Yesterday I needed to be out of the apartment by 11AM because a local actress whose name I'm not at liberty to disclose but rhymes directly with Jolly Pingbald was coming over to practice her audition piece at the piano in my bedroom. I considered just staying in bed for the occasion, but once I heard that the piece being performed was a jarring uptempo number about seafood and not a languid ballad, I decided to go out.
I fold my jeggings neatly before I depart.
Sam has offered, as an option for my morning activity, for me to sit in on the dance audition he is running today for "Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812." This is a show coming to Broadway in the fall featuring Josh Groban- which gives it the great distinction of having the potential to be the first Broadway show Randy Honaker will be willing to see in his life. Randy Honaker is my father, and he is a BIG fan of Josh Groban singing "Oh, Holy Night." He would prefer it receive radio play year round, and can on rare occasions be overheard performing it in his shower in Hopewell, VA. But these occasions are extremely rare. Like me wanting more mayonnaise. Or a badger breeding with a unicorn. There has to be the perfect storm of events; i.e. you have been his daughter for over thirty years and just happen to be at home the third weekend of April 2014 looking for the cat on your hands and knees behind the thickly packed Outer Banks T-shirt Section in the hall closet at the same time your dad is taking a shower down the hall as he gets ready to take you over to your grandmother Rassie's house so he can show you how to use a post-hole digger.
But it can happen.
All this to say, I'm on my way to 500 8th Ave. This is what I've been told is the address of Pearl Studios, where I am to meet Sam. I arrive at a building with this number on the front. But this is clearly an abandoned office building from the 1920s. No labels or signs. I do what I always do when I need to think- I go to 7-11.
[Sidenote: Going to 7-11 is never the wrong call, but this time in particular it turned out to be a great, great thing because this 7-11, friends, this 7-11- is a Dine-In 7-11. Greatest discovery of my life. And- it's right across the street from Bellydance America. What more do you need.]
Feeling better now that I have my coffee and the knowledge of where I want to take my last meal, I cross back over 8th and observe this questionable building from a safe distance. Nothing. No one. But then there's a faint tremor in the earth beneath my excellent boots from Target and suddenly the front glass doors of 500 8th Ave. burst open and dozens upon dozens of slightly sweaty, vivid looking young people spill out onto the street. I squint through the sunlight and hot trash fog to quickly take their measure before they all scatter. Yep. I'm in the right place. Though the storefront is misleading, the fact that every single one of these people have unsettlingly toned thighs, very bright square teeth, slightly sloppy wet topknots, subtle but runny eyeliner, and are double-fisting water bottles and Clif bars leaves me no doubt.
I readjust my grip on my coffee cup and stride inside.
There's a burly fellow with a headset behind a desk deep in the dark recesses of the lobby. He likes my Chuck Norris T-Shirt. He tells me so. I deign to show my ID, have it scanned and then walk deeper into the building. I take a left behind a fellow with a partial blonde topknot. His topknot is pristine. He has clearly not yet been upstairs to do dancing or emoting or whatever else makes one sweat in this place. He holds the elevator for me.
Once I step off the elevator into the upstairs lobby I am more confident than ever I am in the right spot. I'm surrounded by more of the Hard-Thighed- all wearing wildly patterned leggings and tank tops. Fancy dancing shoes, high heeled prairie boots, no shoes at all. Every now and then there is a shrill burst of that gerbil-in-heat noise singers make when they're warming up their vocal chords. There are also robust grunts and hollers coming from behind the first door to my left.
I consult the two TV screens which list who is auditioning for what in what room. Yes- the grunting room is the room where Sam is.
I pop up on a tall chair and drink my coffee while I wait for high noon.
I befriend and take the photo of a snazzy girl named Ari who is sporting- no kidding- 9 topknots. Concurrently.
Noon. The door of the grunting room flies open and thirty of The Hard-Thighed stream out. Dripping sweat. Dripping sweat and beaming. I'm not surprised. I am fully confident in Sam's ability to make a room full of very nervous people have the time of their life even while being critically evaluated on their ability to pulse their fannies.
I walk to the doorway. Sam sees me, quasi-squeezes me while apologizing for his sweat, and escorts me to a seat behind some folding tables. I am introduced to a small brunette woman with immaculate sandals and brown toe-nail polish who is the co-director, the laser-focused stone-faced casting director, and Sam's two dance hench-ladies. One of them has excellent posture and a profile that should be on coins. The other is tall. She is wearing her long ebony hair in a ponytail and a grey fleece pantsuit. She walks directly up to me and says, "Who are you."
