11th Show
It’s one of those thick and muggy summer nights, the kind of night that keeps people milling about the theatre grounds long after the show has finished. We had another sold-out crowd and almost two thousand people just spilled onto the streets of Toronto, moving slowly as they hit the wall of hot air outside. They are moving so slowly, in fact, that I run off stage after my bow, change out of my costume, and take a shower all before the last few audience members leave the building. Cara and Rachel, both finally in Toronto for the entire summer, meet me in my dressing room after the show and we get ready to leave.
“Daniel?” Rachel tugs at my shirt as we begin to walk down the hallway. “Daniel?”
“Yes, Rach?”
“Come here.” She pulls me down to her seven-year-old height and whispers in my ear.
“Can you tell them I’m your daughter?” She leaves out the “step” and has made the word just daughter.
“Tell who that you’re my daughter?”
“The people outside.” We haven’t been outside yet.
“What people are you talking about?”
“The people who want to take pictures with you.”
And now I understand. Rachel figured out there is a bit of mini-celebrity status in coming out the stage door of a show like Jersey Boys; there are always people out there waiting for an autograph, a picture, or a few words. The way my wife puts it, it is their way of “prolonging the experience; making the good feelings last longer.” And on hot summer nights, as Rachel also figured out, there are bound to be a lot of people waiting out there.
Rachel wants to be my entourage. While it is possible that she has preemptively asked me to eliminate the “step” in her introduction because of some deep psychological distaste for the word, I’m pretty sure her request is just a way of being a little closer to mini-celebrity status herself. She wants to be cool. And don’t we all?
So we exit the theatre and sure enough there are:
I stop at the group nearest the stage door to thank them for coming and sign their programs when they request. But I take too long. It has been about twenty seconds and I have not yet introduced Rachel as my daughter like she requested. She is feeling left out. She wants to be noticed, too. And so Rachel begins pulling on my shirt again, this time speaking at the top of her voice, “Daddy! Daaaadddy!”
She has never called me that. And she probably never will again. But it feels pretty good to hear it right now.
15th Show
Performing in a big musical is a job. Let us make no mistake about that. It is a joyous, creative, and thrilling job, but a job nonetheless.
It is a job that needs to be kept in order to pay the bills.
It is a job represented by a union with definite rules and regulations that must be followed. Late for work three times? I can be charged. Ignore a piece of direction I have been given? I can be charged. Exit stage left instead of stage right just because I feel like it? I can be charged. (And something will probably hit me in the head.)
It is a job that absolutely requires an actor’s presence. Yes, I have an understudy. Usually I have two. But what if one of them is sick? That leaves only two of us. And train/highway delays happen with regularity. Family emergencies happen, too. But one of us needs to be here or the show will have to be cancelled and two thousand people will be sent home. Has this ever happened? Hmm. Not that I’ve heard of. That’s because in the professional world of theatre, it is an actor’s job to be present and ready to perform no matter what. Actors who drive the highway leave an hour early, just in case. Actors who take the train still make sure to have money for a cab, just in case. And actors who have family emergencies sometimes have to ignore that family emergency. That’s just the way it is.
Performing in a big musical is also a job that needs to be improved and tweaked as time goes by. Notes are given constantly, and it is part of my job to adjust my performance accordingly. In my first weeks running Jersey Boys, the cumulative amount of notes I am receiving from the dance captain, fight captain, production stage manager, and musical director is overwhelming. By week two, I have fourteen handwritten pages of things I need to fix. One particularly piercing example comes right before a Saturday matinee.
“Dan?” There is a knock on my dressing room door. It is our production stage manager. “You have a minute?”
“Sure!” I yell as I put down my gallon jug of hair gel and open the door.
“Listen,” she says quietly, “I don’t really know how to say this, so I’m just going to come right out with it. Some of the other guys are feeling disconnected from you onstage, like they don’t feel they understand what is going on during certain scenes with you.”
Well, ok. (I’m a little hurt now.) Do you think that could be because I only rehearsed with them twice before opening? (I’m a little bitter now.) Do you think that could be because we have never had a chance to actually work on the scenes together? (I’m a little angry now.) It is great that we all want honesty in our scene work, but the way to get that honesty is to rehearse, not to give me notes that the other guys don’t feel connected to what I’m doing. (I’m a lot angry now.)
But, “Ok, thanks for the note,” is all I can actually say out loud.
I am working very hard to create the best performance I am capable of doing, and it hurts very much to get this kind of note about my scene work, especially when I have always felt scene work is my strong point. The guitar playing, dancing, and singing are all things I have worked to death on so that I am up to par, but they have never been my strongest selling points. But the scene work… I’m not naturally tough, of course, but I can act these scenes. This note I got feels contrary to what I believe about myself. I cannot be acting badly; it has to be that I am just acting differently from what they’re used to. It has to be.
21st Show
Enough time passes that I feel comfortable enough in Tommy DeVito’s skin to let my parents come see the show. The past few weeks have tortured my mother like a little kid who missed the party because she is sent to time-out. My mom wanted to be here on my opening night, but I wouldn’t let her. I wanted to get better first.
My parents saw me rise through the ranks. They watched when I sang a solo for the first time in The Fantasticks in 10th grade. They attended my first big leading role in a regional theatre, driving all the way to Virginia to see it. They watched me on the big screen when I sang in Spielberg’s Amistad, a five-second appearance that they talked about for five years after. And they are here at Jersey Boys for today’s matinee.
My stepfather is proud of me. He worked extremely hard for his own position in life, and appreciates the idea of setting your mind to a career goal and sticking to it. He appreciates my struggle almost more than my accomplishment. (Although he appreciates my accomplishment too, as proven by his frequent visits to the Jersey Boys Blog.) He gives me a huge hug after the performance and smiles a larger smile than I’ve seen on him in a long time.
My mother is proud of me too. And crying. I hope she thinks she has done a good job with me, because she has. She never let me forget about my dream. She would ask, “Are you sure this day job is going to give you time to audition?” Not many parents of small-time actors would say something like that.
And in a clear demonstration of their personality, my parents do not rush to me at the stage door. They wait behind the crowd because they don’t want to interfere with any fans waiting to have programs signed or pictures taken. I have to pull them in to me to receive their hugs and tears. They still don’t seem to realize that theirs is the approval I seek, because they are the ones who have been with me every step of the way.
They buy another pair of tickets for tonight’s show. And another pair for tomorrow’s show. And I make them ask me to autograph their programs, just for kicks.
33rd Show
A month goes by. We perform the show eight times every week, and living in the role for so many hours a day lets me flesh it out, adding nuances and becoming more and more truthful with my portrayal. The creative team begins visiting our company. Director Des McAnuff, Production Supervisor Richard Hester, Associate Director West Hyler, Music Supervisor Ron Melrose, Choreographer Sergio Trujillo, Associate Choreographer Danny Austin, and many others with slightly lower carvings on the totem pole attend performances. Their response to my work can truly make or break my career. Being fired would be embarrassing and tough to explain to future casting directors, and being lauded could offer me a long future with Jersey Boys or any of the other hits these artists work with each season. So I try to bribe them all.
When bribery doesn’t work (I have nothing really to offer except my old baseball cards, but I’m saving them until retirement), I have to live with the creative team’s genuine response. And their response means everything.
From one: “You were very good.”
From another: “You are doing a truly great job.”
From my favorite: “Yours was one of the most enjoyable performances I’ve seen. Ever.”
And now I love my job even more. With these compliments come pages and pages of new notes, but the notes are encouraging and offer me clear direction on where to go. I’m not perfect, but I have found a joy in performing this material that seems to be showing through. Joy is infectious. And it seems to have infected those in charge.
