Year of the Queen: The Making of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert - The Musical (5 page)

The idea of singing a disco song sends me into a tail spin. Disco is the domain of the disco diva, and no self-respecting white male should dare go there. I spend days trawling the sea of internet sheet music sites for an appropriate song. They all offer a taste of how the music sounds when played on the piano, and it invariably sounds like Granny Smith has fired up the Lowrey and is playing her best church Sunday version of
Carwash
or
Best Disco In Town
.

I try
Knock on Wood
because Bowie sang it. I download it and bash through it a few times, finally settling on it as my offering. I secretly hope they’ll spare me the indignity of actually having to sing it though.

How do I prepare for an audition like this? I want to sing beautifully, so I attempt to breathe some life into my rusty vocal chords. I sing scales, trying in vain to capture that liquid feeling of when your voice is fit and seems to pour effortlessly out of you like syrup. I run the scene a few times but I know it back to front, and feel like I’m just hammering the life out of it. I try to eke out any nuances that I may not have discovered previously, but instead find myself daydreaming about who on the panel will want me and who will be eager to kick me off the list.

Haunting scenarios of me forgetting lines and screwing up assault me. The bad devil voice on my shoulder is having a day out. There is of course a good angel voice too but she can be just as destructive. You have to temper your voices for an audition. Going in too confident can be a complete turn off. Listen too hard to the good angel and you might imagine that you have some extraordinary grasp of the character that no other actor on the planet has. I once auditioned for the role of a mad scientist in an American film being shot here. For some reason I thought making the character French was a brave and ground breaking idea. The problem was, I don’t do a decent French accent - so in the audition, I prowled around the room ranting madly, with an unintelligibly thick accent from somewhere between Bombay and Bosnia. The casting director stopped me half way through my first read and with a look of sympathetic but horrified pity, quietly asked me what I thought I was doing.

Before the audition I have two voice overs. This is great to break up the nerves but I’m worried I might strike a difficult client who’ll keep me longer than I’d allowed for, while he agonizes over whether my read is ‘too sexy for coffee’.

I’ve wrestled with what to wear. It can’t be too casual as I’ll feel like I’m stating that this doesn’t mean that much to me, but it can’t be too dressy either or I’ll feel uncomfortably over groomed. I want to look handsome, in case there’s a spunk factor involved, and I also want to present an element of how the character would dress. I’ve chosen a nice shirt, slightly camp, and jeans, with comfortable shoes that I can move in. In spite of taking all this into consideration, I know that no one has ever got a role because of their choice of audition attire.

I can’t be late, but I don’t want to be too early either. I want to arrive right on time and sail into the audition without having to see or speak to anyone else who’s auditioning.

My nerves accelerate as I cruise, looking for a car park near the Princess. I’m early and am happy to drive around looking for parking for ten minutes - but of course I find a spot almost directly out the front of the theatre, which makes me frustratingly early.

Before I feed the meter I run the lines and the lyrics again. I invoke the support of my dead ancestors. I try to focus through the nerves. I see the parking officer approaching and I feed the meter.

I head towards the Princess through the perfect Melbourne autumn day. The oaks would be dropping their yellow leaves if there was a breath of wind. A day like this in this part of the city demands a Vivaldi underscore, with the soaring columns of Parliament house dominating the top of Burke Street, the generous and welcoming opulence of the Hotel Windsor, and the jewel in the crown, the Princess Theatre, sporting its exacting and sumptuous restoration to her former glory as a Victorian treasure. Unlike so many Sydney theatres, she’s avoided the developer’s ball, dilapidation or the ugly stick. I tread unsteadily towards the foyer, reflecting that this is where I made my professional debut in the theatre at the age of eight. My uncle was company manger for the Australian Opera. They’d pick up small roles as they toured the entire country with their latest season and he’d populate the juvenile roles with my brothers, my sister and me. I had two lines in Italian in
Gianni Schicchi
, which made my parents proud. On opening night I got them the wrong way round. I hope that’s not an omen for today.

