Every actor has their “audition protocol.” Some actors will only go to auditions their agents have set up for them, while others will line up early to attend any audition at all, even if the audition is a required call. See, that’s the thing about theatre auditions: shows are required to hold them even if they are not actually casting anything right then. This benefits the average actor, for it is often the only way they will be seen by the casting director of a given show.
Actors’ Equity Association worked hard for this rule and I am grateful because I definitely fall into the latter category of auditioning. I will audition for anything. I have stood in line on 46th Street at 6:00 a.m. for days in a row during summer stock audition season. I have spent countless days in stairwells and hallways waiting three hours at a time to sign up for an audition, then two hours preparing for that audition later in the afternoon. It is routine to spend five hours in an audition room hoping for a slot while on the “alternate list” all because you spent the morning waiting for another audition ten blocks away.
And I am not alone. For these required auditions—the ones where the casting directors are not necessarily looking to actually cast the show—it is usual to have two hundred actors per day wanting to be seen. A moderate week may have eight of these auditions taking place. So that means there are sixteen hundred songs being sung for jobs that may not even exist.
There are two types of these required calls: Equity Principal Auditions (EPAs), which audition for principal roles, and chorus calls, which audition for ensemble roles. Chorus calls will typically allow an actor enough time for a mere sixteen bars of music. (Every actor knows sixteen bars of a hundred songs, but probably only knows the second verse to a handful.)
It’s December, 2007. There is a required chorus call for Jersey Boys happening, and I know this is the perfect time to be seen for the role of Hank Majewski. There seem to be productions of the show sprouting up everywhere, leaving quite a few guitar-playing actor slots to be filled.
The chorus call has two unique properties that play into my Jersey Boys beginnings. First, in addition to someone from the casting office attending, a musical director from the show is required to be present at all chorus calls. This doubles the chance of having someone actually pick you out of the crowd, and doubles the legitimacy of the experience. Second, chorus call slots may be claimed one week prior to the audition. This can guarantee that you will not have to wait around all day to sing, and helps me greatly because I teach workshops for a theatre company and have to find time to work these in. One week before the audition, I have one of these workshops I need to teach (gotta pay the bills), so I send Cara to the 2nd floor of the Actors’ Equity building to sign me up.
Cara is the most creative and supportive fiancé a guy could ask for. Having both been married before, neither of us was looking for the relationship that eventually just kind of snuck up on us. We met at a theatre out west, and then worked through a long-distance relationship for about a year. One day during that year I realized that not only was I in love, but I had come to absolutely rely on her calming voice and unending belief in me. So we moved in together. We each came to the relationship with emotional baggage (who doesn’t come to a relationship with emotional baggage?), but I am lucky to have found someone willing to work on “us” with fervor and commitment. She’s my best friend.
I suppose I can locate my adoration for her in the events of our life together: She once drove ten hours to see me for my birthday when her flight was cancelled. She made me sleep outside at the edge of the Grand Canyon after a midnight arrival so that I would see it for the first time when the sun woke me at dawn. She cried in the moving van on the day we moved to New York City, not because of the lifestyle change, but because she saw a particularly destitute homeless man on the street. She told me very seriously how much she admired the effort I put in to an earlier book that never found its way to publication, and in doing so inspired my efforts on this one. And she even tells me that I am hotter than her celebrity crush, Duane “The Rock” Johnson.
It’s funny that, given the opportunity to put in print exactly how I feel about Cara, I find her hard to describe. She is beautiful, surely—medium height, blond hair, great figure. But I suppose more specifics would be needed to pick her out of a lineup. (Thus far, no one has had to pick her out of a lineup.) Her hair is probably her most prominent feature—countless shades of blond and very thick, becoming even thicker as six or seven products are applied each day. Her blue eyes often seem to change color with her outfits, coordinating to their environment like a Bob Ross sky. She has long, thin, perfect eyebrows; made more perfect every three weeks by the Korean lady on 32nd Street. She also has a wide jaw that she doesn’t care for, but I find to be strong and confident. And her collarbone is pronounced and sophisticated like a 1920’s flapper.
I have never taken advantage of Cara’s willingness to help me get an audition before this. (Sure she runs lines with me; but I must be frank and say that running lines is not quite in her skill set. She likes to read every word on the script’s page, whether or not it is a line of dialogue. She reads aloud things like “Pause” and “Entering the Living Room” and “Juliet Picks Up the Dagger.”) Cara works very late nights at Saturday Night Live in the hair department and waking early to sign me up for auditions is not part of our arrangement. So she makes me promise I will be cast in the show if I am going to make her get out of bed that early. So I promise.
This is a picture of Cara shortly after we met. It’s my favorite picture of her, and reminds me of the first summer we spent together.
©Daniel Robert Sullivan
* * *
A week later, I arrive at the chorus call wearing a nice gray suit, black shirt, and gray tie, only to find I am one of a hundred with the same idea. While waiting to be called to sing, the casting director, Merri Sugarman, comes out to the waiting room and says hello to an actor I have seen around for years. Buck Hujabre looks like he belongs in the show. Innocent looking. Confident looking. Italian looking. He’s perfect. And there is nothing more intimidating than discovering an actor you are competing with already has a relationship with the casting director. Oh, except discovering that there are a hundred guys in the room dressed the same as you. Oh, and also discovering that those same guys can sing the pants off you.
Cara has gotten me a decent audition number and I am in the room rather quickly. Ron Melrose, the musical director for Jersey Boys and creator of all the amazing new vocal arrangements of the songs, is in the room. I am not sure this is good news yet, as I have never been the best singer, and today (as proven by the sounds through the walls) I am nearer the bottom of the pack. But I have confidence in my ability to act. I can act the song better than anyone here! So I approach the piano with my music only to hear Ron say, “Just one thing I’m telling everybody, this show is not about acting the songs. It’s just about the sound.”
Ok. I guess I won’t be playing Hank Majewski anytime soon. But I’m here, so I dive into sixteen bars of “Hurt,” a song covered by Elvis Presley. I sang this song in an Elvis revue some years back, and it has a slow, steady beat that reminds me of early Four Seasons. When I am finished, Merri has on a polite smile and Ron says, “Thank you.” I pick up my book of music, knowing “thank you” is an actor’s cue to leave. As I am about to exit the room, a miracle occurs. Ron says, “Oh, hey. You play guitar. How well do you play?”
“I play pretty well,” I say, and instantly thank my grandfather for giving my mother a Gibson when she was a teenager, a guitar that sat in our basement when I was a child so that one day I was bound to pick it up and ask for lessons.
* * *
Three days later I get a call from my agent. Meg Pantera is just about the best agent I could ask for. Her job is to get me auditions and negotiate contracts for me when I book work. Most people probably know that agents don’t get paid unless the actor does. Now, I’ve been working lots of theatre jobs for many years, but I’ve been working mostly for small regional theatres and getting paid $250-$550 per week. When I send my agent her 10% commission check, it is embarrassingly small. When she negotiates a contract…well…there just isn’t room to negotiate a thing. And yet she believes in me. Meg calls and says, “Dan, they want to see you for Jersey Boys.” Well, Meg, I want to be seen for Jersey Boys. Oh boy, do I want to be seen for Jersey Boys.
As it turns out, Meg submitted my picture and resume to the casting director to be considered for an audition right about the same time I went to the chorus call of my own accord. This double-whammy scores me a coveted first audition. (Yes, first audition. They won’t refer to it as a “callback,” even though they already saw me at the chorus call.) I am to sing a 50’s song, bring my guitar, and prepare some scenes that I will be emailed later today. The audition happens in a few days. I am ready to rock.
I get home and begin preparing some music. I have “Hurt,” the song I have already shown them. And now I figure I should grab my electric guitar and learn something impressive and appropriate for the time period. I don’t have a portable amplifier, so I buy a small battery-powered one and spend the day fooling around with various songs, finally landing on “Oh, What A Night.” I realize that the song is performed in the show (which sometimes makes it a less cool choice), and that it was written in the 70s instead of the 50s. But I figure people know it as a piano song, whereas I will be rocking it hard on the electric guitar, which is pretty slick. And I do it well. It will be different, but not too different.
The scenes arrive in my inbox. They are a packet. The packet has a title: Bob. As in, Bob Gaudio. As in, one of the lead roles. What?! I call my agent. “I thought I was being considered for an ensemble role, like Hank Majewski. But Bob?! Is this for real?”
“Yes and no,” she says. “I think they are looking for somebody to understudy Bob on the tour.” Perfect. I’ve got this. Back to the scene packet…
It is twenty-seven pages long. And I have two days to learn it all.
* * *
The audition starts early, so I wake early. I take a long shower, drink a lot of coffee, grease up my hair, put on a suit, review my lines, tune my guitar, and rehearse my songs. I walk to the audition studio (conveniently close to our apartment), re-tune the guitar, use the bathroom, check on my slicked-back hair, sing a bit in the stairwell, and review my lines again. This is already becoming a routine; a long routine! A routine that I hope to repeat a few times if they like my audition today.