41st Show
The New York Times once said I have the “seductive magnetism of a snake-oil salesman.” I have always loved that quote. (Cara says the same thing about me when I unbutton my shirt further than usual. Ok, no she doesn’t.)
I will receive no such endorsement from Canadian publications, for I am “merely” a replacement actor and there have been no major reviews of my work in this show. There is, however, plenty of less official commentary finding its way to me:
On YouTube: “Daniel Robert Sullivan has been absolutely phenomenal and brings even more of an edge to and a different take on the character. His quirky facial expressions and nuances are worth seeing alone.” Written by silver6342.
On a local entertainment site: “Daniel Robert Sullivan is pure magic as Tommy DeVito. Truly, he is New Jersey incarnate in this role, with an incredible accent and this unmistakably American command of not only himself, but of the three other boys…It is fascinating to watch this character evolve and how brilliantly Sullivan is able to convey such subtlety, and even traces of vulnerability, in a character with such a larger than life intensity that is so reliant on a reputation for toughness to survive.” Written by Amanda Campbell.
In fan mail: “You are sexy and awesome.” Written by Candace.
On the Jersey Boys Fan Forum: “Daniel was fantastic!” Written by my Aunt Jude.
And on some blog written by a guy I’ve never heard of: “If I had to pick a weakest link in the show, it would definitely be Daniel Robert Sullivan.”
This is why some actors don’t read reviews. Even though the professional response I’ve received is positive, the presence of this one blog comment in my Google Alert this morning has ruined my confidence for the day. I don’t need to be the best, but I certainly don’t want to be the worst!
Perhaps I should take refuge in one of my favorite theatre stories: Harvey Fierstein was performing in the smash-hit play Torch Song Trilogy, a play he also authored, when Ethel Merman came to visit him backstage. When Harvey asked her what she thought of the play, Ms. Merman replied, “I thought it was a piece of shit, but the rest of the audience laughed and cried, so what the fuck do I know?”
There’s always going to be someone who doesn’t like the way you do it.
49th Show
I enjoy a life of routine. I always arrive at the theatre one hour before curtain. I sign in, say hello to the stage management office, and briefly check in with any cast members that already arrived. I go to my dressing room and fill out a status board that I placed outside the door: “Dan Sullivan is…having a bad hair day.” “Dan Sullivan is…feeling bloated.” “Dan Sullivan is…wondering which one of you placed the five-foot high picture of Frankie Valli in his bathroom.” This is my way of reaching out to those cast members that I don’t see in the pre-show hubbub, and usually inspires someone to use the pen I provide to write some snarky comment in response. (At my expense, of course. Always at my expense.)
I arrange my small props: a deck of cards, a necklace, guitar picks. I do some pull-ups on my costume rack. (If anybody from the wardrobe department reads this, they are definitely going to stop me from doing pull-ups on my costume rack.) By a half-hour before the show, I am in the shower and singing. I leave my hair a little wet, put on my special black underwear (so colored in case I happen to leave my fly unzipped someday), strap on my microphone rig, and slick my hair back. I put on my first suit, smear on some Covergirl foundation, pencil in my eyebrows, and brush my teeth. This last part makes me feel fresh and ready to go, and helps me feel less disgusting when I have to kiss two of the actresses later in the show.
All of these steps are done alone. I leave my dressing room door open whenever I am not doing embarrassing things (like trying to locate a six-pack underneath my soft belly), but most people are busy with their own routines and have no time for visits.
So I bring in a television and a Wii. And now they have time for visits. Intermission is game time.
“Power serve!” I am sweating already.
“Coming back atcha…There ya go!” Michael Lomenda is sweating even more. (But still not quite as much as he does when onstage.)
“Ooo, backhand coming…Score!” I am winning.
“Ok. Serve it up again.”
“Forehand and score!”
“Damn. Game point for you?” Michael seems sad as he says this.
“Yup. Here it comes…Serve and score! Game, set, and match!” I am gloating. “I killed you, man! Easiest game ever! You want a rematch?”
“No. I’ll just go back to my room and get ready for Act Two.” (Note: The above conversation is entirely fictional. Michael is an unbelievable Wii tennis player and I have not beaten him a single time. But I figure that publishing an account of me winning will make me feel better about not accomplishing the task in real life.)
My dressing room is also full of Scientific American and Skeptic magazines, books by A.J. Jacobs and Michael Lewis, DVDs of Broadway shows, a dart board, an iPod player, and a five-foot high Scooby-Doo I rescued from the building next door’s dumpster and hung from my ceiling. I have wireless internet access, a comfy blue couch, and a bathroom with a shower. And a cleaning service. If this was New York, my dressing room could be a $1600 per month studio apartment. Toronto’s Eye Weekly newspaper actually did a feature on it. (Yes. I haven’t received any press in the newspapers around here, but my dressing room has.)
53rd Show
After many weeks, the show still exhausts and injures me. We perform at night from Tuesday to Saturday, and in the afternoons on Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday; with Monday being our only day off. This is a very typical Broadway schedule, and grueling enough to force me to be conscious of resting my body and voice when I am not onstage.
Often, I will find a large cut on my arm or a serious pain in my foot and not know the cause until the next performance. I’ll do a move during the show and say, “Ouch! That’s how I did that to myself!” My knees are especially injury-prone, for I run up and down two hundred and fifty-two stairs per show. That’s over two thousand stairs per week. Running around the stage like that is dangerous, as one of the other Jersey Boys can tell you. Quinn VanAntwerp was in his third month of doing the show as Bob, and wailing with that powerful voice I first heard so long ago. One night, he was given new shoes to wear. Sounds nice, right? New shoes are comfortable, and the wardrobe department spends a lot of time breaking them in and re-rubbering the soles so they have more traction. However, the rubber used on these shoes doesn’t provide great traction on the metal bridge section of the set. But nobody knew that yet.
Remember, the metal bridge is ten feet in the air. Quinn sang the first verse of “Oh, What A Night,” then ran across the bridge to sing the second verse a little further upstage. In the space between the two verses (which is exactly 3.55 seconds), he slid under the safety railing and halfway off the side of the bridge, broke his left hand, caught himself with his right hand, pulled himself back up again with that right hand, and sang the second verse without missing a beat.
That, my friends, is simply unbelievable. But totally true. During Quinn’s next quick-change, our dresser Andy had to help cover the blood that was pouring out of a large gash in Quinn’s side. And Bob Gaudio played piano with a cast on his hand for the next month. (Because this story is so manly and cool, I’m going to leave out the part about how long and loudly Quinn screamed when Andy cleaned the wound with alcohol during intermission. Quinn wouldn’t like it if I published how long and loudly he screamed. Because it was quite long. And quite loud.)
61st Show
The Jersey Boys are asked to do a lot of special events and appearances, some for charity and some for publicity. When approved by all parties, we are allowed (and often required) to perform special medleys of Jersey Boys songs. Recall that we are contractually forbidden from performing these songs anywhere on our own, but exceptions are made for charity and publicity events, if approved by the Canadian public relations firm, the New York public relations firm, the Canadian producers, the New York producers, stage management, company management, Bob Gaudio, and Frankie Valli. (As you can guess, there are a lot of conference calls in the Jersey Boys world.)
For charity, we have raised hundreds of thousands of dollars in the lobby through the generosity of our audiences; whenever a “cause” comes up, I am surprised at the amount of people who will drop $20 bills into our buckets. For publicity, we have appeared on countless news programs, commercials, and even Entertainment Tonight, teaching one of the hosts our signature moves. We have performed at large festivals, each one requiring us to have a police escort. That’s right. A police escort! Rachel was with me for the first of these and asked, “What do the police need to protect us from?”