I enter the marbled foyer dead on time and search for an underling to tick me off a list. They say they’re running behind.
Great
. This gives me just that little bit more time for the nerves to build to fever pitch, and for me to bump into the other auditionees. I don’t want anything to destroy my focus or my confidence. When I auditioned for
Sunset Boulevard
, I was feeling pretty good, confident, focused, as I waited to go in. Then Hugh Jackman walked out, having just done his audition. The panel were all over him, and he looked like the movie star just waiting to happen that he was. He beamed at me, we embraced and he wished me good luck. But the damage was already done. I knew they’d already found their Joe, and it was all I could do to wobble in and go through the motions.

Across the foyer I glimpse an actor I know, and am spotted before I can escape. We greet warmly and try to appear calm. We giggle about having to sing a disco song. He tells me he couldn’t think of one and asks me what I’ve chosen. I hold up my sheet music to
Knock on Wood
and he thinks I’m offering to lend it to him to sing - and gratefully accepts!!

For the moment I’m not that worried. Why shouldn’t he sing it? But then I think, “He’s a fabulous singer! What if I can’t follow it!” But it’s too late to turn back and, clutching my music, he waltzes into the audition ahead of me.

I’m reeling with the ramifications of this, when suddenly Simon appears. He’s come out specifically to see how I am. I say I’m nervous, but I’m truly heartened by this personal attention. He tells me not to worry, that they haven’t seen anyone they like yet. I’m staggered. This is such a positive admission. My mind floods with the doubtful possibility that maybe I don’t actually
have
any competition. Except the guy who’s got my fucking sheet music. I sheepishly ‘fess up about my ridiculous offer to the previous contestant. Almost everything amuses Simon, but this one totally cracks him up. He wishes me luck and he heads back into the theatre still chuckling.

I try to conceal myself from anyone else in the race and run the lyrics of my song. I couldn’t know it any better but the devil voice keeps warning me I’m going to forget it. My guts churn. The minutes throb painfully as I wait endlessly for my execution.

Finally the guy before me exits looking slightly downcast. He’s already running through what’s just happened in his head, sifting the moments into ‘not so good’ and ‘terrible’. I break his morbid day dream and ask for my music back. He tells me it’s still inside and gives me an encouraging thumbs up.

My turn. I make a last ditch effort to focus. To remind myself that I’ve done this a hundred times and this is what I
do
. The underling calls my name. There’s no backing out now. She opens the heavy, draped doors to the theatre and gestures me inside. One last deep breath and I step into the nether world of the audition, where everything becomes about the sell. I’m now all about the next twenty minutes. Real Jeremy stops and auditioning Jeremy begins. He’s not a real person, he’s the product which is glinting from the supermarket shelf, tempting you as he says “Buy me! Buy me!” He’s the smiling face from Showcast which was selected for the workshop back in December, and fronted up to jiggle when his key was turned. Inside, the producers are building a corporation. But unlike most businesses, this one is put together like a Meccano set. This one goes with that, and this one needs to do that for this bit to work. My next twenty minutes needs to be tailored towards being a bit they need.

I make my way past the empty velvet seats, down the aisle to the side stage entrance. The theatre still smells like a theatre even at daytime: lusty and opulent. The curtain is up and I can see the long panel of creatives facing away from me towards the back of the stage, cracking jokes and laughing.

I’m led up the stairs from the auditorium to side stage. The ‘Readers’ stand like soldiers at ease waiting to be summoned to act with me. One of them is an old friend and I give her a distracted squeeze on the way past. She beams frantically at me.

Then I walk out onto stage. The intimidating line-up of the entire production team as one, turn their attention to me from behind their laptops. I crack funny about them secretly browsing porn behind their computer screens. They laugh and I make my way down the long table sharing out hugs and kisses by the dollop. The nerves have created a heightened ‘me’. Everything I’m doing is just that bit over the top. I have my foot on the charming pedal and I’m gunning it. While they continue to laugh, I continue to joke. My eyes flick nervously to Frosty. His body language is ‘closed’ and he’s not laughing much. I’m suspicious he doesn’t want me. He wants to ‘cast up’ I just know it. Amanda Pelman has already hugged and kissed me profusely, so maybe things have changed with her.