I explain.
Sam tells the dancers, "This is Audra. She will be observing today." I smile intriguingly at them from under my fedora.
We begin.
Sam kicks off this hour of dance auditions with a ten minute motivational speech. I get lost in thought for a second picturing John the Baptist in some Lyrca and LaDucas leading a Apostle Dance Intensive. I know Sam's been giving this same speech at the top of every hour all day, but he infuses it with the same zest and split leaps he's been giving since 9AM. Once everyone is whipped into a frenzy and wiping away tears, he begins warm-ups.
The song he is using for warm-ups is "Hold Up" from Beyonce's "Lemonade." I am SO excited. It's my favorite song from the album. I sit up very straight and criss-cross applesauce in my chair and
sing along from the corner.
[Sidenote: I love "Lemonade." I listened to it- in rotation with "Hamilton"- every other night for the past nine weeks in the dressing room at Swift Creek Mill Theatre with Ashlee, Katrinah, and Jessi while we beat our faces and got our lives.]
Sam has the dancers walk around the room in rhythm. He walks with them. He occasionally issues commands like, "Now after 10 counts stop where you are and pretend to be silently grinding in the library!" and "Now after 10 more counts stop where you are and grind noisily like you've suddenly been sexually attracted to someone standing by the card catalogue!"
My face aches from grinning.
When the song is over, the warm-up is over. Sam flickers an eyelash and wordlessly his hench-ladies take hold of the draperies that are covering the walls and in perfect synchronization, pull them aside to reveal the mirrors lining the room. Everybody now realizes that s*** is about to get real.
I watch very closely. This is a very good audition because every person in the room is so different from the others. I like that. There's leaping and kicking and shouting and pounding the floor with every available body part. Everyone there is so full of adrenaline and joy by the audition's end. With the exceptions of the casting director- who is being forced to scream the names of the dancers he wants to see next at the top of his lungs each time a group finishes the combination because everyone in the room is so hopped up on Russian jumping juice that they're giving each other standing ovations whenever a group finishes. And this casting director does not look like he enjoys raising his voice or drawing attention to himself. Ever. He'd much prefer to ice you down with his eyes and send you an email. The other joyless being in the room is the dear pianist man. I shouldn't say joyless. He was quietly smiling the entire time, but went mostly unnoticed from his spot stuffed into the corner behind his baby grand. He has played the same 32 bars of Russian Jock Jams at least 100 times in row by this point today and never once missed a note. Or played with an ounce less energy. I tell him on my way out how impressed I am. He smiles at me and sighs.
Anyway- after that I go with Sam for a quick sushi lunch. He has to be back to give another motivational speech in an hour. I tell him that two of the people I picked out as being very excellent dancers were one that looked like Kristin Chenoweth and one who was male and very accomplished at performing aerial maneuvers in full-length corduroy slacks. Sam concurs. He reassures me both of these individuals were granted callbacks and that I have a good eye as Kristin Chenoweth is currently the dance captain for "Wicked" and Jumpy McCorduroy is employed in the same capacity for "An American in Paris."
After this, I go to Brooklyn. I'll make that Part II. As a teaser- there will be dinosaurs.
Thanks, Sam and Jolly Pingbald, for an interesting morning.
There's a burly fellow with a headset behind a desk deep in the dark recesses of the lobby. He likes my Chuck Norris T-Shirt. He tells me so. I deign to show my ID, have it scanned and then walk deeper into the building. I take a left behind a fellow with a partial blonde topknot. His topknot is pristine. He has clearly not yet been upstairs to do dancing or emoting or whatever else makes one sweat in this place. He holds the elevator for me.
Once I step off the elevator into the upstairs lobby I am more confident than ever I am in the right spot. I'm surrounded by more of the Hard-Thighed- all wearing wildly patterned leggings and tank tops. Fancy dancing shoes, high heeled prairie boots, no shoes at all. Every now and then there is a shrill burst of that gerbil-in-heat noise singers make when they're warming up their vocal chords. There are also robust grunts and hollers coming from behind the first door to my left.
I consult the two TV screens which list who is auditioning for what in what room. Yes- the grunting room is the room where Sam is.