I was wondering the same thing, Rachel.
A police escort actually seems a bit silly, doesn’t it? No real need for these escorts, I think to myself as we perform at another large outdoor event. It’s cool, but unnecessary. It’s not like we’re going to be mobbed by thousands of screaming…
Wait. There are a lot of people at this event today. Thousands, actually. And they are screaming very loudly and pushing quite hard to get up to the front of the stage. Wow! This feels great. I’m like a rock star! I guess this is why we have these police escorts, because young girls do go crazy when they see… (It is about here I realize the Jonas Brothers are behind us waiting to take the stage. And that explains everything.)
We performed at this outdoor fundraiser, and the Jonas Brothers appeared after us!
©Daniel Robert Sullivan
62nd Show
OMG. We totally opened for the Jonas Brothers yesterday.
70th Show
It is August, and today marks the one-year anniversary of Jersey Boys in Toronto. It isn’t the one-year anniversary for me, of course, but I do get to take part in the festivities and publicity. The greatest part? Bob Gaudio, the real Bob Gaudio, comes to see the show and invites us to lunch.
He and his wife, Judy Parker, are classy and kind. Their fame and fortune has not removed their graciousness. (And Bob orders the same risotto special that I do, making me feel like I’ve made a proper choice.)
We are told a great story: “December 1963 (Oh, What A Night)” is one of the band’s greatest hits, but it may not have made it were it not for Judy’s input. Apparently, this song was written by Bob with a lyric celebrating the repeal of prohibition. Bob was not entirely happy with the lyric, but on the eve of the recording session he had yet to come up with a better idea. The historical narrative lyric would have to do. (“Late December, back in thirty-three…”)
At 3:00 a.m., Judy Parker rises from bed with an inspiration. She goes to the living room and writes a new lyric for Bob’s melody, a lyric that alludes to a boy’s first sexual encounter. The following morning, the band records this lyric and the song rises to No. 1 on the charts in March, 1976.
Behind every great man, there is a great woman…or at least a great lyricist.
Hanging out with the real Bob Gaudio.
©Daniel Robert Sullivan
88th Show
And speaking of great women, it is time for my two to go home. Cara begins a new season helping to create wigs for Saturday Night Live, and Rachel starts school. Mark returns from his first job at the summer camp in a few days, and I am left in Toronto. Alone again.
I predict that Rachel will be going through a bit of Jersey Boys withdrawal. She became quite obsessed with the show in these past months. We initially debated whether or not to let her see it because of the bad language, but eventually decided that the show was too much a part of our lives not to let her experience it. We talked about the swear words and how she should not repeat them. We told her I am playing a “bad guy,” and that’s the only reason I speak this way. So what did she do? She began repeating her favorite line in the show, a line that has no swear words at all: “I want you inside me.”
How do we explain that one? Our solution was to tell her that some of the lines in the show are adult jokes, and that she should not repeat those either. She seemed to understand and we didn’t hear her say anything undesirable again.
Until today.
Rachel’s first day of school. She attends a Catholic school and there is one (only one) nun on staff. Rachel loves Sister Margie. So much so that she wants to tell her all about her summer in Toronto. But first Rachel wants to tell a joke that Sister Margie is bound to appreciate because it is an “adult joke.” So Rachel pulls Sister Margie down to her knees and whispers in her ear, “I want you inside me.” And Rachel laughs and laughs and laughs. We have to explain that one very carefully to Sister Margie.
104th Show
I take the bus home to New York on this Sunday night in September. I leave Toronto at 7:30 p.m. and arrive in Manhattan at 6:00 a.m. the following morning. After arriving back at our apartment for the first time since rehearsing the show, I crawl into bed next to my beautiful sleeping wife who I have not seen in two weeks. We just have one day together before I fly back to Toronto at 11:00 a.m. tomorrow.
We quickly realize that this is not enough time together.
“Cara, I can’t go two weeks without being home with you. We need to do something different.”
“I know. Screw the budget. Let’s just get you tickets to come home every week.”
So I begin coming home every week, taking the bus on Sunday and flying back on Tuesday. The bus trip saves us money.
After some time of this Cara says, “Daniel, I love that you are willing to take the bus to come home to us, but seeing you only on Monday is not enough.”
“I know. But we don’t really have extra money for me to fly both ways. The bus is cheap!”
“So I say again, screw the budget.”
She’s right. Screw the budget. I buy plane tickets for every Sunday night through Tuesday afternoon for the rest of my contract year. We cannot put money into our savings account this way, but we are happier. Much happier.
Every Sunday afternoon at 4:35 p.m. I take my final bow. I run into my dressing room, jump in the shower, and am out of the building by 4:45. I take the subway and then a cab to the airport (this transportation combination is the quickest). I whip through security like George Clooney in Up in the Air. I fly, landing in Newark, New Jersey by 7:30. I bound up three flights of stairs to be the first in line at customs, run through the airport (taking a shortcut that I refuse to put in print for fear it will be closed off) to catch the next train to Manhattan, and am in my apartment by 8:45 p.m., where I enjoy Sunday night dinner with my family. And I’ve come to realize that it is well worth screwing our budget to have that dinner.
149th Show
More weeks go by. I’m settled into the physical requirements of the show and my body hurts a lot less (although I still slice my arm on guitar strings once in a while). I receive a tremendous amount of support from family and friends; it seems like every weekend a different cousin drives ten hours to see the show, only to return home the following day. And I feel more and more comfortable onstage.
Being in front of almost two thousand people is not as nerve-wracking as one might think. While the beginning of the show will always get my adrenaline pumping, once we settle into the story, I feel quite calm. So calm, in fact, that I have recently found myself multi-tasking.
I sing “Sherry” and I think about when the next sale at Porter Airlines will come up. I sing “Big Girls Don’t Cry” and consider what to have for dinner, a burger or pasta. I sing “Walk Like A Man” and realize I have run out of Fruit Loops in my dressing room. (Fruit Loops are great for immediate energy when my blood sugar gets low, and they are high in fiber.) (That last sentence is my way of justifying the unhealthy cereal I am completely addicted to.)
My body remembers what to do. If I ever fear for a second that the words or moves will not come out, I need simply abandon active thought and let my body react; the correct lines and moves will happen. Muscle memory seems to be a very real phenomenon, so forgetting lines becomes the least of our troubles. Some of our recent plights:
160th Show
It’s official. Tommy DeVito has infiltrated Daniel Robert Sullivan. Not only am I swearing a lot more, but I am refusing to take any shit from anyone. Period. (Yeah, that’s right, I said “shit.”)
After receiving an unjustified parking ticket here in my own building, I respectfully complain six times to ever-higher officials in the building management, but am given the runaround each and every time. Finally, I begin yelling. A lot.
I harass them. I try to use my neighborhood mini-celebrity status. I write a seven-page letter to the Board of Directors, complete with full-color pictures and diagrams. I file in small claims court. I even submit my name to be elected to the Board of Directors so I can fight from the inside. Tommy DeVito never gives up.
And I win.
I arrive home today to find a reimbursement check from the building management. Surely the best thirty-five dollars I’ve earned in a long time.
173rd Show
While letting some of Tommy’s personality traits take over my own is fun, I do have to make sure I keep some of them in check. Snapping my fingers at Cara when I want something done, for example, proves to be a very bad marital technique. Yelling when I am angry is equally uncalled for, as I have to remind myself this week. I arrive home in New York on Sunday evening ready for a peaceful and relaxing day off, and a sleep in my own bed. But Cara has a surprise for me. She is excited. She is proud. She has redone our bathroom.
