Places, Please!: Becoming a Jersey Boy (4 page)

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.