Places, Please!: Becoming a Jersey Boy (21 page)

7:30 p.m.—“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your half-hour call.” I am dressed far too early.

7:45 p.m.—“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your fifteen-minute call.” I drink far too much Gatorade.

7:55 p.m.—“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your five-minute call.” I attempt to empty my bladder with less than complete success. I know that my low-waisted pants will probably pop open later in the show, showing the audience that Tommy has a good time onstage and off.

8:00 p.m.—“Places, please. This is your places call.” I walk by five or six cast members on my way to my place in the dark. Each of them wishes me well. I step behind the chain-link fence and a black curtain that will rise just moments from now, revealing me to the audience and the audience to me. I hold on to the chain-link fence, nod to the two guys standing next to me, and try to keep my hands from shaking.

8:02 p.m.—The piano begins. It is loud. The drums kick in. They are louder. The curtain rises. And there are almost two thousand people out there staring at me.

8:03 p.m.—I slide and snap my way from my position in semi-darkness to the very center of the stage. I am blinded by the spotlight as I start to sing, but I know the audience can see me now because they are cheering. They are screaming for my entrance. (So what if it is my wife who is spurring them on.)

8:04 p.m.—I begin speaking. I cannot see the two thousand people anymore, but I sense that they are there. I probably wait too long for their reactions. I hold for laughs that aren’t quite coming. Because of the blinding light, I truly fear that I may step off the front of the stage and land in the lap of one of the students who bought twenty-dollar rush tickets.

8:20 p.m.—I exit the stage for the first time. I have thirty seconds to switch guitars and realize what I’ve just done. So what have I done? I’ve delivered sixteen minutes of speeches, sung three songs, and set this big-ass show into motion.

Damn! This is unbelievable!

Damn, I am sweaty!

9:20 p.m.—Intermission. I get a number of congratulations from the cast as I make my way to my dressing room. I have been relatively calm. The butterflies never came back. Although Cara will tell me later that she could see my hands shaking, I didn’t actually feel nervous and I was able to get through the scenes without too much of a frantic energy.

My immediate reflections? “Cry For Me” felt like a relief to bring all the guys together, know that my narration section of the show was complete, and that I could finally settle into scenes where I speak to other actors instead of to the audience.

“Sherry” was rocking; the full band kicks in and it felt great to see all the other guys in the trademark red jackets. “Sherry” just feels cool and laid back, which made it even more fun than “Walk Like A Man,” which is the big applause number. The arrangements are solid, the harmonies feel like they sneak in, and the choreography when done all together feels like it is beckoning the audience to watch, not ever attacking them with moves that are too bold. I really enjoyed doing “Sherry” today.

Quinn VanAntwerp, Daniel Robert Sullivan, Jeff Madden, Michael Lomenda

©Joan Marcus

And “Dawn!” Man, this song doesn’t feel like it looks. Watching from the audience, this song was always the most visually stunning. Being in the song does not feel visually stunning but, because it was only days ago that I watched the number from the audience, I can remember how good it looks, and it was thrilling to be a part of the spectacle even if I couldn’t see the special effects. I wonder whose idea it was to put in the section where the Seasons face upstage and the audience, with bright lights shining in their faces, gets a look at what it feels like to be up onstage with the band? I know that
Phantom of the Opera
has a similar scene, and that Des McAnuff had a smaller version in his production of
The Who’s Tommy
, but never has the effect been done as completely as it is in “Dawn”.

9:35 p.m.—“Ladies and gentlemen, places for the top of Act Two. Places, please.” I walk to my place up the stairs at the top of the set. I am ready to have some real fun now. Act Two has far less for me to do, so I am looking forward to really being in the moment. Michael Lomenda, playing Nick Massi and standing right next to me, whispers to me, “You’re doing great, man.” I don’t care if he is just being nice, I am so glad to have his (genuine or not) approval.

10:00 p.m.—We finish the Sit-Down scene and I have a fifteen-minute break in my dressing room before going back onstage. The scene was intense. Every actor brought their “A” game and was truly committed. During my break I change into a new suit, fix my hair, and go out for a chocolate shake at Dairy Queen. (Just kidding!)

10:20 p.m.—We rise from beneath the stage on a lift that presents us, the Four Seasons, to the audience one last time. We sing “Rag Doll” as we come up, and I catch the eye of a woman in about the thirteenth row who looks awestruck. If I could talk to her, I would tell her that I too am awestruck.

10:35 p.m.—We sing “Who Loves You,” the finale of the show, and the full ensemble and band (even the horn section) joins us onstage. I am at the front of the group, but I can see our reflection off some glass at the very back of the theatre and I really can’t believe it is me that I am seeing. This is what I’ve been dreaming about, right here. The lights are flashing, I am singing at the top of my lungs, the horns are blaring, and the four of us guys come together at the center of the stage. We sing one final note and raise our arms into the air. The drums crash. The lights black out, except for one that lingers on we four for one extra, magical moment. The show is over, and my dream has become a reality.

The audience roars.

I am sweating again.

It is dark.

I sense the audience getting up out of their seats for the ovation, cheering louder than I’ve ever heard. My ears are ringing. People are standing.

They are so loud.

It is very dark.