Now, most guys would probably think a new paint job, a shelf, and some plants would be nice, especially if the guy didn’t have to lift a finger to have it all completed. But I react very differently. I am angry. Tommy DeVito wants to yell. But Daniel Robert Sullivan tries to keep him in check.
“Cara, why didn’t you tell me you wanted to do this?”
“Because I wanted it to be a surprise. Why do I have to tell you?”
“What do you mean, ‘why do I have to tell you?’” (Anger is bubbling inside me. Tommy DeVito is about to emerge.)
“Why do I have to tell you when I want to redo the bathroom?”
“You have to tell me because it is our bathroom, not your bathroom!” (Stop yelling, Tommy DeVito.)
“Well, you are being controlling. First, I didn’t even think you’d care that much about the color of the bathroom. And second, I should be able to change it if I want to change it. You’re hardly here anyway.”
“I’m here every fucking week!” (Stop swearing, Tommy DeVito.)
“Yeah, I know. And you always find something to fight about the day you get home.”
Cara is right; I always find something to fight about the day I get home.
I’m going to be unfair now and use this book as a way of getting in the last word in our debate. (Note to guys: Getting in the last word by publishing a book is also not a good marital technique.) I am upset not because of the bathroom change itself, but because I was left out of the change. Because I am hardly ever at our home, I want all the more to be included in decisions made. To relinquish my vote is to relinquish my involvement, and I want desperately to stay involved. I am angry because I was not involved today.
The bathroom looks really great, though. But don’t tell Cara I said that.
205th Show
I never throw out a playbill. I have a tremendous storage case full of them dating back to 1988. My favorite part of the publicity surrounding my joining this company of Jersey Boys was when it was announced on Playbill.com. When I began performing this role, updated playbills were not back from the printer and so the audience received full-color cardboard inserts with my picture and bio. Michael Lomenda called these inserts “rather fancy,” and I was sure I would find hundreds of them in the trash outside the theatre. When the new playbills arrived, there was no longer a use for the inserts, and last week I was allowed to take them. Three thousand photos of me.
So I went to the theatre two hours early and used them to cover the walls, ceiling, and mirrors in Michael’s dressing room. Playing pranks is a theatre tradition. While most actors are professional enough to keep the pranks far from the stage itself, there is always excitement when someone gets punked.
One of our guitar players has a talking stuffed parrot that he has made speak only lines from Jersey Boys. But that parrot is “kidnapped” all the time. Once, the parrot sent pictures of itself on the beach in Mexico. Another time, the parrot was found hanging in a noose forty feet above the stage with a bright spotlight trained on it. The parrot even sent pictures of itself on top of the Empire State Building.
Quinn VanAntwerp’s dressing room flooded a few times…in one day. So fellow castmates removed everything from his room and set him up again, not in another dressing room, but in the main hallway of our building. It “forced” him to reside in this hallway for four days.
I made a joke about a chicken once. The band heard it; it was not a good joke. But the next night there was a live chicken in my apartment when I arrived home after the show.
My chief dresser, Andy, is the one in charge of making sure every costume I wear is in perfect condition and in the right location before each show. He is also in charge of my quick-changes, which means he spends part of every day on his knees in front of me while I wear nothing but my underwear. So I began attaching signs to the front of my underwear. I wore these miniature signs through the show, revealing them to Andy when I stripped down in front of him backstage. Some recent signage: “Andy’s Fan Club,” “Jersey Boy,” “Are You Having A Good Day?” and “Warning: Explosives Inside.”
Michael plays Nick, a character who is very quiet and seemingly in control…until he explodes in a comic rage. This character mimics Michael’s actual personality, making him a fun target for mischief-making. (The photos of me that now line his walls are not nearly enough of a prank.)
Michael’s dressing room is next to mine; so last month I came to the theatre early, crawled up above the ceiling tiles, and rigged up a rope that I can pull from my room to cause his entire ceiling to lift, shift, and rattle. I do this only a little bit each day, just enough to drive him crazy, without making it an obvious prank. He is convinced that the rattling is mice. Or rats.
Finally, today, I gather seven cast members in my room before the show. I pull the rope harder than ever, making the ceiling actually rain plaster dust all over his room. He needs only ten seconds to figure out what’s going on and charges into my room, with comic rage flaring, to the cast’s applause. He’s a good guy. And good guys deserve to have pranks pulled on them!
I’d like to think I’m a good guy, too. Maybe that’s why I’m becoming convinced that the fan mail I’ve been receiving lately is not actually from real fans…
240th Show
Christmas Eve. We have just one show today, and it’s a matinee. I’m not sure, but I think we shaved at least five minutes off the show with everyone rushing through dialogue to get home to their families. My trek home begins by trudging through the slush outside the stage door at 5:00 p.m., racing to the airport by 6:00, being delayed until 11:30, and arriving home in New York at 2:00 a.m. December 25th is a day off, and a simple and joyous one it will be. I’ll have to return to Toronto to do two performances on December 26th, but the short time at home is well worth it. My parents will join us for Christmas Day, and we plan to have dinner at the kosher Second Avenue Deli. Now if that isn’t a New York Christmas, I don’t know what is.
267th Show
Winter is harsh in Toronto. I am lucky to live next door to the theatre, and the underground parking garage that connects the two buildings means that I have no real reason to go outside. At all. The crowds in the theatre are still huge, still thrilling. But they don’t come to the stage door anymore. Too cold, I guess. We have no interaction with them, and somehow that changes this whole experience.
Perhaps my want for audience interaction stems from a selfish need for personal approval; although I would like to think of myself as above that. Their applause should be enough, right? Or perhaps my want for interaction is simply a need for basic human contact. I see no one all day long, then see my co-workers at the theatre only briefly before the show and during intermission. I’m lonely; that’s all it is. The show remains the most satisfying artistic experience I’ve had, but it also remains the right job in the wrong city. I’m itching for home.
331st Show
It’s my birthday, and Cara hasn’t called me much today. We usually talk twenty times a day, so why she would be unavailable through most of today puzzles me. And truly hurts me.
Quinn invited people down to the local BBQ joint after the show for a small cowboy-themed birthday party. I didn’t realize he knew I own a cowboy hat. And that I absolutely love that cowboy hat. At intermission, the cast sings for me and presents me with an ice cream cake. (That’s the only kind of cake I like. How’d they know that?)
Intermission is over, and it has now been four hours since I’ve heard from Cara. Not cool, right? I call her, and she does not pick up. I know she is a very busy person, but I also know her schedule well enough to understand that she shouldn’t be particularly busy today.
I do the beginning of Act Two and finish the Sit-Down scene by two “thugs” escorting me off stage. When we have left the stage, one of the thugs stops me. He hands me an envelope from his pocket. He’s carried the envelope with him through the entire scene. I open it, and inside is a copy of a plane ticket with Cara’s name on it.
I enter my dressing room knowing what to expect. There is my wife waiting for me, kicking back in a cowboy hat that matches mine. It’s her first visit to Toronto since last summer.
She is the reason behind the ice cream cake. She is the reason behind the cowboy-themed party. And she is the reason that the BBQ place is covered in fifteen “Wanted” posters with my picture on them, posters that were there all day and were probably viewed by many of the folks who had dinner there before seeing the show.
I’m going to sleep well tonight. I’m “wanted” after all.
My cowboy hat. In my dressing room.
©Daniel Robert Sullivan
368th Show
I am often asked if I get sick of doing the same thing every day. I have done the show hundreds of times now, and I suppose it is a fair question. The answer is simple. First, I could never get sick of doing this show. And second, it is not at all the same thing every day.