My name is called. I go into a small audition studio I have been in many times before, so I feel comfortable there. It has hardwood floors, a giant mirror, and windows looking into an alleyway. The only people present are Casting Director Merri Sugarman, the accompanist, and a reader. Merri asks if I would prefer to sing with the piano or accompany myself on the guitar. I have worked up this killer version of my song, so I opt for the guitar straightaway. I set up the miniature amp and launch into my rockin’ version of “Oh, What A Night” with giant power chords on the electric guitar.
I finish.
It is quiet.
“Dan.”
“Yes?”
“Didn’t your agent tell you not to sing a song from the show?”
No, she didn’t tell me not to sing a song from the show! And she is very good and very organized, so I bet someone just forgot to tell her to tell me not to sing a song from the show! And I just sang a song from the show!
“Dan.”
“Yes?”
“If we bring you back again, we’d also prefer you bring an acoustic guitar instead of an electric.”
Please note that there are no acoustic guitars in Jersey Boys. But I’m not going to bring that up right this minute.
She asks me to sing another song, so I dive into the first one that comes to mind, a rockabilly tune recorded by Elvis Presley: “That’s All Right, Mama.” This is now the second Elvis song I have sung for Merri. You’d think I was in Las Vegas or something. I finish my audition by performing just a few pages of the twenty-seven I have memorized. The reader assigned to do the scenes with me also has them memorized, so I get the impression he has done this many, many times today. And yesterday. And last month.
I’m done and I go home.
* * *
Wonder of wonders! Miracle of miracles! I get a callback. I’m told to come back next week with the same twenty-seven pages of script. I am being considered for the ensemble role of Norm, a role that understudies Bob but also has quite a few juicy scenes himself. I am beside myself. I vow never to touch the electric guitar again, and I work up a better version of “That’s All Right, Mama” on an acoustic. Instead of doing the song as it was written, I add a key change so that they can see I really know how to play the guitar. I don’t know how to finish the song though, so I play it for Cara and stop abruptly after the second verse. She takes over the singing, putting in a groovy little ritard and high note on the last line. It sounds perfect; I figure out how to play it and now have a tight little selection of music.
The callback takes place in the same location as the last audition, Chelsea Studios in Manhattan. I wake early, take a long shower, drink a gallon of coffee, grease up my hair, put on a suit, review my lines, tune my guitar, and rehearse my songs. I walk to the audition studio, re-tune the guitar, use the bathroom, check on my slicked-back hair, sing a bit in the stairwell, and review my lines again. Is this sounding familiar yet?
Buck, the actor who looked perfect at the chorus call, is at this callback. I introduce myself and we talk. We are both excited. He is a kindred spirit.
They call my name and Merri gives me a very cheerful welcome. I’ve come to understand that Merri is terrifically direct and efficient at her job. She clearly loves what she does and adores working with actors, but she is also very much a straight shooter and won’t hesitate to make your life clearer by telling you when you’ve done something wrong. (Or right! But mostly wrong.)
I enter the room and see the very same people who were there the last time. This callback feels exactly the same as the first audition, so I can only imagine that there are just fewer actors being seen today; Merri must be holding this callback just to keep her own head straight.
The Elvis song goes well. The scenes feel pretty good. Merri gives me some direction about how to play Bob, and I try one of the scenes again. She seems pleased enough and calls me over to the table while she writes something on a scrap of paper. It is an address. She says, “We’d like to see you dance on Friday at this location.”
Wonder of wonders! Miracle of mira… wait. Dance? I think I just heard the word, dance. Nothing scares me more than the word dance. There are very few times in my life when I have been seen dancing, and every one of them was because I was flirting with a certain girl at a certain bar out west. I am engaged to that girl now. And Cara can’t get me to dance anymore.
But dancing is what I have to do, and I have to do it in two days.
I walk home, trying to think of what I can do to give myself some sort of leg up with this dancing. I am considering taking a dance class, just to get my body moving in some kind of rhythm, when I am smacked with the perfect idea. There are lots of YouTube videos of Jersey Boys, right? And there is bound to be choreography from the actual show at this dance audition, right? So I am going to learn every bit of choreography I can before Friday!
Now I rush home. I push the rug back in our bedroom, put the computer up against our mirror, and find the four best Jersey Boys videos available online. Cara comes home, happy that I am being called back again and hysterical at the idea of me learning choreography in our small bedroom. So what does she do? She vows to learn it with me. And for the next forty-eight hours we are dancing “Who Loves You” and “Walk Like A Man” in our socks, crammed between our king-size bed and two bureaus. Funny girl, that soon-to-be wife of mine.
In addition to being my bedroom dance partner, Cara is also a mother who brought two surprises to my life: her children, Mark and Rachel. Mark is a creative and laid-back teenager attending Art And Design High School in Manhattan with the ability to do just about anything he sets his mind to, and Rachel is just about the most perfect little girl in the world, made even more perfect in my eyes by her recent love for musical theatre. (She learned Shakira songs long ago, but now she knows every word to The Phantom of the Opera.) Together, we are a very blond, blended family unit. And for two nights, Mark seems just a bit embarrassed that our window shades remain open while Cara and I learn choreography in our room.
This is a very recent picture of Mark and Rachel, both of them looking very, very old!
©Daniel Robert Sullivan
* * *
The dance call takes place in the rehearsal studio of the Hilton Theatre (soon to be known as the Foxwoods Theatre, home to the infamous Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark). The Hilton is one of the biggest theatres on Broadway, and its rehearsal studio is even bigger. I show up with some semblance of dance attire. You see, real dancers always wear funky, tight, cool-looking dance clothes. And guys who don’t dance at all (and want everyone to know it) wear sweat pants and a loose t-shirt. I am not a real dancer, but I certainly don’t want to project that I am a bad one! So I put together a dance outfit that is not funky like a real dancer might wear, but that is form fitting, black, and cool enough.
There are many guys at this audition. Maybe twenty-five of them. I didn’t expect anything less, but I admit I was hoping there would be an elite group of five or six. But there are twenty-five, and it is just as I expected: some are clearly dancers and ready to impress, and some are guys who belong in a football locker room wearing old sweat pants and baggy Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts.
Many people are warming up by stretching and moving, others are demonstrating that they are not dancers by half mocking the stretching. This is a common occurrence, one I have come to understand as a confidence-boosting technique. When you are in a room with a lot of people who you already know are going to be better dancers than you, it helps your ego to sort of mock the process and set yourself apart as someone different. The show you put on says, “I am here because I am a great actor, or a great singer, and this dancing bit is just a requirement, a mandatory (but unimportant) step in the process of them giving me a part…” It is a show that I have put on myself, though I think I’ve grown out of it. I hope I’ve grown out of it. Ok, I probably haven’t grown out of it. But on this day, I do not participate.
Peter Gregus walks into the room. Peter Gregus originated the role of Bob Crewe in the Broadway cast of Jersey Boys and remains in the show to this day. He is also the dance captain and will teach us the choreography. “Good morning, guys! Stretch your right legs ’cuz we’ll be doing the splits.” Um. Ok. The splits. I don’t remember there being any splits in Jersey Boys.
We begin with a hip-hop routine. This is the choreography that opens the show. It was not available to watch on YouTube, so I’m fearing the worst. He teaches us the choreography fast and, much to my surprise, I feel ok with it. While I am certainly not great, I actually remember it all when we run it together as a group. Then Peter says, “Ok, we’re going to add a finish to this bit. I want you all to throw your right arm in the air and do the splits.” He is serious. He demonstrates. I try. I fail…big time. In fact, I cannot even fathom how some of the guys can make their legs do that.
We move on to a second routine, which turns out to be exactly what I’ve been working on with Cara in our apartment. Now we’re in business! They play “Who Loves You” on the piano, and I feel one step ahead of Peter as he teaches us the moves. Now, I may not do them well (I’m still no dancer), but remembering the steps is 90% of the battle for me, and I am confident I will remember them all.
And I get lucky. There is one swaying and snapping move that Cara constantly poked fun at me about. I just couldn’t get it to look right. I could do the whole routine, but would have to stop at this place because my body just can’t move the way those boys’ did on YouTube. But this swaying move has been left out of the combination today! I don’t have to do it; and that means I am even more confident that I will rock this section. After a quick group review, the real audition begins.
Merri Sugarman comes into the room and introduces us to Sergio Trujillo. Sergio is the choreographer of Jersey Boys, an unbelievable dancer in his own right, and a big-time star in the theatre world. He is amazing to watch, has a reputation for being extremely specific with what he wants from actors auditioning for him, and is very intimidating to have in the room. Quickly, he and Merri take seats in the front of the room and all of us actors are asked to stand to the side. He calls out a group of three to the center of the floor, and right away music begins for the hip-hop routine. Three guys do the splits. Two guys do it beautifully, and the third guy probably won’t walk straight for a year.
The dancers are given only a few seconds to breathe before music begins for the second routine. They launch into it, do pretty well (except that poor guy who seems very much affected by his splits), and are sent back to the side of the room.
