Year of the Queen: The Making of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert - The Musical (20 page)

At the beginning of
Go West
the bus enters for the first time. It sweeps downstage and does a three hundred and sixty degree turn and then stops, at which point the three Queens board it and it turns one hundred and eighty degrees. Then the side opens up so the audience can see us inside performing the next scene. All of this has to happen in an exact amount of time because it’s all set to music. We play the scene over and over as the timing of the bus is explored. With each failure, the bus has to be reset to start over. Each pass at it takes about half an hour to organize and it’s grindingly slow and frustrating. Nearly the entire day is spent on this one particular movement. I scan through the show, trying to approximate how many of these kinds of movements the bus does and I come up with dozens. If you do the maths, there is no way we will get through teching the bus alone before next week. To make matters worse, the bus has safety sensors at the front and rear which if touched, shut the bus down immediately. We’ve discovered that if something is placed on the revolve and the bus is not in exactly the right position to avoid it and the bus hits it, it will stop. We then have to spend half an hour resetting so as to work out how
not
to hit the bus with that particular piece of set.

At one stage, amongst all this angst, I find myself relaxing inside the bus as it’s reset for the millionth time. Inside, it’s dressed like the inside of some luscious Genie bottle. As it rotates, the world seems to turn all around me. Coloured lights dance on the fancy bus dressing and I lose all perspective of which way I’m facing. I have a moment of clarity. I’m suddenly acutely aware of how fortunate I am to be part of this thing, this huge beast of a show. So many people would have given anything to be sitting where I am right now.

“Aren’t we lucky.” I say out loud to my fellow travellers, Tony and Dan. Dan thinks I’m being sarcastic.

“Yeah.” He says, rolling his eyes.

“No really.” I say, “This is truly amazing. We’re so lucky.”

On a break I’m fitted with another shirt. The costume for the first bus trip has already been scrapped by Simon. He apparently hated the shirt under the lights and asked for another. The wardrobe department raced away to find what else they could come up with and this is it. I slip it on with the knowledge that this one may too be scrapped in the coming days.

It’s Thursday morning and the cast are all in Paddington shooting the vision for
Hot Stuff
. Tony and I have a press call and have to get into full drag make-up once more. Dare I say it, this is becoming run of the mill. After an hour and a half of make-up we head to the stage and shake it for the camera. This is for a front page spread in the Daily Telegraph, so it has to look good. It’s the first time the bus has been photographed too and the producers are keen to get lots of it in the shot. To the uninitiated, it will look disappointing because it looks so much like a real bus. It’s only when you see it in context and realize what the thing can actually do, does it blow you away.

We get out of make-up for the afternoon’s tech. An hour and a half to put it on, five minutes to wash it all off. It seems such a waste. All the cast is assembled in the rehearsal room upstairs for a company meeting. This time we know it’s big because Garry is present. Tony leans across to me and whispers, “What’s the bet they’ve cancelled the first preview?”

As Garry goes to speak you could hear a pin drop. Everything at this stage of a production seems vulnerable. So much can go wrong. This announcement could as easily be about more publicity as it could be about cancelling previews.

Garry starts.

“As you’re painfully aware, a lot of stuff isn’t ready in this show yet. Simon and I are feeling a bit like we’re not actually teching
anything
properly because we’re missing so much of the show. As a result we’ve decided to give the stage over to the techies for forty eight hours so they can finish getting the stage ready and then we’ll start teching again on Saturday from the beginning of the show with everything in place. Also, we’ve decided to cancel the Wednesday and Thursday previews. Our first public show, which we can’t cancel because it is a sold out charity event for the Aids Council of New South Wales, will be Friday night.”

There’s a stunned silence as everyone takes this in. The previews being cancelled seemed inevitable but what do we
do
in the meantime while the stage isn’t free?

Simon says we’ll work through choreography, scenes and songs while we wait. He also wants to see a costume parade by the principles. And this is exactly what happens. One minute I’m singing, next I’m dancing. Finally I finish the day parading all my finished costumes for Simon, Tim, Lizzy and Anthony. Simon makes adjustments, changes colours for some and throws some things out. Amazingly, the wardrobe department defer to him, agreeing to everything he asks for.