To the first part of my response, Jersey Boys is one of the most well-crafted musicals ever written. It never fails to engage an audience, and it is full of characters that are enjoyable to play and have a fully fleshed-out journey. It’s way better than Cats. And I love Cats. My new goal (here it comes) is to be in this same show in New York. That would be the perfect life for me—artistically satisfied and close to home. (I guess that would be the perfect life for anybody.) I would stay in this show in New York until they kicked me out, and even then I would be happy to play it again in some community theatre in Brooklyn. I love it that much.
To the second part of my response, the show never quite plays out the same because of the million variables that go into it. The audience can change the show, for they can energize us with their laughter or make us work harder with their silence. A different keyboard player can change the show, for a song can drive harder or softer depending on which substitute is playing. The two sound mixers can change the show, for they never set levels the exact same way as the day before. An understudy filling in for a principal actor can change the show, for the actor can have a very different take on a character (permissible as long as it is in the same ballpark). Alternate drummers, conductors, stage managers, ensemble members, and spotlight operators all impact the overall feel of the performance, and there is rarely a show with the full “regular” cast and crew. In fact, there have probably been only two or three shows this month where everyone was running their regular track. The people change, and so a show is never quite the same as the next.
371st Show
Actors in big shows like Jersey Boys are allowed to take a handful of vacation days, during which the actor’s understudy will perform the role. I have never been in such a long run of a show before and I have not missed a show due to illness a single time in my life, so “giving up” performances to take a vacation still seems foreign to me. But it is a privilege I have earned, so I take it.
A year ago, I desperately wanted to attend the Saturday Night Live wrap party with my wife, but couldn’t because of my rehearsals for Jersey Boys. I take some vacation days to be her date to this season’s party, and have another brush with small-scale celebrity.
The party is held on the grounds of the Rockefeller Center Ice Skating Rink. Seven hundred people attend, many of them recognizable celebrities. We dance, we mingle, we drink, and we eat. I am alone at the bar with Lorne Michaels and all I can say is, “Hey.” Then we end up in a large circle of chattering NBC employees, only a few of whom Cara knows. From across this circle comes a loud call to me, “Tommy DeVito! Didn’t I see you in Jersey Boys in Toronto a few months ago?!”
I am used to being recognized at the Starbucks across from the theatre in Toronto. But being recognized at 3:00 a.m. in the middle of Rockefeller Center is a much cooler thing.
379th Show
The Tony Awards are coming up this Sunday, and I am obsessive about them as always. We Jersey Boys give an interview that will be played during the Canadian broadcast of the awards, and I have already entered five separate Tony gambling pools. (I didn’t enter so many to give different guesses in each pool, I entered because I am totally confident my guesses are correct and I want to win five separate prizes.) And we find out a glorious piece of information while at work today: a two-minute video of the Toronto Company of Jersey Boys will be shown on a giant screen during the Tony Awards presentation at Radio City Music Hall in New York! It will not be shown on television, but will fill one of the commercial breaks for the almost six thousand people watching the Tonys in person. So, I am (sort of) performing at the Tony Awards this year. Another dream can (sort of) be checked off my list.
383rd Show
It has been more than a year now since I had my final audition for Jersey Boys, and the trembling hands are still with me. They are with me when I hold onto the chain-link fence for my first entrance. They are with me when I reveal the car keys to Frankie in the scene I auditioned with long ago. And they remain with me now as I try to come to terms with the decision Cara and I have to make.
“They want me to stay just a little bit longer.” My agent has called with another offer from the producers to extend my contract.
“Are you quoting a song right now?” Cara is with me again for the summer and she and Rachel have watched the show three more times this week alone. She recognizes every song lyric in real-life conversation, just like I do.
“No. They actually want me to stay a little bit longer. Until January.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her. But I might be lying.
“Ok.”
“Should I stay just so we can actually start saving some money? The new contract will come with a raise.”
“You should do what you want to do,” she says. I have already been away from home for fifteen months, so she can’t really mean I should do what I want to do. She has to have an opinion.
“What do you think I should do?” I ask.
“I think you should do what you want.” This conversation is going nowhere unless one of us actually says what is really on our mind.
“I think…” I hesitate to make sure that what I’m saying is actually true. “I think I want to go home. I think I need to go home. To be with you.”
A pause.
Then her response. “Oh, thank God!” And she kisses me. It’s been a long ride.
384th Show
I am very lucky to have been given the gift of Jersey Boys. It has changed me. I am more confident about my ability to create a character that many (including myself) thought was not really right for me. I learned how to physically and mentally work in a long run of a show, and found that I love it. I found relative security in a job for the first time in my life (after I realized I was not going to be fired) and am able to understand how it feels not to worry where the next paycheck will come from. I gained an incredible amount of respect from my peers in New York; they know my drive but never witnessed me have such a gigantic payoff.
And I hope it has changed the way I look for jobs. Prior to Jersey Boys, my audition conversations would usually go something like, “Hello! I’m Daniel Robert Sullivan. – No, I’m not working on anything right now. – Well, I finished a run of a new play last month. – No, it doesn’t look like the play will ever be produced again…”
Now, my audition conversations will go, “Hello! I’m Daniel Robert Sullivan. – Yes, I was with Jersey Boys for a year-and-a-half. – Yes, I will accept your offer of a great role in a Broadway show, thank you!”
At least I hope that is how the conversations will go.
I figure I have about ten months to legitimately claim I have “just finished” my run in Jersey Boys. This show is a resume-builder like no other. I am hoping my career will be pushed onward and upward by its status. Well, onward at least. I don’t need to go upward.
This experience will stay with me forever. How could it not? Each time the audience stands up (still, every single night) to cheer us on, they are cheering for the underdogs who came out on top. They are cheering for boys from the neighborhood who rocked until their fingers bled and their throats were sore, and were rewarded for it. But they are also cheering for four guys, four Seasons, who struggled with their family lives while they were on the road living their dream. These struggles cannot be discounted.
I’ve been living my dream on the road this year, too. But I don’t want to struggle with my family life anymore. So I’m going to go home. Maybe I’ll redo our second bathroom.
Going home is a decision wrought with conflict. While, it is clearly the correct decision for my personal life, I worked for two years just to get this job, so it seems strange to give it up after only a year-and-a-half. Many actors think I’m crazy. I just think my dreams are shifting around a little bit. I give my notice for September 5th, the end of this summer.
I’ll tell you, though, I am going to go home with a damn good pile of memories. Four seasons worth of memories, actually.
425th Show
Our dressing rooms each have a monitor through which we can listen to both the show and any announcements made by our stage managers. It is traditional for a stage manager to make a brief announcement immediately following each performance, an announcement that thanks us, perhaps comments on the night’s audience (“They seemed hesitant at first, but boy we got ’em at the end!”), and reminds us of the call time for our next show. Most often, this announcement happens while I am in the shower removing the gallons of gel from my hair. Tonight, I decide to watch the band’s final playoff from the wings after my curtain call, so I arrive to my dressing room later than usual.
I am removing my tie when the announcement begins. “Hey guys, listen up. The producers are here and they have called a meeting. Please change and meet in the theatre. Full cast and crew, please.”
It is almost 11:00 at night and a meeting at this time is very strange. In fact, a last-minute meeting in the theatre is strange anytime because it puts the crew, the ushers, and stage management behind in their schedules.
I’ve heard about this kind of meeting. This kind of late-night meeting only happens if producers want to get the word out about something before an early-morning press release. And there is only one piece of news that would warrant an early-morning press release two years into a show’s run.