Three more guys are called. While they dance, I run through the routine in my head at the side of the room. Unfortunately, it is not socially acceptable to actually do the dance at the side of the room. Honestly, I am not sure why this is the case, but I know that you will be asked to stop if you try it. Probably has to do with keeping the choreographer’s focus clear on what is happening in the center. But I run through it in my head so I do not forget a step.
It’s my turn. About half the guys have danced so far. They place me at the center of the three of us, meaning I will finish my splits right in front of Sergio. We do the hip-hop routine and I remember every step. I feel cool. I act manly. I sweat so much that my fingertips drip. That’s right, my fingertips. I do the splits and, though I don’t even come close to getting them to the floor, I do the move cleanly and simply—and I don’t fall over. I stand up with a bit of a confident smile and get ready for the next routine. Which I rock! Oh, thank God for those lessons in my bedroom. I am sent back to the side of the room to wait with the others.
When all the guys have danced, Merri and Sergio take a few minutes to shuffle through our headshots. Then, the moment of truth. Merri says, “Thank you all for coming out here this morning. Special thank you to the two guys who flew in from Chicago for this. We are going to keep nine of you for a bit longer, but the rest of you are free to go home.” Being free to go home means you are no longer being considered for this show. Oh, I’m sure you could audition again in the future and improve your situation, but really it means that the two months you’ve just spent in callbacks have been ruined by the reaction to your dancing. I am not looking forward to being “free to go home.”
“Will the following people please stick around? David Richardson. Franklin Miller. Joseph Killian.”
PAUSE
“Brian Krantz.”
LONGER PAUSE
“Michael Lambert.”
REALLY LONG, COMPLETELY NERVE-WRACKING PAUSE
“Brett Lahey. Daniel Robert Sullivan.” I get to stay! Two more names are called, but I certainly cannot hear them with all the cheering going on inside my head. We nine are asked to come again to the center of the room in groups of three and perform both dance combinations. With no direction given, it seems Sergio just wants to get a better handle on what we can do. I do the routines pretty much the same as before, although I have much less nervous energy now. I feel a bit surer of myself now that I know I have been kept. Buck is also kept. He must have been one of the last two names called. That guy just keeps following me.
When we are all finished showing our stuff a second time, Sergio thanks us and asks us all to speak to Merri privately in the hallway. But first he’d like to see three guys privately himself: a guy named Howie Michael Smith, a guy with curly hair, and me. Now I really have no idea whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. It could very easily be, “These guys are my favorites,” or “Merri says these guys are well-liked, but they didn’t do well enough for me, so I guess I have to work them a bit more and see if they can cut it.” Sergio gives us no clue as to why he has kept us, but I look at the situation favorably because of the company I keep. I have never seen the curly-haired guy before, but Howie is currently playing the lead role in Avenue Q on Broadway. He is well-respected, well-liked, and very talented—so I am leaning towards this work session being a good thing.
We are taught just one move: a snapping step-touch that three of the actors do for their first entrance. It looks like a simple step, but Sergio is extremely precise (his reputation holds true). My back must be at this angle, my arms at that angle, my foot a little more behind the beat…ugh! It is not difficult to do the move, but very difficult to be so precise. When we finish this private session, he thanks us (oh no, Sergio, thank you!) and sends us out for our private talk with Merri. The guy with the curly hair did really well, so I expect him to be happy when he is called over to speak with Merri first. But she has a look on her face that projects some sympathy and he, a bit too loudly perhaps, says, “Awww, come on.” And he leaves. Angrily.
My turn. And I hear the magic words, “We’d like you to come back later.” Woo-hoo! Thank God for YouTube!
I leave the building, and Howie stays in Avenue Q for another two years.
With nothing really to do and an hour before it seems all right to go back in the building, I wander the streets of Midtown and dream. Seriously, I have never been this close to something this big in my life. People like to say it is pointless to get your hopes up, but if I didn’t get my hopes up I would be depressed all the time. Each audition creates a possibility of my childhood dream coming true, so I love these moments when the hard work is done and I can dream a bit about what might happen.
When I can’t wander anymore, and feel the audition rooms are empty enough that it would be all right to take over the bathroom there, I go back and change into my suit and tie. I comb my hair into a nice parted style and tune up my guitar. I review all the scenes, although by now I have them solidly memorized. I polish my shoes. I transform into a Bob understudy.
Five guys participate in this round, Buck included. While he was not one of the three kept for additional dancing with Sergio, he has been brought back for this session, proving that...well actually it proves nothing. It only reinforces the idea that an actor can never really know what the people on the other side of the table are thinking. I was asked to dance some more; Buck wasn’t. I was asked to come back later; Buck was too. (Auditioning this way reminds me of doing my taxes—I never really know what the result is going to be until it’s over. There are so many little variations and calculations that an amount owed could come just as easily as a refund.)
I hear Buck through the walls. He’s good. When it’s my turn, I enter the room and am introduced to Richard Hester, the production supervisor, and Ron Melrose, the musical director who may or may not remember me. These guys are well known and again I am very intimidated. But at least now I know that I have done a solid enough job to get this far, and I am very confident about how they want me to play these scenes. I do my Elvis song, perform a few of the scenes, and they seem pleased. They tell me they would like to bring me in to meet Des McAnuff. Des is the two-time Tony Award-winning director of Jersey Boys. He is totally famous. He is totally cool. He is totally in charge. And I am totally scared. (But excited! But scared.) On my way out, Ron asks me if I have ever tried playing the drums.
“Not really,” I say, “but I have pretty good rhythm.” (This is a totally dumb thing to say.) He advises me that some of the ensemble roles that understudy Bob have to play the drums, and suggests that maybe I should “take a lesson sometime.”
The next day I start drum lessons. Through Cara’s connections, I am able to get in touch with a drummer who actually played on the Jersey Boys cast recording. How’d this happen? Cara walked into the orchestra pit at a Broadway show she was subbing in on last night (she fills in at various hair departments for side work when she can) and asked all the musicians for suggestions on who to call for instruction.
I meet this drummer at his studio a few times. He doesn’t usually give lessons but is making an exception for me. Now, I am a guy who taps his fingers on everything. If I had drums on my thighs, I would be a masterful player. But let me tell you something: playing real drums with real drumsticks is not at all like playing thigh-drums with your fingertips. Playing real drums is hard. I learn all these introductory exercises, but let’s be real here: where am I going to practice? If I rent a drum room, I am just skyrocketing the cost of learning. If I try to drum on a pillow or a practice board, it just doesn’t feel the same. Rhythm is not my problem. I play guitar—a rhythmic instrument. The actual hitting of the drum with the stick while using my left foot to move the cymbal and my right foot to work the bass drum causes a problem. It is hard, seemingly impossible work! And I just want to go meet Des.
So I do. The following week I am asked to come down to Chelsea Studios, where my first auditions took place, and be seen by Des. As the routine goes: I wake early, take a long shower, drink coffee, grease up my hair, put on a suit, review my lines, tune my guitar, and rehearse my songs. I walk to the studio, re-tune the guitar, use the bathroom, check my hair, sing in the stairwell, and review my lines again. Buck is here. He has been through every step of this process with me and is up for the exact same role. So I punch him and drag him into the stairwell. (No, I don’t!)
They call me into the audition room, which is pretty full. The usual people I’ve seen at the previous auditions are all here, plus an additional crop of producers, assistants, and interns. And Des. Oh, Des. I bring my guitar to the side of the room and say hello to everyone. Des looks at me, then turns toward Merri and begins to whisper. I pull out my guitar and am ready to begin, but he continues to whisper and, now, he points at me! Finally he says, “Ok, I’m having a bit of a problem here, but why don’t you sing something anyway?” Perfect.
I sing my Elvis song, and Des asks me about my guitar. I play an Ovation, which has a rounded back. It’s a lightweight, versatile guitar that is great for fast, rocking tunes. And Des likes it. He used to play one in his band, he says. (He is so cool.) He has me do just one of the scenes, then calls me closer. “I like you,” he says. “I have an issue that I’m going to have them talk to your agent about, but I want you to know that I like you and we’re going to send you to see the show.”
What does all this mean?!
Not until the next morning do I find out. It turns out that when I walked in the room, Des instantly decided I am not going to be a Bob, a Bob understudy, a Bob swing, or anything whatsoever having to do with Bob. I do not look like a Bob, he says, I look like a Tommy. Tommy DeVito. The bad boy. The bad-ass. The role that won Christian Hoff his Tony Award. Me. A Tommy.
Daniel Robert Sullivan
©Joan Marcus
Tommy DeVito was born in the tough neighborhoods outside of Newark, New Jersey and is as first-generation Italian as they come. I was born in the sailboat-laden beaches of Newport, Rhode Island and am as fifth-generation Irish as they come. While Tommy robbed a jewelry store to get some spending cash for horse races and weekends in Atlantic City, I dressed up as a giant pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream to pay for magic tricks from Winkler’s Warehouse of Wonders. This contradiction doesn’t seem to bother anybody.
