Places, Please!: Becoming a Jersey Boy (2 page)

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.)