Friday arrives, which means we’re assembled with military precision to board the Priscilla bus and herded off to Luna Park to rehearse for our big gig in front of the Prime Minister tonight.

We pack onto the bus. I feel like I’m in a music video as we roar across the Sydney Harbour Bridge in the brilliant sunshine. The excitement level is intense and we all behave like a bunch of naughty school kids let loose on an unsuspecting world.

The function centre at Luna Park has its best frock on for the night and all the ornately laid out tables face inwards to the stage where we, amongst others, will strut our stuff tonight. We work our number in ‘civvies’ until all the technical staff are across it, and then we change into our outrageous “Gumby” costumes. Our head pieces and shoes are so enormous it is an almost impossible task to dance in them. The unsuspecting crew of the event gape as we return frocked up. Once we’re drilled, we return to the bus and are shipped back to the theatre to continue doing anything which might make opening night not seem so improbable.

On my return, I’m introduced to Zoë, a beautician from the casino’s beauty parlour who sports the perky good looks you’d expect from someone in her position. She has a well groomed authority
now
, but it’s very easy to get a sniff of the wild child she’d become the moment she knocks off at six. Sandra suggests we make a time for me to get waxed. I gulp and ask if this is really necessary. Apparently it’s crucial. Without really thinking it through, I find myself spilling the fact that I have two hours off right now.

“Then we’ll do it now.” Zoë grins.

I’m completely snookered. My head spins with exit strategies but sensing my unease, Zoë takes control. She flicks me a sassy smile. “Come on.” She purrs, “I’ll be gentle.” She takes my hand and leads me away from the terribly amused Sandra.

She escorts me politely through the casino and up to the lavish salon on the eighth floor, where rich Japanese businessmen’s wives are talked through the Salon’s menu of services in their own language. She shows me into a small, climate controlled room with a spectacular view of the harbour and asks me to strip off.

“Everything?” I squeak.

“Everything”, she says flatly, and vacates the room as a feeble nod to my privacy. When I’m finally lying naked, face up on the bed, my modesty covered only by the tiniest cut of terry towelling, she returns with the appropriate implements. I chat nervously like I’m about to get a vasectomy.

“How much of me will you do?”

“Everything”, she says matter of factly. And then undoes her cool authority with a cheeky wink. “Except your
bits
.” I breathe a big sigh of relief.

“This your first time?” she asks, like a nurse distracting me before an injection.

“Yep,” I say, quivering.

“It’s not so bad. And I’m the
best
.” She puts all the innuendo of a
Carry On
movie into her delivery of the word “
best
.” And then she begins. She gently parts my legs and spreads the first swipe of warm wax right up my inner thigh. It sends tingles straight to my groin and I read in her expression that she’s slightly pleased with herself, like she knew it would. She makes another pass, lingering, just so, at the top of it. It’s completely erotic and some serious embarrassment will soon follow if this keeps up. Then she takes a long strip of fabric from a pile on the bench and lays it across my warm thigh. She presses on the cloth gently but firmly with her finger tips.

“Deep breath,” she says, and then without warning, tears it from my skin. I erupt with surprise more than pain. My leg feels like it’s been spanked and the prickling tingle which follows the warmth of the wax is the perfect partner for what could only be described as a kind of wild erotic foreplay. Bewildered, I look up at Zoë who is beaming like she’s just taken my virginity.

“I’m
loving
my job right now,” she croons and lays the fabric a second time. She rips it and pouts knowingly at me.

Then she goes back for her little spatula, dripping the gooey pink wax once more. With it, she heads further north into my groin, casually readjusting my genitals out of the way as she goes. The uninhibited way in which she tosses them round makes me feel as though I should be completely at ease with it, but the only person to handle me with such nonchalance for many, many years has been my dear wife. I begin to question if this is a regular visit to the waxing lounge, or whether I’m getting any special attention. She rips the fabric off again and this time it stings a great deal more. I yelp.

“Yep.” she says, “That’s gonna hurt. Sorry honey.” And then she repeats, “I am
soooo
loving my job right now.”

I spend the session desperately fighting off arousal and talking quickly over my nervousness. As promised, she waxes everything but ‘my bits’ and I go to the shower feeling like one of those strange hairless cats that’s been plunged into a tub of water.