I am to stop by the casting director’s office to pick up a dialect CD and a new scene packet. I will also be sent to see Jersey Boys on Broadway for free so that I can watch with an eye towards this new character.
And by the way, they did make a decision as to who will be the new Bob understudy. Buck got the job.
* * *
When I arrive at the casting office, it turns out to be much smaller than I expected. I mean, this is Tara Rubin Casting. They cast all companies of Phantom of the Opera, Mamma Mia, Billy Elliot, Spamalot, Young Frankenstein, and about a bajillion others. The walls of the only room are lined with files, presumably files full of actor headshots and resumes. This is insane to see. There are hundreds and hundreds of these files, and they are (obviously) just the ones they felt were good enough to save. Imagine how many were thrown out! Which reminds me…
Some years ago, on the Upper West Side, there was a trash bag full of headshots and resumes that some casting director had thrown out. The bag had split open and was spilling onto the sidewalk. An astute pedestrian called the New York Post and they promptly published a picture of this “pile of broken dreams.” (And they didn’t overlook the fact that there were hundreds of photos of beautiful girls in this pile with phone numbers in big typeface at the top of their resumes.) The casting director apologized; but really, that is the reality. When hundreds of people audition, hundreds of pictures will be thrown in the trash. Someone with a healthy conscience, like my agent, brings rejected headshots away from the city before disposing of them. That way it lessens the chance of the pictures being exposed or examined.
But I digress… Tara Rubin’s casting office is fun to look at, and Merri welcomes me in. She gives me the dialect CD. She gives me new material to learn for the role of Tommy. Thirty-three pages. Yup, thirty-three. And she gives me instructions on who to talk to at the August Wilson Theatre to see the show as their guest.
“So, Des really liked you yesterday,” Merri tells me.
“Well, I’m sure glad about that,” I say in my best professional voice, “but I was surprised about him liking me for Tommy.”
“Not as surprised as we were,” she says. Do I detect a note of exasperation in her voice? “But Des is always right.”
I am sure not going to debate that. On my way out, one of the interns goes out of her way to tell me that she saw my audition and thought it was great. I’m not going to lie, that is really encouraging to hear.
The next day, I hire a vocal coach to teach me Tommy’s songs. The audition material sounds similar to what you hear in the show, but it’s not exactly the same. I don’t play piano, so I am forever hiring people to help me learn music. I often think of how much easier life would be if I took some basic piano lessons or learned how to teach myself music. But then I think of the time it would take to practice and I become unwilling. Were I to practice piano, I would have far less time to go to the theatre, read Scientific American, call my mom, eat nachos late at night with Cara, and research money-making schemes like gambling systems and book publishing. Some people spend money on cabs because they don’t want to invest the time it takes to walk; I spend money on vocal coaches for a similar reason.
My coach is great, supportive, and also surprised that I am being considered for this particular bad-ass role. She knows that I have had success playing the sweet and innocent Finch in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. She also knows that my first regional theatre job was playing the sweet and innocent Rolf in The Sound of Music, and that my latest was playing Leo Davis in Room Service, who is (you guessed it) sweet and innocent. Tommy DeVito, in real life, grew up the youngest of nine kids in the poorest part of Belleville, New Jersey. He stole his first car at fourteen. He was arrested for the first time at fifteen. He worked for a mob boss in his early days, and in his later days was accused of money laundering in connection with an attempted bribe of Richard Nixon. This role is a bit of a stretch for me.
* * *
Three days later I am entering through the stage door of the August Wilson Theatre. Upon arriving, I tell the security guard I am to check in with the stage management office. What I really want to tell him is that I have been auditioning for this show for a couple months now and it feels like they might be interested in me and this is the first time I have ever been this close to a big job in a blockbuster musical and I have dreamed about this since I was in fifth grade playing “Colonel Cuddly” in a Christmas pageant and I have been sent to see the show today because Des, that’s right, Des McAnuff, thinks that I might be a Tommy and I am ready with a pen to take notes on what I see and I am so nervous and excited that I’ve used the bathroom three times in the past hour…but I just say, “Which way do I go?”
I check in with stage management. They give me a sticker that says “CAST.” Oh yes. They lead me through a vast array of underground twists and turns (these old Broadway theatres are cramped and have lots of underground spaces) which eventually brings us out into the lobby. They introduce me to the house manager and she tells me to stand in the back of the house until about fifteen minutes into the show when she will come get me and move me to an empty seat, if one is available.
The show begins, and I am hooked once again. I feel a bubbling in my stomach. It’s a good kind of bubbling, not an awkward kind. When Christian Hoff makes his entrance as Tommy I am no longer watching with joy and excitement, but rather with focused attention. I take notes in my program. (I didn’t want to bring a notebook for fear of looking dumb, but in retrospect it is much dumber taking notes in a program that doesn’t have any blank pages.) I write down anything that Christian does that is not an “obvious” interpretation, and that is a lot. There is a good reason he won the Tony for this role. He exudes nuance and lovable bad-boy qualities. I envy him. I want to emulate him.
When the show is over, I am filled with a wonderful sense of privilege. I feel lucky to be able to work on this role, lucky to be here watching the show as their guest, and extremely lucky to be respected by the creative team. Whether or not I will ever get the role does not even cross my mind this night. (Well, almost.) Overwhelmed with the possibility, I come out of the show believing I could do this part.
* * *
Months go by. That’s right, months. I do not report back to the casting director’s office with my thoughts on the show, nor do they call to see how I’m doing with the Jersey accent. The theatre world doesn’t work that way. The theatre world is one of waiting. One in which the actor must be remarkably independent in preparing for possible work, and remarkably patient while waiting for any actual work to appear.
I do a play. I teach. I have my regular New York life. Finally, I get a call from my agent. They would like to bring me in to audition again, this time for Tommy. Bear in mind that there is no actual job available. The casting people have such a long hiring process that they really just need to keep updating their files with people who are approved or working their way towards being approved. But the reality is that there are only five companies of Jersey Boys currently in North America, and that means there are only five Tommy jobs available. I am very lucky to have gotten this far, but it still doesn’t mean that one of the five guys playing this role is going to leave. Ever.
And I keep track of those possibilities too! Since much time has gone by, I have become obsessed with checking the Jersey Boys Fan Forum. There are hundreds of die-hard fans who share, chat, and gossip about the show online. Believe it or not, the collective fact-gathering of the folks on this site has kept me in the loop about the comings and goings of each company. I know that the San Francisco Tommy became the Tour Tommy and was replaced by a guy who would become the Chicago Tommy until he left to be the Vegas Tommy and they got a new Chicago Tommy, and then the original Tour Tommy became the Vegas Tommy while the Vegas Tommy became the Tour Tommy until he opened as the Toronto Tommy and the Tour Tommy (who was a temporary Vegas Tommy) went on the road, to be replaced by his understudy as the Tour Tommy when he went to be the understudy for the new Broadway Tommy, who was formerly the understudy for the original Broadway Tommy. Thank you, Al Gore, for creating the internet.
Armed with a head full of cast-change gossip, I know that my audition today probably isn’t for any current job opening. But I prepare my billion-page scene packet, two songs from the score (“Earth Angel” and “Silhouettes”), and my trusty Elvis tune. And I review all the notes I took while watching Christian Hoff. I wake early for the audition and repeat my routine: coffee, long shower, reviewing, walking to studio, re-tuning, reviewing…and I am called in. Merri is there with just an assistant and a reader. She tells me that she only wanted to bring me in because I have not done the Tommy material for her yet. Does she want me to sing? No. Play guitar? No. She just wants me to do the scenes.
So I do them. I pretty much just copy Christian Hoff as much as I can. This seems to suffice (for now) and she gives me some positive feedback. The last scene she asks me to do is the one where Tommy hits on a reporter at a bar. Because the reader is male, Merri says that she will do the scene with me. She’s a good actress, but boy is this awkward for me! I have, through this entire audition process, presented myself as “the nice guy.” Playing Tommy, though, I have to show more attitude, cockiness, and balls. And nowhere do I have to show it more than in this scene I am doing with a famous casting director, the same casting director who holds my future in her hands.
I dive in, and the scene goes well. I diffuse my own awkwardness at the end of it with a little laugh and an acknowledgment that it was a bit weird for me. Merri chuckles as well, but she is probably just being polite. She’s done this many times with many other actors and must be very used to it by now.
* * *
Another month passes. Regular life resumes. Well, regular life with a heavy dose of checking the Jersey Boys Fan Forum every morning. There is absolutely no hint of cast changes. In fact, I am getting the impression that Jersey Boys really just shifts people around instead hiring someone new. They are loyal to this core group of actors they have hired. Whether for financial or ethical reasons I do not know, but it is neat to see. I just have to get into that core group of actors!
I get a call from my agent, “Dan, they want to call you back for the role of Tommy.”
“Meg, can you still refer to it as a callback after all this time?” I ask her, but I think my joke gets lost in her sea of phone calls, voicemails, emails, and contracts being negotiated for folks much more successful than I.