I undress, shower, and change very quickly now. A sense of foreboding has begun. I don’t know for sure what is about to be announced, but I have a good guess.
Walking into the theatre, I am instinctually drawn to Jeff Madden and Michael Lomenda, two Seasons who actually live in Toronto. I am a guest here in this city. They make their living here; it is their home. They are sure to be hit hardest by whatever comes of this announcement. And the forlorn look on each producer’s face tells me my guess is correct.
The theatre is quiet. Introspective. (I’m not the only one to have figured out what this meeting is about.) The producers stand at the foot of the stage. The entire company gathers close together: actors, musicians, stagehands, dressers, hair stylists. I don’t think I have ever actually seen all of these people in the same room before.
“Hello, everyone.” Aubrey Dan, president and founder of the Dancap Productions producing team, begins speaking. “For the past two months, we have been promoting Jersey Boys with vigor unlike anything Toronto has seen before. This summer is well-sold, but we were hoping for a big push into the fall and winter season. This push never materialized. Now that we have sold more than a million tickets, and now that Jersey Boys has become the longest running show in the history of this theatre, I am sorry to say that our two-year anniversary performance will also be our last. Jersey Boys: Toronto will close on August 22nd.”
Silence.
A few tears. Not overly dramatic tears, but the kind of tears you shed when you must say goodbye to something you love.
Some more silence.
This theatre, this show, became a second home to most of us. The fulfillment of a dream that most of us have had since we were young. And, unlike me, most of these people are living their dream right here in their home city. That’s the thing that makes it completely fulfilling for them. I’ve had a dream job in the wrong city; they’ve had it in the right one.
There’s not much talk. Everyone leaves to deal with the news in their own way. There is budgeting to be considered, auditions to be prepared, and maybe even day jobs to look for. I put a hand on the shoulders of both Jeff and Michael. I feel they are losing the most.
Coming back to the apartment, I share the news with Cara. She is dumbstruck, for the show has been selling very well and seems 100% successful. But Toronto is different from New York. In New York, there are many mega-musicals that play for years and years. In Toronto, there has been only three: The Phantom of the Opera, Mamma Mia, and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Behind these obvious successes lies an elite group of two- or three-year runs: Cats, Miss Saigon, The Lion King, etc. Jersey Boys is in this elite group. It is an enormous success in a city that doesn’t often support long-running hits; a city that has eight or nine new musicals come through every year, but only a handful that have ever found an audience for more than a couple months.
I tingle with the excitement of being able to play the closing performance, and quickly feel guilty for feeling this excitement. While it will be an honor to end my own journey with the show in such a powerful way, it is not the way I would choose.
430th Show
At the theatre, the entire cast seems drawn to the irony of me giving my notice and then discovering that the show will close two weeks before I was to leave. I joke that the show just could not go on without me. One friend tells me that his first thought on hearing the closing announcement was that he is glad I will be the one closing the show with the company. It is a plot twist in the final act that surprises us all.
And I thought it would be the last such twist.
In my career as an actor, I miss countless weddings, funerals, graduations, and birthdays. Every time an important event is announced, I quickly try to figure out if there is any way I can participate, but usually the answer is that I cannot. I am entitled to some days off, but with very limiting conditions. Today, my wife and I wake up at dawn to watch a live, streaming broadcast of the Emmy Award nominations. Today, having moved up the ranks in the Saturday Night Live hair department enough to be included, Cara is nominated for an award. A real Emmy Award. The red carpet, a limousine, the Nokia Theatre, a formal ball, and, quite possibly, a statuette with her name on it, will all be part of her life on August 21st, the day before Jersey Boys closes in Toronto. A day on which no one from the show is permitted to take off.
431st Show
I need to find a way to be at the Emmys. Our producers already made it clear that no one will be granted any time off in the days before closing. There will be a lot of press, a lot of very full houses, and a lot of actors with similar unused personal days desiring time off before their struggle for the next gig begins. I have two options: I can beg to be granted an exception to their rule, or I can be dishonest and call in “sick” while at the Emmy Awards (hoping that I am not seen on television).
The Jersey Boys producers all along have treated me extremely well and very fairly, so I am not at all comfortable with the dishonest option. On the other hand, I have been very loyal and supportive to my wife all along too, and I am not at all comfortable with not being in Los Angeles to see her (possibly) win her first major award.
Cara and I talk it out. I present her with the argument I could make to the producers, and she believes it is strong enough to warrant an exception to the rules. Hesitantly, I agree. I take the gamble, and present a request for two days off so that I can get to California for the awards and back to Toronto in time for our last day of shows. I include a note that reads as follows:
Please know that I realize I am asking for a very big favor. This morning, my wife was nominated for an Emmy Award for her work on Saturday Night Live. It is her first nomination, and the ceremony is the afternoon of August 21st. I will just die if I’m not there!
In retrospect, saying “I will just die if I am not there” puts my vernacular back at grade-school level. I think I was trying to be cute. (I’m pretty sure I failed.) The note continues:
Since I began rehearsals in April of 2009, I have not had a single sick day. I think I am the only cast member to go fifteen months without missing a show due to illness. With all my flights to and from New York, I have never missed a show or even been late for a call. I have flown back to Toronto very early every Tuesday to make sure I would be safely at the theatre in time. I had a cyst removed from my tonsil in May, but chose to do it during my vacation week so I would not have to call in sick. My vacation was spent recovering.
If you let me, I will fly back to Toronto on August 21st after the award ceremony, leaving me plenty of time to be here for both of our final shows on August 22nd.
Thank you!
Did you catch the part about the cyst on my tonsil? Did you catch the fact that this cyst was not mentioned when I wrote about my vacation days earlier? I was, and remain, embarrassed by this unusual thing that developed on my left tonsil and began affecting my singing and eating. I knew I had to get it taken care of, but I didn’t want to miss any shows or draw attention to my already insecure singing voice. So I scheduled laser surgery for the first day of my vacation, then flew to New York to recover. I couldn’t eat solid food. Cara and I went out to a Mexican restaurant and I sucked soft guacamole off the chips. It was a bit gross. I went to the Saturday Night Live wrap party and couldn’t say anything to Lorne Michaels, not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because it hurt to talk. But by the time I was back in Toronto, I was feeling better than ever.
And now I hope this personal revelation will work in my favor with the producers.
440th Show
A text message from my production stage manager arrives: Dan, your days off have been approved for August 20th and 21st. Honesty worked! I’m going to the Emmys with Cara. The Canadian producers and Richard Hester, the production supervisor who coached me well for my final audition oh so long ago, have given me one incredibly generous last gift. I will travel to California on the 20th, attend the Emmys, then travel through the night to arrive in time for our final two performances of Jersey Boys on the 22nd. What a weekend that will be.
443rd Show
As the end of our show draws closer, the newspapers and blogs alight with the news. The Toronto Star calls us an “incredible success” and remarks that the show has made Toronto-Based Actor Jeff Madden a star. Jersey Boys fans from around the world begin making plans to attend our final show. Many of these fans attended the closing performance of the Chicago Company of Jersey Boys and recall that there were four standing ovations during the show. A final press release goes out, and full-color photographs of the four of us Seasons begin appearing in all the publications around the city. Friends and family that have not seen the show yet begin clamoring for reservations. And all I can do is talk about how excited I am about Cara’s Emmy nomination.
