and computer skills for a temp job to keep me in rent.
Back in those pre-Internet days, the primary way to find out about auditions was to scour Backstage, a weekly theater industry newspaper.
I came across a listing for a musical called "On Lenox Avenue." It boasted to be a workshop of a new musical that would be trying out in Ohio, benefitting a homeless organization, and would hopefully be coming back to NYC to find backing. It didn't pay much - I remember $600 for three weeks - but the deal included transportation and lodging in glamorous Ohio and some experience for my sparse resume. Sounded good to me!
It was my first official audition in NYC after graduating college, and I was still getting familiar with the city, its neighborhoods and streets, so I got to the building 45 minutes early. I was the first person there, even beating the guy who was running the show by 20 minutes. I was sitting on a folding chair in the hall outside the dance studio when he arrived, and when he saw me, he seemed to pause before offering a stammered welcome and a handshake.
"You're here for the auditions?" he asked skeptically. I answered an enthusiastic YES!
On Lenox Avenue?" he asked again. YES! He took this in and nodded.
"All right, well... we've still got time before the day officially begins. Settle in. I'm going to make sure everything is set up." I offered to help, so together, we set up a sign-in table, turned on lights, uncovered the piano and organized chairs.
A half an hour ticked by and not another soul showed up. Finally, the man in charge clasped his hands together.
"So, let's get started. First, let me introduce myself and the story. I'm the writer of the piece and On Lenox Avenue is about life in Harlem during the 1970's."
...
Oh.
Harlem. In the 1970's.
That's code for "Not on your life, Snowflake."
This revelatory news hung in the air, and we stood and looked at each other, unsure of our next steps. Maybe I should have volunteered to leave. I, in all my lilly whiteness, obviously wasn't right for his casting, but it was my very first New York audition, I was dressed, I was ready, and I was needing the experience. Maybe he should have shown me the door. He wasn't going to find anything he needed in me, but he'd rented the space, he didn't have the nerve to push me out or he wasn't a jerk. Whatever the reasons, the two of us continued along for the next hour with our charade that this was still a legitimate audition. No joke. We spent one full hour together. I sang an uptempo and a ballad, we did a little improv together. I even changed clothes and learned his dance combination.
As we wrapped up, he thanked me, shook my hand and said a little too cheerily, "We'll be in touch!" which we both knew was a beautiful lie. I replied, "Hey listen. I just want to say thanks. This was my first audition since graduating college, and you made this a lot of fun. Thanks for breaking me in to the New York City scene."
I walked out into the sticky, late August day, feeling a certain sense of pride. I mean, really, who else does this stuff happen to? I was the only auditioner and I STILL wasn't getting cast for the show.
To this day, I've never met another actor who's been the only person to show up at an audition and NOT get cast.
SMACK.
It was my first official audition in NYC after graduating college, and I was still getting familiar with the city, its neighborhoods and streets, so I got to the building 45 minutes early. I was the first person there, even beating the guy who was running the show by 20 minutes. I was sitting on a folding chair in the hall outside the dance studio when he arrived, and when he saw me, he seemed to pause before offering a stammered welcome and a handshake.
"You're here for the auditions?" he asked skeptically. I answered an enthusiastic YES!
On Lenox Avenue?" he asked again. YES! He took this in and nodded.
"All right, well... we've still got time before the day officially begins. Settle in. I'm going to make sure everything is set up." I offered to help, so together, we set up a sign-in table, turned on lights, uncovered the piano and organized chairs.
A half an hour ticked by and not another soul showed up. Finally, the man in charge clasped his hands together.
"So, let's get started. First, let me introduce myself and the story. I'm the writer of the piece and On Lenox Avenue is about life in Harlem during the 1970's."
...
Oh.
Harlem. In the 1970's.
That's code for "Not on your life, Snowflake."
This revelatory news hung in the air, and we stood and looked at each other, unsure of our next steps. Maybe I should have volunteered to leave. I, in all my lilly whiteness, obviously wasn't right for his casting, but it was my very first New York audition, I was dressed, I was ready, and I was needing the experience. Maybe he should have shown me the door. He wasn't going to find anything he needed in me, but he'd rented the space, he didn't have the nerve to push me out or he wasn't a jerk. Whatever the reasons, the two of us continued along for the next hour with our charade that this was still a legitimate audition. No joke. We spent one full hour together. I sang an uptempo and a ballad, we did a little improv together. I even changed clothes and learned his dance combination.
As we wrapped up, he thanked me, shook my hand and said a little too cheerily, "We'll be in touch!" which we both knew was a beautiful lie. I replied, "Hey listen. I just want to say thanks. This was my first audition since graduating college, and you made this a lot of fun. Thanks for breaking me in to the New York City scene."
I walked out into the sticky, late August day, feeling a certain sense of pride. I mean, really, who else does this stuff happen to? I was the only auditioner and I STILL wasn't getting cast for the show.
To this day, I've never met another actor who's been the only person to show up at an audition and NOT get cast.
SMACK.
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