Simon calls us to order and announces proudly, almost bitchily, that they didn’t let the person before me sing my song. They all crack up and I feel like I’m part of a tiny conspiracy. When the laughs die down it becomes clear that the business end of this shindig must now begin. Simon asks if I’d like to sing
Always on My Mind
as part of the scene. I leap at the chance, as it’s an opportunity to feed the song into the audition in a way that suits me best, an actor singing as part of a dramatic moment, rather than just getting up to sing.

Spud summons me to the piano to have a quick sing through the song. Like the underhanded sneak that I am, I use the bonhomie to try to negotiate the song down a key or two. Spud is onto me, and cuts me off at the pass. In fact he goes further, asking to hear something rocky – tear away. I don’t
do
tear away. And that’s when I get a chill. It’s not so much Frosty I’ve got to get around but Spud. He wants a big voice for this role and mine is a croony, gentle one.

I assure him that I’ve sung rock’n’roll before. In
Buddy
, in bands, and I just need to get back into some form. But I can see he’s unconvinced. He wants to hear it for himself. I assure him I’ll give
Knock on Wood
a belt when I sing it later. I don’t even convince myself with that one.

We sing through
Always on my Mind
, and he’s happy with where I’m pitching it. Now it’s time to do the scene. I wander away from the panel to focus myself. Acting is very different to the performance I’ve just been guilty of, so I need to change my head space. Tick is softer and more vulnerable than I am and I need to touch that before I begin.

The ‘Readers’ approach in a posse. Simon places us in the space away from the table to give them some room, some perspective. From where I’m now standing, I can see past the panel, out to the gaping auditorium and the empty rows of seats. Something clicks into place. I’m in a bloody theatre, bloody-well perform.

With a nod from Simon we begin. In an audition, when your blood is up and you’re nervous, it’s crucial to keep a tight control of your performance. It’s very easy to overcook it. The scene is an emotional one and the temptation would be to turn on the water works. I’m determined not to go there, only to stop at the brink - a tricky level to play in this head space.

The ‘Readers’ are top notch and instantly adapt to my interpretation of the character. While we run the scene, I’m acutely conscious of a myriad of things. I keep tabs on the panel - how they’re reacting, who I feel is with me or against me. I process the choices the ‘Readers’ are making with the text and whether they’re listening to my interpretation of it. I’m even aware of feeling slightly awkward performing in front of my old friend, like there’s a tiny part of her judging me. It’s a juggling act of the mind, because in amongst all this external monitoring, I’m giving a performance which is tight and controlled. I make sure I drive the scene and don’t allow the ‘Readers’ to outshine me. If they don’t react to where I place myself, I sweep around them so they have no choice but to respond to me.

And then the scene is finished. The ‘Readers’ back away, and leave me to sing the song. I launch into it as part of the drama of the scene. I know parts of it sound good and the deep resonance of the beautiful old theatre gives it guts. But then there’s the top notes. The first time I go round them I slightly choke on them. I imagine Spud flinching. I’ve got another chance in the second chorus though, and I go for it. This time I improve on it, but I’m worried they’ve heard it sung better over the last few days.

I come to the end of the song and finish. Unlike a performance, there is no immediate response to rank yourself by. There’s no clapping or cheering. Just polite nods from the panel. You have to use your instincts to judge how you’ve done. I scan the faces along the table to hazard a guess, but they’re unreadable.

Spud’s now in the driver’s seat. He struggles to his feet and calls on me to sing
Knock On Wood
. My worst nightmare. Summoning the dregs of the charm I have left, I appeal to him to only make me sing one verse and a chorus. I cite the fact that I’m not a black woman and at a terrible disadvantage. With the glimmer of a smile, Spud grants this one.

He hits the piano and plays the song in a key which demands that I belt the crap out of it. I go for it. I can’t tell if the gravel I try to put into it comes off as legitimate, or if I just sound like I’m straining my voice. I self-consciously try to ‘sell it’. One advantage I have is that the theatre is helping me out and I can hear the resonance of my voice coming back to me from across the stalls. Let’s hope the creatives can too.