So, off I go to refresh myself on the material. (Ok, I don’t really need to refresh myself on the material because I have been carrying it around in my backpack every day for the past year. Sure, one day I switched it from the Bob material to the Tommy material, but that manila envelope filled with scenes and music has not left my side since last year.)
The morning of the audition, I wake, drink forty-three gallons of coffee, take a thirty-six hour shower, review the material, put three vats of gel in my hair, and am ready to head on my way when my soon-to-be stepson, Mark, stops me. This is my first Jersey Boys audition taking place on a Saturday and, therefore, the first time Mark has seen me greased up and in my dark suit (and with attitude).
“Daniel, you look tough.” Mark, that is about the greatest possible thing you could have said to me. “Where are you going?”
“Jersey Boys audition.”
“Again?”
“Yup. Again.”
“For Broadway or somewhere else?”
“Well, I don’t know. They don’t tell me that.”
“When would it start?”
“Well, they don’t tell me that either. Actually, I don’t even know if there is a part available.”
“If there is no part available, why are you auditioning?”
“That’s just how they do it.”
“They have auditions when there are no parts?”
“Yup. All the time.”
“And you keep getting asked to come back to these auditions over and over?”
“Yup.”
“Even though there are no parts?”
“Yup.”
“Over and over?”
“Yup.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I.” And we both stand there with Godot-like stillness.
The callback, with all the same Tommy material, is with Merri and Richard Hester, the production supervisor. He knows this show inside and out, and tells me precisely what Des McAnuff wants to see. I am still pretty much doing an impersonation of Christian Hoff, but Richard shakes me of that when he gives me notes that are different from what Christian does. I think Richard is trying to shape a Tommy that lives truthfully in me, and I guess I should start doing the same.
The audition ends with them telling me that they will be bring me in to see Des again the next time he is in town. This, too, seems to be part of the Jersey Boys thing. In order to be hired, you need approval from Des, but Des only comes in to town once in a while. So the casting team preps me (and many others) early so that when Des gets in to town we are ready to go.
* * *
And…another month. A lot more life goes by. I suppose everybody knows that actors often have day jobs. I am no exception. When I was in college at the University of Rhode Island, I knew that my chosen life was probably going to need a backup plan. So I had a triple major and received degrees not only in Acting (BFA), but in Secondary Education (BS) and English (BA). I later went on to receive my MFA in Acting and Directing at the University of Missouri/Kansas City with the thought that one day I may want to teach at a college; and one needs a Master’s degree to do that legitimately, right? But being a regular teacher while looking for acting work wasn’t a possibility, for it made attending any auditions impossible. So when I moved to New York for the first time in 1998, I tried a number of day jobs; jobs that were flexible, so I could wait in line for an audition in the morning and attend it in the afternoon:
Substitute Teacher: I took my teaching certification down to the Board of Education, was fingerprinted, and received the paperwork required to be a sub. But in order to get work, I needed to visit specific principals and ask to be put on the school’s roster. After visiting a number of these principals, and having most claim they had enough subs already, I received calls for work from only one. And the work was unreliable. As you probably realize, a sub gets a call early in the morning to come in that day. These calls were sporadic on days I had free and could not be accepted on days when I attended auditions.
Subway Musician: This remains the most lucrative hourly wage I’ve ever made. I started taking my guitar down into the subway to sing and play music for money. It was perfect in that I could set my own hours and work only as much as I wanted or needed to. I became aware that a certain structure exists in the underground music world. For example, I learned that people who play in the subway stations have to audition and register with the city if they want to play in certain key locations or if they want to play with amplification. I did not want to be terribly official, so I found a nice, unregulated, high-traffic area in the tunnel between 7th and 8th Avenues along 42nd Street, a tunnel that resonated enough that I didn’t need amplification. There was a reggae player there who usually stopped playing around 2:00 p.m., and I would try to take over after him each day. He was a big stoner, lived in Harlem, and loved to tell me about his many girlfriends. He also played the same song (“Redemption Song”) for an hour or more, asserting, “It’s the song that makes me the most money, bro.” So I stole this technique; my guitar rendition of “Piano Man” (with a harmonica strapped around my neck) could be heard every day for way, way too long. After me, there was a clarinet player who paid rent on his West Village apartment by playing down in the tunnels, and was always trying to get me to hang out with him. Nice guy, but I didn’t think it wise to mingle too much with the underground world. I enjoyed this time of my life. I enjoyed having a hundred songs memorized and ready to play. And I loved how my guitar became splattered with blood because I would literally play until my fingers bled. I only stopped using this as my day job when I began to feel the effects of singing balls-out for four hours every day. It was fun, but it started to hurt.
Telephone Psychic: Yes, that’s right. I was a psychic on a telephone hotline and it was a complete scam. I thought it’d be the perfect job when I applied. I could sit at home and make money while I watched TV! I could set my own hours, at any time I could call in and say that I was “on the clock.” And then I would wait for the phone to ring. Did I have to be a real psychic? No. For the interview, I was asked to give a tarot reading over the phone to a company representative. Tarot cards are images, subject to the interpretation of their dealer, and so I gave a wonderfully positive reading to my boss, a reading that I made up off the top of my head. She said I was great and I was hired. But after a few days of listening to how many people actually believed in this stuff, and after seeing how few times my phone rang each hour (for employees are paid by the minute), I quit. Despite my quick tenure, I still tend to favor these stories more than any others when I’m at a party.
Gambler: By now, everyone must have heard of the MIT Blackjack Team. I too became obsessed with the idea of outsmarting a casino, albeit with far fewer credentials than those guys at MIT. With a gem of an idea from a Kansas City friend, I believed (don’t make fun) that I could minimize the casino advantage in mini-Baccarat to its lowest possible point and keep wins at the highest possible dollar amount. I believed I would win 49% of the time with straight, structured play. I’m not a foolish guy. And I love math. And I know that gambling systems never work in the long run. Even though the casino still had an advantage in this game, I felt it was a small enough one to risk, so I spent a couple months turning a $2000 stake into $21,000 in my free time. I say again, I am not so dumb as to have believed it could have kept working, so I stopped just in time. It was a strong high to sit there in a smoky room and throw down chips while the pit boss doled out comps. I earned so many free blueberry muffins and cups of iced tea from the casino deli that I lost count.
New York City Tour Guide: I took a test to get my official tour guide license and began narrating tours of the city on those double-decker busses you see everywhere. That was a neat adventure. Tours were given on an uptown or downtown route and a guide could talk about whatever seemed appropriate or interesting. We had to purchase our own microphones (for sanitary reasons, I guess) and were allowed to ask for tips. Asking for tips was, in fact, a necessary part of the job, for the wage we received was very, very low. I had some good jokes, I’d throw in lots of theatre trivia, and I generally liked being in control of the tourist’s experience. I was an entertaining guide, but not an extremely knowledgeable one; I pointed out the Chrysler Building on my first nighttime tour and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, if you look to your left you’ll see the Empire State Building all lit up.” I’ve learned since then.
Shakespeare Ticket Line-Sitter: Every summer in New York, the Public Theatre offers free tickets to their Shakespeare in the Park series. Seeing a performance of such high quality in a setting as beautiful as the Delacorte Theatre in Central Park is a quintessential New York experience. The catch to these free tickets is that you have to wait in line for about seven hours; and the wait begins around 6:00 a.m. An entrepreneurial business developed in which many people without anything else to do (i.e. actors between jobs) would wait in line for you, for a fee of $100–$150. I spent a few weeks of a summer doing just this, and am thankful that I did it before Attorney General Andrew Cuomo began publicly cracking down on the practice.
Knock-Off Purse Re-Seller: (I shouldn’t be writing about this one.) I spent a period of time going down to Chinatown and buying knock-off Coach handbags from secret rooms and the back of vans. I’d talk them down to a rock-bottom price, then re-sell them online for a $20 profit on each one. I did not pretend they were real Coach products, for as good as they looked on the outside there was no way they could have been real for that price. I once bought a handbag with a statement stamped on the inside that read, “This is an authentic Coach scarf.”
Teaching Artist: My greatest day job. A day job that has been so fulfilling, lucrative, flexible, and interesting that it has now turned into a side career. I have worked, on and off, since 2000 as a Master Teaching Artist with the Roundabout Theatre Company. Roundabout is one of the nation’s largest non-profit theatre companies, operating three Broadway and two Off-Broadway theatres. My work there has varied, including teaching arts-integrated residencies at New York City High Schools, leading professional development workshops for teachers, leading public speaking workshops for corporate managers, coordinating partnerships between Roundabout and certain partner schools, delivering dramaturgical lectures before the Roundabout’s Broadway shows, and moderating post-show discussions at those same performances. What a gift to be able to balance the art (and health insurance) from my work in small regional theatres with the intellectual challenges (and salary) of this Roundabout job.
* * *
After months of waiting, I finally get a call saying Des will be in town and would like to see me perform the Tommy material. I am nearly certain that there are no actual jobs available at this point, but I go through the old routine of preparation anyway. I realize too late that I have run out of ordinary hair gel, and begin looking for something to give my hair the wet and dark look I have gone with all along. (I’m a pale, blond, Irish guy, so I need to do whatever I can to look more like the dark Italian they want.) I find only one product in our apartment that will do the job, but it frightens me a little—Murray’s Pomade.