477th Show
After completing a week of packing and shipping things back to New York (including a huge box of Jersey Boys memorabilia), Cara and I fly to Los Angeles for the 62nd Primetime Emmy® Awards. We leave Toronto at 4:30 a.m., squeeze in as much sleep as we can on the plane, grab a taxi, and begin our quick trip through sandy palm trees on our way to the Ritz Carlton at Marina Del Ray. The trip is paid for by NBC, and I am feeling really, really proud of this girl by my side. The sun is shining, a steady breeze is blowing, and we are ready to take on the world.
Then our cab slams into a Toyota Camry and we have to stand on the dusty side of the road with two giant pieces of luggage and a Jersey Boys hat.
After making it to the hotel alive and humbled (in a new cab), we walk the beach and have dinner. We set the morning’s alarm for an hour that leaves us both time to load our hair with thirty-three of the most perfect hair products on the planet, all of which have traveled with us today. (Being an Emmy-nominated hairdresser means Cara will need to focus on her hair as art, and I shall do the same. This takes time. And bottles upon bottles of hair product.)
The morning of the awards begins with very pricey room-service coffee and two bowls of oatmeal. (Oatmeal is the cheapest thing on the menu.) By the time we’re done, Cara looks stunning in green silk and a controlled explosion of perfectly highlighted blond hair, and I look pretty regular in a suit that I got for free at a Jersey Boys promotional event. My hair is slicked back just like I wear it in the show, but with much more expensive products this time.
Ready to ride to the Emmy Awards in style!
©Daniel Robert Sullivan
We jump in the NBC limousine that is waiting to take us downtown for the ceremony. The limo is stocked full of drinks, but I suggest we hold back for fear of spillage. Cara squeezes my hand in thanks for this suggestion when, not five minutes later, a drink spills all over one of the women at the other end of the car.
The ride takes about twenty minutes, and Cara is nervous. It’s kind of fun to see her nervous for something. Usually it is me with trembling hands, now it is her turn. I tell her how unbelievable it feels to be here with her. And so early in her career! If we are at the Emmy Awards now, who knows where we could be in ten years? It doesn’t matter if she wins. It is an absolute honor and privilege to be here.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going to be really pissed if she doesn’t win.
The limo approaches the Nokia Theatre and I can see the red carpet. Our driver inches closer. A pause. He inches even closer. Another pause. There are a lot of limos and they all inch along. The line of limos must be a hundred yards long. We inch some more.
Finally, we pull around a corner and can see the beginning of the red carpet on the other side of the road. But the limo stops. An attendant approaches and opens our door, but we’re not sure if we should get out here. After all, the road is busy and the red carpet is on the other side of it.
“Ok, come on out!” The attendant shouts inside to us.
“But…”
“That’s it, come on! Right over there!” And she points to the red carpet on the other side of the busy road.
Have you ever played Frogger?
Can you imagine playing Frogger in real life, in formal outfits and on your way to the red carpet?
We dodge luxury cars and limousines as we cross the street, darting left, right, and forward to make it through each lane safely. Cara is a bit slower than I, excusable only because of her heels. Reaching the other side, we encounter…what’s this? A line? No, more of a mob. A mob of people trying to get down the red carpet and into the awards ceremony; all of them crammed together in dark suits and long dresses in the hundred degree Los Angeles sun.
This is not quite as glamorous as I imagined.
Sweating profusely, we are finally pushed and shoved to the front. The reason for the mob scene is that only a handful of people are allowed on the red carpet at a time, an effort to make the event seem calm and unrushed. But the reality is that, just off to the left, Neil Patrick Harris’ brow is dripping while he waits for his turn.
When our turn arrives, we try to seem dignified. Cara succeeds. I decide that dignity is not worth the effort and begin obnoxiously snapping photos of the paparazzi, of Cara, and of the miniscule Kristin Chenoweth walking in front of me. I also find it fun to try to stick my head in as many real celebrity photos as I can. (I succeed, and there are many photos for sale on Getty Images that have me in the background.)
The inside of the Nokia Theatre is gargantuan. It could fit the entire Jersey Boys set in its Row F. When we walk in, there is a director onstage asking the audience to laugh and clap with varying degrees of enthusiasm. This is a camera trick. Producers will splice in this footage later when they want a reaction on the broadcast to appear bigger than it actually was. The Saturday Night Live nominees are all seated next to each other, and we sit down as the production begins.
Best Editing for a Live Show or Special. Best Directing for a Single Camera Series. Best Sound Engineering for a Show with Betty White in it. The awards keep coming, but I can hardly pay attention once the category is named. I’m waiting. Both of our hands are sweaty.
A camera crew walks the aisles and films people as their names are called to receive an award. It’s funny, the crew always seems to be standing in the correct place to capture the first moments of a winner’s reaction. Hmm.
Finally, we hear it. “The nominees for Best Hairstyling for A Multi-Camera Series or Special are…” We know who the nominees are. We’ve been studying them for weeks. We know that the big competition is Dancing with the Stars, and I am checking them all out on the far side of the auditorium.
A moment of suspense as the list of nominees comes to a close.
The camera crew comes alert.
The camera crew moves to the far aisle.
The far aisle is where Dancing with the Stars is sitting.
“And the Emmy Award goes to…Dancing with the Stars!” I squeeze Cara’s hand. Maybe it was coming too easy, right? Maybe. But it still would have been cool to stare at that Emmy on my kitchen counter while eating waffles in the morning.
Immediately following the ceremony, we walk through a very unglamorous hallway and cross a very unglamorous back road to attend the official Governor’s Ball. Cara’s hopes were high, but she takes the disappointment well. We have a nice glass of wine while listening to an incredible big band. We have dinner and move to the dance floor where the guys from Mythbusters seem to be having a good time. Then, an announcement:
“Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for tonight’s featured entertainment: The Valli Boys!” Four guys in red jackets take the stage and launch into a medley of “Sherry,” “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” and “Walk Like A Man.” They are a Four Seasons tribute group. I’m not even joking.
After a few hours at the ball, it is time for me to grab a cab (I choose the one that seems the least accident-prone) and get to the airport for my red-eye flight back to Toronto. I looked nice in this suit earlier today, but now I am disheveled, sweating, and perhaps a bit bloated. (Belts always make me bloated. Women are so lucky they don’t have to wear belts. Spanx, maybe. But not belts.) After a full night at the 62nd Primetime Emmy® Awards, and on my way to finish my starring role in the biggest musical hit of the decade, I squeeze into the middle seat of Delta’s Row 34 next to a man already snoring and a woman chomping through a foot long salami sandwich.
478th Show
I arrive back in Toronto with only an hour to spare before our first show of the day. The last day. I have not slept well, of course, but I expect some excitement to kick in and rev me up.
The excitement never kicks in. While I convince myself that tonight’s show will provide that excitement because of the many die-hard fans in attendance, this matinee actually feels quite somber. This performance is the long goodbye. Tonight may be raucous, so this afternoon we live in each moment a breath longer to be certain we remember it. In just a few hours, we close a story that has inspired us all. In just a few hours, we dismantle a company of artists that will perform this story for the last time together.
479th Show
At 5:30 p.m., “Hey guys, we don’t mean to interrupt, but we just wanted to say good luck to you. We drove up from New Jersey to see you tonight!”
It is dinnertime and the four of us Seasons are having a last meal together.
At 5:32 p.m., “Pardon me, gentlemen. Would you mind signing this for us?”
It is dinnertime and the four of us Seasons are trying to process the end of a dream fulfilled.
At 5:35 p.m., “Dan, Michael, Jeff, and Quinn all at one table! OMG, will you please come and say hi to our group at the back?!”
It is dinnertime and the four of us Seasons are having the last conversation we will ever have alone together. Ever.
At 5:39 p.m., “Hi, guys. I don’t know if you remember me, but I met you at the stage door last year. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I just wanted to thank you for a great run. I’ve seen you almost thirty times now.”
