Well, that's over with...
I signed up for the very first audition slot, with the local non-Equity theater group, for their upcoming production of 'The Full Monty'. And as much as I at least thought I was preparing, and as nervous as I was when it came time to actually sing my two musical numbers, one would have thought I was up for the lead in a Broadway hit, with a guarantee of a six-year run...
There wasn't even much of a repercussion from yesterday's ridiculous tantrum -- John was able to make a replacement CD in about fifteen seconds, and there was indeed another working boom box in the house. I felt a bit like a country yokel, toting along my own sound system, in addition to the sheet music as well, but the audition information didn't include anything about... whether there would be an accompanist or not. I thought about my audition clothing -- looking for a role as a former executive, I wore a white shirt, tie and sport coat. I'd even gotten a haircut yesterday. Should I have worn darker socks?
I left plenty of time for the (usually) three minute drive to the center of downtown, plus the additional three minutes from there to the theater. So of course there was a terrific traffic snarl, with vehicles creeping through the only intersection I needed to negotiate -- having passed up the chance, a few blocks back, to bypass downtown altogether. I finally discovered the cause of the holdup -- where the west-bound traffic (that would be me) ordinarily has three lanes, there's a big hole in the right-most lane (is that the one... I need? What else...), and a bunch of orange cones for additional emphasis. In my haste to be sure to make it through the next green light -- since the people ahead of me, once they'd finally reached the intersection, had been driving as though the road was paved with egg shells, and they were going to be charged for every fracture they caused -- I tried to squeeze through between the car ahead of me, and the cone assemblage. There should have been plenty of room, but I always seem to forget about those pesky side mirrors. As I slithered into place for my right hand turn, there was a semi-sickening 'thwump' sound, and I realized that my left hand side mirror had mingled with the right hand side mirror of the car I was trying to pass.
The other driver was not amused. She pulled up alongside me, and I signalled that we should take our discussion around the corner -- I think I would have died, if I had been the one to add yet more obstruction to the night's traffic flow -- or lack thereof. I pulled into the City Hall parking lot, and she followed me. We examined her right side mirror (in the blessedly dim light) and both decided that there was no damage. I even offered to give her my phone number, but she said that wasn't necessary. As seems to be usual with me, I tried to make something of a joke about it, and she actually laughed a little. While I was wondering how a six-minute drive had taken nearly half an hour, without counting the possible hike in our car insurance.
Even so, I managed to pull into one of the many parking spaces available near the theater, and met the director on the way into the building. So, not late. Still first. For what that's worth.
It turned out that there was an accompanist, with a digital keyboard that has an automatic transposition feature, so I had him play the ballad I'd chosen, and I used my CD for the upbeat number (the boom box proving to have been a wise choice after all), because I'd rearranged the song. Rock songs often being fairly monotonous, when you get right down to it.
The ballad went... okay. I felt myself choking on the highest note, about which I'd been worried since I picked the number. I kind of wish I'd been able to play with my voice in the room, just for a few minutes, to test the acoustics. But then, all of us would have the same disadvantage, I guess. The upbeat number went over much better, I think -- or, at least, I enjoyed singing it. And may have had an even higher note in that number than in the first selection.
By then, a few more auditionees had shown up -- another man of a certain age, even taller than me, and someone else I actually knew -- and I had to wait a bit, to do some brief scene work, both for the role in which I'm most interested, and a couple of other roles as well (director's choice -- I don't know the show that well...). While I sat in the hallway, I listened to that other tall man singing like an angel, and I hated him even more than I already did, because he'd effortlessly stolen one of the few things I can usually count on, in a theatrical setting -- my stature. But as the other candidates began drifting in, I noticed that nearly all of the men were also on the tall side -- maybe this would be okay after all.
The readings went okay, I guess -- although, when I auditioned for this company's production of 'The Crucible', I read quite a few more scenes. Mainly, I was glad to be done. I gathered my boom box and other things, and came home.
Now, I guess I wait, to see if I'm called back? And I think there are movement auditions too, next week? The last time I was cast in a role with this group, I wasn't offered the part until almost a month after the tryouts -- long after I'd assumed that they'd chosen someone else. Is this what I should expect, this go-round? If, that is, I should expect anything at all?
And what did I want? For the time being, it seems, I wanted to do this audition. (Though it gives me chills to realize that, in listing the last musicals in which I had a major part were produced nearly 40 years ago. This is dizzying) In a larger sense, though, I think this is just another of my more or less desperate attempts to discern what, if any, remaining value I have -- whether or not, in the creative fields in which I've had such unprofitable success, I might still have some credibility, if only for a little while longer. Do I still have a voice? Can I still project? Soon enough, I'm fairly sure, the only theatrical parts I'll be able to do will be the occasional character role in Chekov. I've always said those were the best roles -- but that was before those roles would be the only ones for which I would be eligible.
Of course, there's still Lear -- apparently the great Shakespearean test of the mature actor. At least for that, there's no singing.
© 2013 Walter Zimmerman
What is this all about, anyway?
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