Those that have used Murray’s Pomade know that it requires a month-long commitment. The stuff just won’t wash out. You can scrub it, comb it, scour it, or hit it with an industrial-strength sand blaster and it still won’t come out. I run a palm-full through my hair and ask Cara if she will cut some of it out later. She digs around for the electric carving knife just in case I’m serious.
I arrive at the studio and am the only Tommy there. This assures me that every performing Tommy in North America is very happy in his job and will not be leaving anytime soon. That’s too bad for me, but at least it lessens my emotional burden. I am less nervous knowing this is just another step in the process. There are a few Bobs auditioning, and one of them resonates through the walls with such power that I glance over at another actor (auditioning for the part of Nick) and whisper, “Wow.”
“Yeah. He’s got it, huh?” the Nick says.
I agree, “Sounds that way to me.” That resonating voice belongs to Quinn VanAntwerp, and it will land him the part.
When I am called into the room, I am greeted with warmth and, dare I say, affection by Merri, Des, and the rest of the team. Des makes it clear from the first moment that he just wants to see what I’ve been able to do with the material, and that he doesn’t actually need a Tommy right now. No problem, Des. Ready to rock and roll. I play the scenes with subtle power and as much attitude as I can muster. Des says, and I will never forget these words, “I can see you’ve worked a lot on this.” Um. Yes, Des. I have been carrying around these new pages everywhere I go, reviewing them on the subway and running them while I work out, while also studying Christian Hoff’s gestures on YouTube and speaking in a Jersey accent to my wife. But I don’t tell Des about all that.
He gives me a ton of direction and notes about the material, direction and notes that I can simplify as, “Don’t do too much.” The show is written very truthfully, and Des doesn’t want his actors to push at all. They are to play the material simply and truthfully. This advice seems obvious, but must be very difficult to do when you are in the midst of a loud, rocking musical! The tendency is to want to rise to that level of energy. But that is not this show. That is not Jersey Boys. So I take the advice, thank everyone for seeing me again, and go back to real life.
At this point I realize, even though I have done a lot of work on this show, there is still more preparation I can do. I remember overhearing a conversation at my last audition in which an actor talked about being called in for a second dance call. What if that was me? I’d be in trouble.
So I call a friend who is an amazing Broadway dancer and has auditioned for Jersey Boys at least once before. I ask David Villella, “David, if I buy you some pizza, will you help me write down the combinations from the Jersey Boys audition?”
“Sure. Are you going in again for it?”
“No. I just want to write down the combinations.”
“You want to write down the combinations even though you’re not going in for another audition?”
“Well, I might be going in for another audition. If they call me.”
“But they haven’t called you yet?”
“No.”
“But you want to write down the combinations?”
“Yes.”
To a real dancer, my idea is unnecessary and perhaps a tad obsessive. But David agrees to help me anyway because he is a terrific guy. He visits me that week and we piece together the two dance combinations from memory. I write down every single move so that I can re-learn the dances on my own if the need arises.
* * *
Another month goes by before I am called in for a “work session.” I am told this session will be a rehearsal to prep me for my next meeting with Des. I guess they still like me for this role. So I go through the morning preparation again and show up ready to tweak my performance. I’ve been working hard on keeping things simpler, and I’ve been trying to develop a voice for the character. My regular speaking voice sits rather high and resonates through my nose. It’s nasally. I find strength in a character, in part, by adjusting my voice down to a deeper chest resonance. This was one major change I made before attending the work session…and I am quickly told that it is no good. Richard Hester, who has seen a hundred guys go through this process, recommends that I find the truth of Tommy in my own voice, that the choice I made is, quite simply, too fake. It hurts to hear because I am having a hard time finding the truth in my version of this character, and I thought I had found a vocal choice that could help.
The session ends with me feeling somewhat disheartened. The only positive thing is that, once again, I am the only Tommy present at the studio this day. From all outside impressions, there are far fewer guys in the mix to play Tommy than there are for the other roles.
The next day I get a call. Merri Sugarman says she appreciates the work I did yesterday and now they would like me to come to…another dance audition!
What?! Can you imagine how proud I feel to have prepared for this very possibility?
Can you imagine how grateful I now feel for David Villella? I spend a week re-learning the combinations from my notes and go to that audition ready as ever. The combinations are exactly as I remember and, even though I am not a good dancer, I make it through with dignity. Sergio, the choreographer, is at this audition and he watches me a few times. His note: “Just chill out.” Ha, that’s great! He doesn’t say, “You don’t know what you’re doing.” He doesn’t say, “You look like a monkey.” He says, “Just chill out.” I cannot possibly chill out. I am far too wound up and sweaty to chill out. But at least it’s not a horrible note. And it puts me in a terrific mood for my wedding...
* * *
You may kiss the bride...
©Daniel Robert Sullivan
On May 18th, 2008 Cara and I are married under a brilliantly white gazebo near the harbor in Newport, Rhode Island. Waves roll in gently not fifteen feet from our guests, the majority of whom stand around the perimeter of sea-aged pillars holding up the roof. A handful of chairs form an aisle and hundreds of buoyed sailboats provide a backdrop. The ceremony is simple, written by us and performed by our friend Jessica who was internet-ordained for this very purpose. Cara looks stunning in a slightly retro and very backless dress, and I look adequate in pants that are much too tight in the crotch. Cousins Mindy and Laura help decorate. Uncle Frank takes pictures. And Cara, Mark, Rachel, and I hold hands as we declare ourselves a brand new family.
Our reception is held in an old vaudeville theatre. Now used as a movie house, the Jane Pickens Theater can fly in a screen over its footlight-ringed stage. With a screen and a stage available, Cara and I were compelled to create a movie and a show.
The movie took two months to create, and tells the story of us planning our wedding together. Screening it at the very beginning of the reception sets the tone for the evening, for our movie bursts with funny family commentary, sentiment, and lots of jokes at my expense. One of the biggest laughs comes from a line I took directly from Jersey Boys, but stealing another writer’s bit is not something my family can judge me for on my wedding day, right?
After eating, Cara and I host an old-time vaudeville show for our guests’ entertainment. Having solicited our talented friends for acts, we have quite the production. Aaron and Shannon sing a romantic song together, after which Aaron wails on a great power ballad. Chris and Jenny perform “Who’s On First?” in its entirety, having rehearsed it thirty times on the twelve-hour drive here. My new father-in-law, Fred, plays his fiddle, Cousin Emma sings a song she wrote herself, Cousin Brian dresses as John Lennon to give us a tune on his guitar, Dan and Sarah offer a Leonard Cohen piece and forget the words, Rachel sings from Phantom of the Opera, TJ kills with some stand-up, Ralph gives a toast in French, and Cara and I sing a fun duet about how we want to be “Rich, Famous, and Powerful.” This is my favorite show that I’ve been a part of to date. At the end of the night, with the kids away with family, Cara and I fall into each other’s arms and I have never been more content.
We honeymoon in an RV for two weeks, exploring Alaska together because it’s the first affordable place we thought of that neither of us has visited. We get eaten by four-foot long mosquitoes, find $0.000012 while panning for gold, get horribly seasick a half-hour into an eight-hour cruise, witness bald eagles mating, and laugh when the RV’s septic tank empties all over my shoes. Now, I am a guy who would normally freak out when something like this happens, but with Cara there it feels like I’m not allowed to be stressed. She gives me a slight smile, and the disaster becomes funny. I think that’s why I like having her around.
* * *
More weeks go by. Driven by my new desire to prepare even more for these Jersey Boys auditions, I look online for a real rock ‘n’ roll vocal coach. I’m not an amazing singer, but I can do a good rock sound and feel it might serve me to sing with someone who specializes in this kind of thing. The guy I find has a list of singers he has worked with, all of which I have heard of. He coaches out of his apartment on the Upper West Side. I go there and am immediately impressed. The building is one of those old, gorgeous, block-long, pre-war buildings. The apartment resides on the corner and looks like it must be at least seven or eight rooms on the inside. I knock on the door with high expectations…and a short, hairy man wearing old sweat pants and holding a glass of whiskey opens the door. It is 11:00 a.m. and I know I am about to have a good story.
He leads me into his “studio,” which is a cramped room filled with speakers, keyboards, and broken guitars piled to the ceiling. He is definitely drunk. He asks me what I am here for and I show him a couple of songs from Jersey Boys. He perks up at this, and pulls out a CD. The CD is his band’s first, he says, and was recorded back in the 60s. He tells me to look at the picture of him on the back cover and see if I can recognize the guy standing next to him. Well, I’ll be damned if the guy next to him isn’t Bob Crewe, the Four Seasons’ writer/producer and a major character in Jersey Boys. Bob Crewe produced this guy’s album. Ok, maybe this is going to work out after all!