At 5:41 p.m., “Excuse me, are you the Four Seasons?”
At 5:44 p.m., “Holy crap! You’re all here! Hey, we have a group of eight over there. Can we get you all to sign these tickets? Do you have a pen?”
At 5:47 p.m., “Hello, gentlemen. We came up from California to see you again tonight. Good luck to you.”
At 5:50 p.m., “Boys! We got these balloons for you! Have fun tonight! Can we get a picture?”
At 5:51 p.m., “Hello. I know we haven’t met, but I just needed to tell you that we’ve seen your show forty times now and wanted to give you these stuffed animals. You guys are amazing.”
At 5:53 p.m., “Here, I made this collage for each of you. I hope you don’t mind carrying it back to the theatre. Mind posing for a picture?”
At 5:56 p.m., “Excuse me, may I get in a picture with you?”
At 5:57 p.m., “Oh, I just had to say something. You all are the best. May I get in a picture with you?”
At 5:58 p.m., “Hey, as long as you’re doing pictures, can I get in one, too?”
It is dinnertime, and the four of us Seasons should have just gotten food delivered!
This is an experience like I have never had. I am able to eat only half of my meal before so much time has gone by that I must return to the theatre. The four of us have not been able to have a private conversation. We have not had a single moment alone together to process what this experience has meant for us. We have not even had time to order a second iced tea. What we have had is the smallest (ever so tiny) taste of what Brad and Angelina must go through every time they go out. And I hereby vow never to chase Angelina for a picture again.
On my walk back to the theatre, while on the phone with my mother, I am stopped three times and asked for pictures and given gifts. Three times. While on the phone. This is getting ridiculous. Don’t these people know that I am just a small-time actor from New York, one of thousands? Don’t they know that next week I will probably be ordering off the dollar menu at McDonald’s and wondering if I’ll ever work again? And don’t they know that I am on the phone?
I sign in at the theatre for the last time and try to analyze my thoughts a bit. I am grateful for the attention. It is flattering. But it is also unbelievably overwhelming. I would love to spend a few minutes meeting each fan and thanking them for being so kind, but that takes at least three minutes to do. I have encountered about fifty such fans in the past hour, and an hour is all the dinner break I have. Simple math will tell you that I should just be hiding in my dressing room.
I go through my usual routine preparing for the show and finish earlier than usual. The other three guys finish early too, perhaps sensing that we didn’t really have the moment we wanted to have back at dinner. We gather now in Michael’s dressing room for a hug. A couple gifts. A few words. Hmm. This is not as dramatic as I imagined.
A life in the theatre is a life of goodbyes. I came to that realization a long time ago. And you know something? Those goodbyes harden you. I care about these guys and I know that this show has changed each of our lives in dramatic ways, but the goodbye is easier than I expected. For all of us.
Is that what professionalism brings about? A hardening of the heart when a job comes to a close?
We take our places for the beginning of the show.
The standard pre-show announcement brings silence to the crowd. I give thumbs-up to the guys I can see from my vantage upstage in the dark. The first chords of music begin and there is a roar. A loud roar. But I expected that; the fans are out in full-force. The intro song plays stronger than ever, then it fades out as I snap and slide downstage for my first speech. And then my world stops.
The cheers are so loud that I cannot hear the band. I can see our sound engineer fiddling with his computers to make the band even louder, but his system is maxed out already. The cheers are so loud that I cannot hear the guys next to me who are singing “ah, ah, doo-doo” practically in my ear. What can I do but wait? I stand there, staring down the stream of spotlight now blinding my eyes, and I wait. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty, forty, fifty. The cheers continue, louder than before. Finally, I hold up a finger. Just one finger. And they stop.
We continue the show with equal energy on both sides of the footlights. The performance is not technically any different than any other we’ve done all year, but it does have a certain boost of power behind it. If there were another ten medleys in the first act, I’m sure I would have the energy to do them tonight. If there were even higher notes written in Frankie Valli’s songs, I’m sure Jeff Madden would be able to hit them tonight. We receive a standing ovation after “Sherry.” Another after “Walk Like A Man.” Another at the intermission. Another after “Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You.” And a raucous one after “Who Loves You.” I have been a part of countless standing ovations in my life, but they’ve always come at the end of a performance; never have I experienced them during a show. Some members of the audience are Tweeting during the performance:
At the final curtain call, I wave goodbye to the crowd, give a nod to the band, and wrap arms with the three other Seasons as we run offstage. But we don’t leave the wings just yet. It is still loud out there; the audience is still on their feet. We stick around to listen to the band’s final playoff and the energy is palpable. We played our final show with an extra kick of stamina, but the band plays it with an extra kick of skill.
Full Company
©Joan Marcus
They were a cohesive group already, but never have they sounded so together and so full of heart. The audience feels this, I think, because they are dancing with abandon out there in the dark.
When the band finishes, they exit the stage and we all congratulate each other. The house lights come up, the stage lights go down, and the backstage lights rise a bit to let us all see each other on our way out. A few minutes of goodbyes. A walk to the back hallway. Another few minutes of shared amazement. A walk to my dressing room. Another few minutes removing my microphone and washing my face. Then a knock on the door.
“Dan, they are still out there.” A stagehand has made his way to our wing of dressing rooms. He calls for the other three Seasons. “Seriously, they aren’t stopping.”
What is he referring to?
The four of us follow this stagehand back to the wings and can now see that, ten minutes after the band has left the stage, fifteen minutes after we have taken our final bow, the audience is still on their feet and not one of them has budged. The ushers have opened the doors, the chain-link fence curtain has been lowered, the lights onstage have been completely shut off…and still the audience remains.
We are not sure what to do. A concert performer receiving such an ovation would surely come back onstage for an encore. But we are not concert performers. And we don’t even have microphones anymore, never mind an encore prepared. And because Jersey Boys staging is so particular, so specific, we are not even sure if we would be allowed to step onstage again. And yet the audience does not leave.
After too much time decision-making, it is the stagehand (thank you, Brent) who finally tells us we had better just get out there…now. So we do. With arms around each other again, Jeff, Michael, Quinn, and I walk out to the middle of the stage to an eruption that tops everything we’ve already felt. There are handmade signs out there. There are flowers being thrown onto the stage. There are people crying in the front row. And wait, there are people crying onstage, too. Four of us, I think.
Final curtain call on closing night. Jeff Madden, me, Michael Lomenda, Quinn VanAntwerp.
©Aubrey Dan
We can do nothing but stand there and take it in. No one would hear us if we were to speak, and what would we say anyway? This reaction is not, could never possibly be, for us. This reaction is for the story that resonates so deeply for everyone in the room. Each seat out there is filled with someone who has some kind of dream, and some kind of obstacle standing in its way. The story of the Four Seasons proves that those obstacles can be overcome if you set your sights dead-ahead. I don’t mean to sound preachy or New Age or something, but I really do believe that is what connects people to Jersey Boys. Jeff, Michael, Quinn, and I are good performers, but let us call a spade a spade: we are not the ones inspiring such a reaction! I want to cheer right along with the audience tonight. I want to yell and scream and jump up and down and shout, “I know! I know why you love this thing so much! I know why you come back time and time again! I know it is because we all need to be reminded constantly that we can do what we have dreamed about! We need to be reminded constantly never ever to give up!”
I want to jump up and down and say this stuff, but I don’t. I just get a little teary. I get teary because in front of me is absolute proof that, after all these years of trying, I finally got to where I wanted so much to be. With a smile, I think, “What the hell am I going to do now?”