I pop up on a tall chair and drink my coffee while I wait for high noon.
I befriend and take the photo of a snazzy girl named Ari who is sporting- no kidding- 9 topknots. Concurrently.
Noon. The door of the grunting room flies open and thirty of The Hard-Thighed stream out. Dripping sweat. Dripping sweat and beaming. I'm not surprised. I am fully confident in Sam's ability to make a room full of very nervous people have the time of their life even while being critically evaluated on their ability to pulse their fannies.
I walk to the doorway. Sam sees me, quasi-squeezes me while apologizing for his sweat, and escorts me to a seat behind some folding tables. I am introduced to a small brunette woman with immaculate sandals and brown toe-nail polish who is the co-director, the laser-focused stone-faced casting director, and Sam's two dance hench-ladies. One of them has excellent posture and a profile that should be on coins. The other is tall. She is wearing her long ebony hair in a ponytail and a grey fleece pantsuit. She walks directly up to me and says, "Who are you."
I explain.
Sam tells the dancers, "This is Audra. She will be observing today." I smile intriguingly at them from under my fedora.
We begin.
Sam kicks off this hour of dance auditions with a ten minute motivational speech. I get lost in thought for a second picturing John the Baptist in some Lyrca and LaDucas leading a Apostle Dance Intensive. I know Sam's been giving this same speech at the top of every hour all day, but he infuses it with the same zest and split leaps he's been giving since 9AM. Once everyone is whipped into a frenzy and wiping away tears, he begins warm-ups.
The song he is using for warm-ups is "Hold Up" from Beyonce's "Lemonade." I am SO excited. It's my favorite song from the album. I sit up very straight and criss-cross applesauce in my chair and
sing along from the corner.
[Sidenote: I love "Lemonade." I listened to it- in rotation with "Hamilton"- every other night for the past nine weeks in the dressing room at Swift Creek Mill Theatre with Ashlee, Katrinah, and Jessi while we beat our faces and got our lives.]
Sam has the dancers walk around the room in rhythm. He walks with them. He occasionally issues commands like, "Now after 10 counts stop where you are and pretend to be silently grinding in the library!" and "Now after 10 more counts stop where you are and grind noisily like you've suddenly been sexually attracted to someone standing by the card catalogue!"
My face aches from grinning.
When the song is over, the warm-up is over. Sam flickers an eyelash and wordlessly his hench-ladies take hold of the draperies that are covering the walls and in perfect synchronization, pull them aside to reveal the mirrors lining the room. Everybody now realizes that s*** is about to get real.
I watch very closely. This is a very good audition because every person in the room is so different from the others. I like that. There's leaping and kicking and shouting and pounding the floor with every available body part. Everyone there is so full of adrenaline and joy by the audition's end. With the exceptions of the casting director- who is being forced to scream the names of the dancers he wants to see next at the top of his lungs each time a group finishes the combination because everyone in the room is so hopped up on Russian jumping juice that they're giving each other standing ovations whenever a group finishes. And this casting director does not look like he enjoys raising his voice or drawing attention to himself. Ever. He'd much prefer to ice you down with his eyes and send you an email. The other joyless being in the room is the dear pianist man. I shouldn't say joyless. He was quietly smiling the entire time, but went mostly unnoticed from his spot stuffed into the corner behind his baby grand. He has played the same 32 bars of Russian Jock Jams at least 100 times in row by this point today and never once missed a note. Or played with an ounce less energy. I tell him on my way out how impressed I am. He smiles at me and sighs.
Anyway- after that I go with Sam for a quick sushi lunch. He has to be back to give another motivational speech in an hour. I tell him that two of the people I picked out as being very excellent dancers were one that looked like Kristin Chenoweth and one who was male and very accomplished at performing aerial maneuvers in full-length corduroy slacks. Sam concurs. He reassures me both of these individuals were granted callbacks and that I have a good eye as Kristin Chenoweth is currently the dance captain for "Wicked" and Jumpy McCorduroy is employed in the same capacity for "An American in Paris."
After this, I go to Brooklyn. I'll make that Part II. As a teaser- there will be dinosaurs.
Thanks, Sam and Jolly Pingbald, for an interesting morning.
Hot trash fog: accurate. Very much enjoying these stories.
ReplyDeleteHot trash fog: accurate. Very much enjoying these stories.
ReplyDelete