And then I realize that I am the only one left onstage in the darkness because I was supposed to exit when the lights went out.

Afterwards, the three other Seasons take me aside for a private toast. Then, Cara and Rachel join me backstage for many hugs. (Cara tells me she is proud of me. What more do I need?) And finally, the entire cast gathers in the green room for a communal toast. When asked to speak, I can only say that, “I promise it will be better tomorrow, but tonight was something I have been dreaming about for a long, long time.”

I am not crying, as I expected I might. I am not laughing and high-fiving, either. I am relatively calm. Why am I not overcome with emotion? Is it because there is still work to be done?

I am so happy to be here, to have achieved something that has been my one goal (the only goal I have consistently worked towards) since grammar school. Were I to have known ten years ago that I would be opening in this kind of role in this kind of show, I would have guessed that tonight would be, well, a freak-out night. Maybe a night with happy tears. Maybe a night where I run through the streets and scream to the moon, “I did it!” But that is not how I feel tonight. Instead, I feel calmly blessed. I have worked very hard to be here, and I feel the weight of that work on my shoulders tonight. And because this kind of work has been my career for all these years, I am well aware that tonight is just another rung on the ladder and I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.

I feel calmly blessed that I have a supportive family with me here tonight, that Cara and her children supported me taking this job so far away from our daily lives.

I feel calmly blessed that my parents and brother traveled all over the country for many of my adult years to see me perform, telling me the whole time that my dream was not far-fetched, that I could make it big if I kept on.

I feel calmly blessed that I was born into a town and sent to schools that said, “Yes, you can do this,” “Yes, we can help you,” and “Yes, you should chase your dream.”

I feel calmly blessed that, after my father passed away when I was six, my mother vowed that the purpose of her life now was to make things better for her sons, to give them every opportunity to do what made them happy (“as long as it’s honest,” she’d say).

I feel calmly blessed that, while I often feel lonely, I have never, ever been alone. I could not have made it here alone.

The lobby bar remains open after the show, and we are all invited out there to socialize and celebrate. The Canadian producer of
Jersey Boys
, Aubrey Dan, comes over to meet my wife and daughter. Aubrey is a gazillionaire businessman and philanthropist with a love for theatre that may even surpass my own. Having a conversation with him is a privilege, and my lovely Rachel acknowledges that privilege by passing gas the entire time he is in our circle. And that is my night in the theatre.

This picture was taken in the theatre lobby directly following my first performance. Michael Lomenda, me, Jeff Madden, Quinn VanAntwerp.

©Daniel Robert Sullivan

June 17th, 2009

There is a theatre legend of a grand dame who arrived with gusto for a matinee, only to find her cast looking tired and glum. When asked why she was looking so alive, the grand actress proclaimed, “Because I get to do it twice today!”

Today is Wednesday. And that means I get to do it twice today, too.

For the matinee (although I am having trouble remembering specifics from the performance because it went by in such a flurry and is sort of jumbled in my mind with last night’s performance) I did well, markedly better than last night. The crowd was right with us, and I was relaxed, in the moment, and singing as well as I am able to.

The evening show is also relaxed. Maybe too relaxed. During one of my opening speeches I get some kind of phlegm caught in my throat and my lines begin sounding like a talking frog. I know I have to sing “Earth Angel” in just a few moments, so I stop talking, cough (which is never a good sound when blasted into a microphone), give a little smirk, and continue on. I am not exactly sure why the phlegm built up, but I do have a theory: I forgot to swallow. I have so many lines at the top of the show that I think I just forgot to swallow in my efforts to get them all out. I will have to work on this basic human function over the next week.

Say line.

Breathe.

Swallow.

Say line.

Swallow.

Breathe.

Sing.

Swallow.

Sing again.

With three performances under my belt, I have no more adrenaline pumping through my veins, and that leaves my lungs aching for air, my knee cramping, and my neck as stiff as if I were wearing a brace. I’m going to curl up next to Cara now and sleep for the next ten to fifteen years.

June 18th, 2009

Cara, Rachel, and I have breakfast today at a little coffee shop that looks out onto a busy Toronto street. Rachel is now, officially, a well-traveled little girl. Cara is now, officially, the most supportive wife in the world. And I am now, officially, working my dream job—but in the wrong city. Cara and Rachel leave for the airport after breakfast, and I am alone again.

I travel up to the theatre for rehearsal, but this time the rehearsal is not my own. Because of Lindsay’s medical leave of absence, a new actress has been hired to play Francine. Alison Smyth has been rehearsing (largely on her own, as I did) for the past ten days or so, and today’s rehearsal is all about working her into the show. I am feeling a little down to be without my family again, so I am glad not to be the “new guy” for this rehearsal. I prefer to be left alone for a bit.

The evening’s show is full of misadventures. Michael has a bit of phlegm during one of his speeches (swallow, Michael, swallow!) and has to stop to cough. After coughing, he says, “Excuse me,” and continues on with his line, “Frankie and Lorraine were…great. Frankie was…awesome.” Awesome? “Awesome” is not a word used in the 1960s with any regularity, and is certainly not a word used in
Jersey Boys
at all, so we find it necessary to poke fun at this otherwise impenetrable actor for the rest of the night.