On the one hand, you can say that my buddy Josh and I
picked the perfect night to see a play.
Not just because the show itself (an adaptation of the novel Monstrous Regiment) was good. The play was, in fact, awesome. But who should be seated in front of us but our
former stage combat teacher? Who would
then invite us to an audition he’d be holding early the next week?
My response to just about any audition invitation is Why
not, man. Get out there. I’m at a point in my career that I audition
for just about anything as long as it pays more than zero dollars (or not,
depending upon the time commitment). The
size of the job does not correlate to the amount of dignity, respect, and
effort I put into my work, therefore I don’t spend much time in awe over any
single gig’s career advancement probability or paycheck potential. Maybe later I’ll be important enough to be
discerning. Until I have the power to
say no to a project, all jobs are equal.
That being said, Nick Sandys is not just one of the best
known fight choreographers in Chicago, he’s also been known to compete against
himself for Best Actor in multiple productions in the same year, and is the
Producing Artistic Director of one of the most acclaimed theatre companies in
the city. So yeah, I follow Nick’s
suggestions with the same level of consideration I’d give to a crispy
firefighter who’d suddenly found his way into my smoky bedroom at 3am.
Nick and I exchanged emails the following day, and a few
evenings later I found myself with about fifty other guys in the canteen of the
Civic Opera House, a building I hadn’t been to since my graduation more than
two years prior. I was wearing clothes I
could easily move in, chatting with Josh, waiting our turn to “move around and
do a combination w/ [Nick], maybe some drumming” which is the totality of what
I’d been told to prepare.
Sure enough, we learned and executed a short (intentionally
sloppy) fight sequence, then spent some time proving just how unqualified we
were to simultaneously march and clap in a given syncopated rhythm. Then we took turns clapping either in time or
wildly out of time with one another, each according to his inability. Okay, it wasn’t all bad, but the memories of
two men working together to make the precise tick!
tock! tick! tock! of a grandfather clock don’t stand out as much as the
sound of two other men who worked together as well as a brick being introduced
to a blender.
A few days later I was emailed a callback notice from a man
whose job title is Super Captain, which is so badass I had to sit down for a
minute and absorb that. I finally
learned the name of the play I was auditioning for. Perhaps I should have been paying more
attention, asked more questions. Perhaps
it wouldn’t have mattered. Anyway, when
I looked up the key words “anvil” and “Trovatore” I found a video on YouTube
which was, as I’d later learn, The Met’s remount of the production I was now
auditioning for, which had originated in Chicago.
More important was the revelation that I was going to be
judged on my ability to play the anvil for the famous Anvil Chorus. Yes, it’s famous. Yes, you know it, whether or not you know you
know it. Go ahead and look it up, but I’ll
save you a bit of time and let you know there doesn’t seem to be a version with
Bugs Bunny, which remains the only disappointment in this whole venture. Well , that and the fact that our man Bill
dresses not at all like the Super Captain I get on a Google Image search
result.
I acknowledge that women have it worse, but I also have the
opportunity to feel inadequate when comparing my physique with that of other
men. By no means am I a small man, but
compared to the guys in the video (and this particular audition room) I’m
downright frumpy. The doughy calzone to their
lean cuts of beef. The plush cushion to
their wood-carved furniture. They have
abs like cheese graters. I have abs like
a cheese eater. As far as I can tell,
I’m the only one who hasn’t engaged in conversation over the merits of various
types of bench press.
But I can keep a
beat while slinging a three foot long sledgehammer.
So now I get to perform the signature element of one of history’s
most iconic pieces of music to a potential audience of 3,500 people – all while
earning a living wage.
One could accurately say that Josh and I got this gig by
chance. Once we were cast we even talked
about how lucky it was we picked that
night to go to the show, how fortunate we were to have been assigned seats
right next to Nick, how serendipitous that we were available to audition on
short notice. If just one of these
elements had been different, we wouldn’t have this opportunity. All of this is true.
But we also got this gig because we goddamn earned it. We didn’t just earn it at the audition,
either. We earned it by working with
Nick for years in graduate school. We
earned it by keeping our skill set high and our professional reputations clean. We
earned it by being reliable, and by being charming as hell. We earned it through years of trying.
We won the lottery by buying tickets. Lots and lots of tickets.
Gigs don’t last long in this world. Never more than a few months, and that’s only
for stage productions. On camera work is
likely to last only a few days, and something for the radio might take as long
as an afternoon. Auditions, therefore,
happen a dozen or more times a month, and if you have a success rate of ten
percent, you’re doing a hell of a lot better than I am.
As far as I can tell, there’s never any such thing as having
made it in this career. I’ll never get to relax, never get a single
piece of work without having to prove myself all over again to someone new. Anything I get will begin and end in less
time than it takes the leaves to change.
And work doesn’t show up simply because I deserve it, and it doesn’t
care whether or not I’ve earned it, or that it’s my turn, or how many times
over I’ve paid my dues. The world owes me
nothing, and if I’m not consistently pressing myself into service, then I won’t
be ready for the bigger opportunities when they rear their heads. This is why every gig tastes like a mixture
of chocolate and ashes.
But from now until Thanksgiving, it’s all gravy.
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