Zoë waves me goodbye with the satisfied look of a woman who has just had a weekend of the best sex of her life. I totter to the lift feeling light headed with confusion, and my legs feel bizarre beneath my jeans. The moment I arrive back to the theatre I am plonked into the make-up chair to get into drag make-up for tonight’s gig. I note to myself that this really is a strange job.

At 8.45 we leave for Luna Park. This time we travel in a limo and an AFL footy final is on the car radio. I become conscious that I’m vigorously cheering on the Sydney Swans whilst sitting in full drag make-up in the back seat. While I cheer, I’m vaguely aware that I’m taking care not to smudge my lipstick. What’s wrong with this picture?

The venue is teeming with security and we have to pass a number of check-points to get to the venue, including the Luna Park mouth itself. We’re taken upstairs to the green room where we bump into the other performers and celebrities waiting to entertain John Howard and his high society buddies. I run into Bert Newton who I know well from years of performing on his morning T.V. show.

“Well, hello
sweet heart,”
he pouts, never one to miss an opportunity to camp it up.

We put the final touches to our outfits and soon we’re ready to perform. Garry assembles us for a quick chat. He smiles broadly and says:

“I’ve got something to ask you. The Prime Minister has requested a photo with you all when you’ve finished your song.”

The group goes quiet. I’m sure there’s a bunch of us who’d jump at the opportunity but I can just
see
the photo. Us, a bunch of ‘crazy homosexuals’, gathered around a self-consciously grinning P.M., ‘the people’s man’, the ‘elder statesman’, ‘friend to all walks of life’. I’m sickened. And I refuse to be part of that lie.

“No way.” I say. “I said from the start that I would only do this gig if I didn’t have to meet the bastard.”

I look around the group and everyone’s gazing at their feet. Dan pipes up.

“Nope. Me neither. I don’t wanna do it.”

Garry’s smile is wilting. The general consensus is, fittingly, ‘no’.

“Okay.” Says Garry, the smile returning to his face. “I’ll tell the Prime Minister you don’t want to meet him.” And he spins on a dime and exits. I’m thrilled at the thought that we just snubbed the P.M.

We assemble ready for our entrance. I’m as nervous as hell. This is our debut performance in public for this show, the first time in these costumes, and the choreography is at best unfamiliar to me. We look amazing together, and the stragglers from the event who pop out to the toilets stop and remark on how fabulous we are. One impeccably attired woman stops and says condescendingly: “Oh look at
you
. If you’re
lucky
you’ll get a photo with the Prime Minister”.

“If we’re lucky we
won’t
.” I grumble back. She physically takes a step backwards, completely stumped. She blinks dumbly for a moment then mutters, “Well, have a good night then.” And totters back inside having met her first Labour voter.

Bert introduces us to the crowd and the act begins. It passes in a wash of adrenalin and before we know it we’re out the door and back in the dressing room again. All the talk on the way up the stairs is about whether we’d seen ‘him’ and what the expression on his face was like. I realize that I didn’t even take a look at him. I’d been so caught up in actually keeping everything together on stage that I forgot he was even there.

Were back in at the theatre to start the technical rehearsal after the crew has had the stage for the last forty eight hours. And that’s literally what they’ve done. They’ve worked around the clock hanging backdrops, setting lights, timing revolve cues and getting the bus to work. They all look like hell and Garry, who has been here with them, has fallen asleep on the auditorium floor. Simon isn’t far off either but remains in control and cheerful in the face of an increasingly disgruntled crew.

The moment I arrive I’m besieged by wardrobe people eager to try new shoes and costumes on me. Troy’s head is spinning with all the changes and he can’t work out when I wear any of the costumes yet.

We start at the beginning of the show and work through the first act but we soon find there are things that still don’t work. It’s mostly bus issues. The whole rehearsal grinds to a stop every time the bus has to do anything. The elevators inside the bus are too slow, it seems to stop at will as it’s turning, and each time it screws up it takes fifteen to thirty minutes to reset. At times we simply leave an issue unresolved and move on. I feel a pang of panic as I try to second guess when on earth we are actually going to fix these things.