So, the drunken man (who shall continue to remain nameless so that he doesn’t sue me when this book comes out) begins to play my music. I tell him something is wrong, that I think he might be playing in the wrong key. He insists I am incorrect, and tells me to sing along. I sing, and am now quite sure it is the wrong key. I may not be a musical expert, but I’ve been rehearsing in this key for a year and I know if something is not played in it. After singing his way a couple of times, I notice that his keyboard has a giant screen on the top of it saying that it is in “automatic transposing” mode, changing the song to a different key than what his fingers are actually playing. I told you so.
After a quick break (yes, a break after only fifteen minutes) during which I suspect he had another drink, this guy starts giving me his advice.
“You gotta yell this shit!” he says. “This is rock and roll! The people wanna feel your power; they wanna feel your throat rip apart!”
Did I mention I was singing “Earth Angel?” Now, this song may technically be considered early rock and roll, but I certainly don’t think that 50’s singers were ripping their throats apart when they sang it. This guy is a loon, so I am very ready to leave when my hour is up. And my throat hurts for the rest of the day.
* * *
Later in the week I realize that, with all my preparation for the technical aspects of these auditions, I have not yet researched the genesis of the show as a whole.
Jersey Boys began when a writer named Rick Elice was approached in 2002 about working on a reality-based project about the Four Seasons. Frankie Valli and Bob Gaudio were looking at a number of ideas: television movie, feature-length film, Broadway musical revue. These two original members of the band produced hundreds of pages of interview material with their version of life events. (Rumor has it that Tommy DeVito has an unpublished four-hundred page autobiography with his own version of everything, but Jersey Boys uses only Frankie and Bob’s version.)
Rick Elice brought his friend and prospective writing partner, Academy Award-winning Marshall Brickman, along for an initial lunch meeting with Frankie and Bob, and each became enamored with the stories that were told. Yes, Frankie Valli started out as a kid too young to be allowed in the bars where they sang. Yes, Tommy DeVito got arrested multiple times while leading the band through their early years. Yes, Joe Pesci introduced Bob Gaudio to Frankie. Yes, somebody faked a murder in Frankie’s car. Yes, the entire band spent a night in jail together because of an unpaid hotel bill. Yes, they all came from the wrong side of the tracks and struggled together for ten long years before hitting it big with “Sherry.” Yes, everyone in that part of town was connected to the mob. Yes, they removed Tommy from the group because of his gambling and tax debts. And yes, they are the only American group to have Top Ten hits before, during, and after the British Invasion. What great material!
So Rick Elice and Marshall Brickman created an outline for a potential show in a traditional musical theatre style (i.e. slightly fictionalized characters breaking out into song when the scene reaches its peak) and brought it to Dodger Properties, who in turn brought it to Des McAnuff, then Artistic Director of La Jolla Playhouse in California.
When Des read the outline, filled with these amazing band anecdotes that no one had really heard before, he promptly said... “No, thank you.”
Apparently, Des would only work on this show if it was absolutely true and absolutely non-traditional. He wanted a biographical musical that placed the songs in real places: clubs, concerts, studio recordings. He wanted it told from each band member’s slightly different point of view, and he wanted it done soon so he could run it at his theatre in eight months. As usual, Des got everything he wanted.
Jersey Boys opened at La Jolla on October 17th, 2004. It sold out every night. It transferred to Broadway, opening there on November 6th, 2005. It sold out every night there too. It opened a touring company on December 10th, 2006. It has since sold out every night. The rest is history. And I am hoping beyond hope that I become part of that history.
* * *
Over a year has gone by now since my first audition (one year, seven days, twelve hours, and fourteen minutes...not that I’m counting) and I am actually still feeling positive. I have been lucky finding work at small theatres in shows I care about, and have even been cast four times in one particularly wonderful play. Almost, Maine is a beautiful piece of work written by a guy who I now feel privileged to call a friend, John Cariani. His play has become a prominent feature in my life in the past year, as I have spent many months working on it in New Jersey, Connecticut, and upstate New York. I commute to these theatres by train, and spend much of the daily rides reviewing Jersey Boys material or listening to the cast album.
In a very minor way, I feel like I’ve hit my stride. I am teaching and lecturing a lot to make money, performing in many small theatres, booking a few voiceover spots, and going on many good auditions. I have a great apartment, an amazing family, and the potential for great things. I even have two upcoming shows lined up back-to-back with no downtime in between, something that has never happened to me before in my life. Two shows back-to-back, both with decent paychecks, means that I am able to pass on the Teaching Artist work for a while and live as a full-time actor. The next six months look great, and it all makes me feel quite fulfilled.
But this is 2008 in New York City, time of the housing crisis and the banking crisis and the unemployment crisis and all sorts of other crises that make small, non-profit theatres suffer. Within two days, I get two calls:
“Dan, that new musical you were supposed to play the lead in at Queens Theatre in the Park has been postponed indefinitely.”
Then, “Dan, the new production of Almost, Maine you were supposed to start rehearsals for tomorrow at Stamford Theatre Works has been cancelled because the theatre went bankrupt.”
And in one fell swoop, I have nothing on the calendar for six months and no source of income.
* * *
Having too much free time on my hands is not something I am used to or enjoy. The gestation period of becoming (trying to become) a Jersey Boy is coming within sight of the gestation period an African elephant (about twenty-three months).
Too much time passes. Work is scarce. Once again, the call comes in from Merri Sugarman’s office that Des is coming to town the day after tomorrow and a job is available this time. And look how these things work out; I am free to attend now that I have absolutely nothing to do that day. I am told the first requirement of the audition day will be a new feature in the Jersey Boys casting roller coaster—a harmony audition. I am being sent some sheet music (which, if you recall, I can’t really read) with four different harmony lines on it and an mp3 of those lines (thank goodness). So before appearing in front of Des with my Tommy material, I will be appearing in front of Ron Melrose and be asked to sing each of these four lines of music. And so, once again, my next two days are filled with learning new material. It’s music for “Let’s Hang On,” a song in the show that Tommy doesn’t even sing.
But, I rehearse the four bits over and over and over again until I know them and each one feels like its own song. Humming along to each of them a hundred times is the only way I know how to learn.
The day arrives and we are called in groups for the harmony audition. I know the parts well, but this proves to be a stressful audition. Ron assigns parts to sing at random, listens to each of us sing them, and then quickly changes the part assignments and listens to us sing the new ones in ever-changing groups of four. This continues for fifteen minutes, and the singers are either mastering it or really embarrassing themselves. Preparation counts in this kind of thing, and I have a feeling that is part of what Ron is looking for. But he also just needs to know that an actor can hold on to a tight harmony line. Some of the guys can barely hang on to their first part, never mind switch to a different one without a break in between.
I survive because of my preparation. Only once do I begin singing the wrong part. Ron notices right away (his ear is ridiculously aware), corrects me, and I am ok from then on. If this group is graded “pass” or “fail,” I think about three-fourths of us pass and the rest, very clearly, fail. A couple of them fail big time.
Later in the day, I appear before Des again. There is always a team of people behind the table at these auditions, maybe fourteen people total, but Des takes the focus. He is a presence in every room. He dresses cool, has wild and unkempt hair, and a very distinctive voice. With his presence bearing down on me, I blast through all of my standard material: Elvis song, Tommy songs, and Tommy scenes. I am not in the calmest state-of-mind, as I now hope to book this show not just as the realization of a dream, but simply as a way to pay my rent. When I am through, Des has no notes or advice, but guilelessly thanks me for coming in and sends me on my way. This is not a good sign.
Sure enough, the next day I get a call from my agent, “Dan, this is not an offer yet, but they want to know if you would be at all interested in an ensemble role. They are not offering the role of Tommy.” And to top it all off, my agent also tells me that The Lion King people have asked that I come in for a third callback for an ensemble role on the tour. Funny how things happen. Two years ago I would have jumped out of my pants (yes, my pants) at a call like this. An ensemble role in a worldwide smash-hit musical? Hell, yeah!
Now, I am a practical guy who is obsessed with budgeting and schedules. But I also have a gambling streak in me. And here my gambling streak shows its face. My agent and I decide that we should take the risk in turning down the two possibilities with the hope that something bigger will come along soon. We tell The Lion King people, “No, thank you,” and the Jersey Boys people, “We are now only interested in the role of Tommy.” A few days later, the stellar Michael Cunio is announced as the new Tommy in the Chicago Company of Jersey Boys, while I stand in line at 7:00 a.m. waiting to sign up for another general audition.
* * *
The life of a small-time actor requires an ever-present positive attitude. I am pretty sure my attitude towards auditioning, whether I book the job or not, must be showing through in these pages. I have a generally hopeful outlook; I wouldn’t survive without one. The only reason I am not routinely damaged by being judged and passed over is that I am constantly looking forward to the next opportunity. I persistently remind myself that the person I am auditioning for today has no idea what I did in my audition for that other job yesterday.
Around this time I get close to being very lucky. I have a regular audition, one of many that week, that results in a callback. A callback is when I really kick things into gear, for that’s when I know that I at least look like I could fit the role. The show is The Story of My Life. It is a very real, very touching musical that premiered in Canada and is coming to Broadway in a few months. It has only two actors, and they are looking to cast an understudy to cover both of them. (This would later change as they would end up casting two understudies, but at this point they want to find a guy who can do it all.)
