parents. I didn’t even know it was possible. That choice may have come with anxiety, but it also came with a sense of purpose.

Alexander Gemignani, Anne L. Nathan, Orville Mendoza, and Claybourne Elder
in Road Show at The Public Theater (Joan Marcus, 2008)

You’ve done eight Sondheim shows, and your first professional job was playing Tony in West Side Story. What’s been your favorite role?

Being part of Road Show was extraordinary. It was my first big job after moving to New York, and it spoiled me completely—in the best way. Every day, I got to be in the room with Sondheim as the piece changed and grew.

What surprised me most was the sense of joy in the process. The Public gave us lots of rehearsal time, which allowed us to really explore, experiment and make changes. And because everyone knew it was my first professional show in New York, including Sondheim, they took me under their wing. It was the kindest introduction to this career I could’ve asked for.

As for dream roles, I’d still love to play Sweeney Todd, or someone—anyone—in Into the Woods. While I’m not really the Baker type, I’d love to play that role.

I get the sense you have a strong, spiritual core. What was the journey like, leaving the Mormon church and discovering your own sense of spirituality?

I share a story about this in the show—something that happened while I was working on Company that really cracked me open spiritually. It made me step back and ask what I actually believe. Becoming a parent deepened that even more. Suddenly, I had this little person asking big questions. I felt a responsibility to find honest answers, which meant doing my own searching first. For me now, spirituality isn’t about doctrine—it’s about being present, asking what it means to be a good human.

I hear you just auditioned for something new—what was it?

It was for an Off-Broadway play that’s trying to catch some of the same energy as Titaníque—a commercial, funny, slightly dark gay play. It’s a little out there, but it made me laugh. Sometimes that’s the best reason to say yes.

If the Stars Were Mine
Claybourne Elder

Wednesday, July 16 at 8:30 (dinner begins at 7)
Catalina Jazz Club, 6725 W Sunset Blvd. L.A.

Thursday, July 17, 2025, at 7
Coachella Valley Rep, 68510 E Palm Canyon Dr. in Cathedral City