Preparing for the callback, I get very familiar with the show and, of course, learn three songs and about twenty pages of the script. This musical floors me. It is amazing. (I think everything is amazing. People tell me that all the time. But this show really is.) I attend the callback and receive a second callback. I attend the second callback and am asked to come in for a work session with Richard Maltby, Jr., the director. I work very hard and spend many, many hours preparing for these callbacks and the final work session (I even have a bad cold, my first time being sick in two years), but in the end I do not book the job. The letdown with this kind of news, though I am very used to it, still stings. That night, I sit alone in my apartment and write the following journal entry as a sort of catharsis:
Nobody said it was going to be easy, but nobody said it was going to be this hard either.
We are talking about people who pursue a dream that probably began when they were ten years old, and who continue to pursue that dream for twenty, thirty, even forty years. Everything they do tailors to that pursuit.
Why are there so many actor/waiters? Because waiting tables is an evening job with flexibility and decent pay. Not because the actors can’t do anything else, but because they are sacrificing money, a nice apartment, vacations, and going out to restaurants themselves, all in the pursuit of their one overarching dream. And it is a dream of theatre; a love of performing that drives them. They are not hoping for fame. They are hoping to be a nameless dancer in the ensemble. If they wanted fame, New York is certainly not the place to find it; there are too many people and too few opportunities here. They are not hoping for money. Ensemble roles on Broadway pay $1700 per week, and that is only for as long as the show runs. Remember that most shows close in months, and even steadily-working actors usually find themselves with a year between shows. These jobs do not create affluent actors. Nor do these jobs create recognizable actors. And yet thousands, yes, thousands of actors in this city dream about it when they sleep at night.
Here’s a typical situation: an actor finds out that he has an audition next week for a small part on Broadway. He spends every night memorizing and rehearsing the nineteen pages of lines for the audition. He spends $40 to have someone play him the three new songs he needs to learn, and then $150 to meet with a vocal coach who will help him sing them well. He takes the night before the audition off from any kind of work, and has to leave the entire next day free as well. He goes to bed early, then wakes up early because, physically speaking, the voice needs a few hours to warm up to peak performance. He auditions, then waits for a phone call. It comes, and he is asked to come back two days later for a callback. He then takes that day off work and repeats the routine. Excellent, another callback. He takes that day off work as well, and again repeats the routine. He waits for the call. By this time, it is so close he can taste it. He waits an hour. A few hours. An evening. A day. Finally, a call from his agent: they loved him; but he was too young. Or too old. Or not quite a good enough dancer. Or they wanted more of a tenor. Or anything. It doesn’t matter because now he is sad. He’ll get back that drive again, but remember that he has now dropped $190, three days of lost work, and countless rehearsal hours in pursuit of this possible job.
Alone, with nothing to do today, I nearly tear up. It felt so close. I may come this close again, sure. But it will be at least a year. And I tell myself that I am one of the lucky ones! I have an agent looking for these opportunities for me. Not all actors have that; in fact, most don’t. I remember being onstage for the first time in fifth grade. I want to thank the teacher who put me there…but what would I thank her for? That I struggle to find work now? That she instilled in me an “unrealistic” dream? It doesn’t matter if it’s unrealistic, it won’t go away! Why won’t it go away? I could be a lot happier on a day-to-day basis if I had a steady job somewhere, with a nice house and health insurance. I could have those things. It is not that I am not smart. Or capable. I have a wonderful day job at a theatre company that treats me with respect and challenges me every day. But it is not what I have dreamed of since I put on the red tin soldier costume that Aunt Jill made me and proclaimed, “I’m Colonel Cuddly, at your service, dolls!” It is not the dream I had when I started crying with happiness (and I’ve never told anyone this until now) when I was cast in my first high school play as a freshman. So what if the part was small? It is not the dream I had when I got my first lead role in a real theatre that actually paid me money. That role went to my head. It was a lesson. I thought everything would get easier after that role. It never got easier.
Every decision I’ve ever made has been influenced by this dream. Yes, every decision: wife, then ex-wife, cities, then new wife, kids. I missed my grandfather getting re-married because of a performance, and missed his funeral because of one as well. I carry the funeral card around with me because I feel so guilty, but really, would I have done anything different? I have been asked, “When are you going to give up?” I have been asked, “Do you think you’ll ever get a real job?” But I have also been told, “I believe in you,” and those are the words that get me up in the morning.
Today was a hard day. I trust tomorrow will be better.
* * *
I struggle to put together a full schedule of Teaching Artist work to fill my time, and I audition full-tilt, as usual. After a couple months looking for acting work, I am lucky to book two gigs back-to-back again. And they both look like they could be the most joyous gigs of my career. First, I will be in yet another production of Almost, Maine, but this time under the direction of the author, and my friend, John Cariani. This marks the first time he will direct his own play, and it should be quite special. Next, I will be spending the summer (along with my family) near my parents in Rhode Island, playing the lead in one of Theatre-By-The-Sea’s summer musicals. The theatre’s new producers are friends of mine, and I grew up working as an usher at that place. It feels like I am coming full-circle, and aunts, uncles, and cousins are already looking for their tickets.
I am content. It is a happy Thursday evening and I am having a burger in Midtown Manhattan with my friend from Theatre-By-The-Sea. An hour later I will meet up with John Cariani to see a play he invited me along to. During dinner, I receive a call from my agent. This is unusual; since it is past normal business hours, I figure it is just updated information about a small audition coming up. Being in the middle of dinner, I let the call go to voicemail. When the bill is paid, but before leaving the restaurant, I listen to the voicemail and my jaw drops.
“Dan, they are looking for a replacement for the role of Tommy in the Toronto production of Jersey Boys and they need to see you for a work session first thing tomorrow morning.”
The long-running shows in Toronto are like the Broadway of Canada. Toronto is only an hour plane ride away; this could work. This is happening tomorrow morning. But it means I would have to quit the two jobs I now have booked; two jobs that not only mean a lot to me, but that were given to me by the very people I am hanging out with tonight. Oh boy.
After a couple of very understanding conversations, my friends assure me that there will be no hard feelings if I do have to quit these jobs, for who could say no to Jersey Boys? This is calming to hear, but really I can’t even believe I am having these conversations in the first place.
I go home, review the scenes and songs, and prepare for the next day’s routine.
* * *
The work session is stressful. It is just Merri Sugarman, Richard Hester, and me alone in the Dodger’s rehearsal space. Dodger Properties is the producing organization behind Jersey Boys, and countless other hit shows. Their offices take up part of a floor near 8th Avenue and 43rd Street in Manhattan, and their private rehearsal space takes up the rest of the floor. It is a beautiful space with pictures of current and older shows on the walls. I am dressed well, warmed up, and ready to go, when Richard begins the session by asking me, “So, do you know what happened last time?”
Um. Nope.
“Dan, for whatever reason, the last time you were here you just did too much. You were wound up, putting on too much of a fake voice, and just not the Tommy we first saw.” Ouch.
So we work for an hour dissecting each scene and go through exactly what Des is looking for. Richard is good at this. He opens my eyes to things and directs me as if I already have the role and am preparing to perform. He smoothes down my Tommy into a calmer character. He amps up the jokes by telling me it is ok to find a little enjoyment in intimidating the other characters. He tells me it is good for Tommy to make fun of himself in the final monologue, for Tommy knows that he looks a bit pathetic from the outside. But also that I must defend myself in the last couple sentences, convincing everyone that things are not really as pathetic as they appear. If I knew a year ago all the things Richard is telling me today, I would be doing the show already. Damn it! He psyches me up, and makes me think I can get this.
Richard and Merri tell me to come back on Sunday. They tell me that Frankie Valli and Bob Gaudio will be there, so as not to let it surprise me. They have a debate about whether I should wear the suit I have worn all along, or a more casual outfit. They settle on the suit. They are trying to show me off.
The next day is a blur of final at-home rehearsals. On Sunday morning, I begin my pre-audition routine again, interrupting it only because I am inspired to start writing things down. And that’s where this book really begins…
* * *
April 26th, 2009
It is a Sunday morning. I am sitting at my kitchen counter in Manhattan and I’ve just decided that the stuff I am feeling right now could make a good book. The journey I start later this afternoon might be of interest to a lot of people: actors, students, dreamers. Today is my final audition for the leading role of Tommy DeVito in Jersey Boys: The Story of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. I have been a struggling professional actor for all of my adult life, and this job (God, I hope I get it) will be the only high profile one I have ever had. Jersey Boys is a worldwide phenomenon, and this will not only be my big break, but the fulfillment of a dream I have had since Mrs. King cast me in my first musical in the fifth grade.
My hands are trembling. I inherited this nervous trait from my mother, although today the trembling is compounded by the vast amount of coffee I drank while running over my lines one last time. It’s been almost two years since my first audition for Jersey Boys. The one today will be lucky number thirteen.