Remember your first time riding a bike? Driving a car? Your first kiss? I could probably safely bet you that it wasn’t as smooth and sexy as it is now. Your knees may have been a bit wobbly, your moves unsure, your confidence shaky. Whatever you are a master at today, there was that awkward first time you tried it. How brave you were! Perhaps you stumbled and fell or “failed” altogether. But you didn’t give up. You kept kissing like a frog until you finally puckered like a Princess (or Prince). As you’ll read below, my first professional singing audition seemed like a fiasco, a flop, a failure. But in reality, it was simply my first time. And if you keep at it like I did, your first time will be the courageous, clumsy moment that ultimately drives you smack into success. Pucker up!
Please enjoy your next excerpt from
by Kristi Lynn Davis
Word spread that A Chorus Line was being performed in Chicago. Auditions were going to be held on a Monday, which was perfect, since that was our dark night. Many of us didn’t have gigs lined up after Funny Girl ended, so this was a prime opportunity. Actors are constantly looking for work. No sooner did they start one show then they were already auditioning for the next show, at least with short stints like this one. This musical theatre world was all so new to me; I hadn’t given any thought to what I would do once the show closed. But my success in Funny Girl had proved to me that I wanted to continue pursuing a career in entertainment. Who knew how many auditions I’d have to go to before landing a part? It behooved me to get a head start on the process. Our run at Beef and Boards was only three months long. Time to pound the pavement.
“We can drive after our Sunday show and stay with my aunt. Her house used to be a bed and breakfast,” Jenny suggested as she rallied the troops. I was excited and extremely nervous to go. A Chorus Line was the epitome of dance shows, and this was my first professional musical theatre audition. The very first. Ever. I was going to audition for the chorus line in a show about an audition for the chorus line in a show. “Rumor has it that they are going to do the original Broadway choreography,” Sandi informed us. “I know it and can teach anyone who wants to learn.” I welcomed her gracious offer, thrilled to be learning the real Broadway choreography, and before the audition, no less. I could use all the help I could get.
My enthusiasm slightly dampened, however, when I realized I was going to have to sing at the audition. “You could always be Kristine. She’s the girl in the show who really can’t sing.” Jenny reminded me. The apparently tone-deaf character Kristine spoke her solo (which was all about how vocally challenged she was), except for her few ear-splitting, painful, failed attempts at reaching an actual note. “Yes, but I really can sing and I want to sing,” I countered. “I just need more training, more practice, and a lot more confidence.” I got up the guts to ask Belinda—an eccentric, jovial, middle-aged actress and voice teacher who lived with us in the theatre—if she would give me a couple of voice lessons. She was a gypsy of sorts, traveling from show to show with all her personal belongings, including sheet music. Thankfully, she agreed to help.
When the time came immediately following our Sunday evening show, Sandi, Matt, Brent, Harriet, Jenny, and I piled into Sandi’s car and drove the 180 miles from Indianapolis to Chicago. We pulled up to Jenny’s aunt’s gorgeous home about three a.m. on Monday. Auntie served us a quick cup of Earl Grey tea with milk, kept warm in a ceramic teapot snuggled in a quilted tea cozy, one of her large collection of pretty and unusual teapots on display. Then it was off to try to get some sleep, each of us in our own room warmly decorated with antiques. The few hours of sleep I managed to get were restless with anxiety about the audition.
Morning arrived all too soon. Auntie gave us the royal treatment and served the big, gourmet breakfast she used to make for her paying guests: Eggs Florentine baked in individual custard cups, sausage, homemade biscuits, and more delicious tea. I had a feeling I shouldn’t eat so much when I had a leotard to squeeze into, but it was all so wonderful, and I didn’t want to offend Jenny’s Aunt. Also, I tend to overeat when nervous.
The audition was held at the theatre where the show would be performed. The lobby was packed with dancers stretching and catching up on the latest gossip. Many of them knew each other because they lived and performed in Chicago. I felt anxious beyond anxious. My voice needed to warming up, but where? And that decadent breakfast had left me bloated and uncomfortable. My stomach was so nervous and full of heavy food that the combination gave me the runs, so run I did, continuously, to the bathroom to relieve my churning intestines. The bathroom seemed as good a place as any to try singing a bit, especially since I was spending so much time there anyway, but I was too embarrassed to allow anyone to hear me, and girls kept coming in to primp. “In less than an hour, I will be singing solo in front of the casting people,” I realized. I could have died just thinking about it.
After giving up on the vocal warm-up, I joined Jenny in the lobby for a much-needed session of stretching out my body’s stiffness from a night of riding in the car. Sometimes your muscles freeze up from cold and exhaustion. Sometimes the anxiety and nervousness makes your muscles relax to the point of near liquidity, like a guy getting wobbly knees when he asks a girl to marry him. I hoped for the second situation, and, sure enough, I was instant Gumby. I could easily kick myself in the face or drop to a perfect split on the floor. The price paid would come the next day when my muscles would retaliate from being over-extended. My extreme flexibility reminded me of those miraculous stories where some poor guy is pinned under a car about to be crushed and a ninety-pound weakling passerby suddenly turns into Superman and singlehandedly lifts the car and saves the victim’s life. Of course, the next day our unlikely hero has to be hospitalized for muscle stress. “Tomorrow I might be sore as all get out, but today I get to be Superwoman,” I determined.
My body was ready and so was my resume. This time my resume had a bona fide professional gig on it, one that didn’t require beefing up or disguising me as someone better than I really was. Jenny said I could hand write in my latest show, Funny Girl, instead of typing up a new resume. “It actually makes you look more professional by showing that you’re currently working and too busy to print new resumes,” she explained. I could even list my character’s name, “Polly.” I was lucky. Usually chorus girls didn’t get actual names. Perhaps it was only a small step, but I was definitely moving up in the world of showbiz.
The choreographer collected our headshots with resumes stapled to the back and handed us each a paper number to pin onto our leotards. I was now a number, not a name. I glanced at some of the other headshots and found them to be much more glamorous than mine. I was certain those girls could sing, too, and wondered what I was doing there. “I can only do my best and leave it at that,” I reminded myself.
Sometimes you sing first at an audition and sometimes you dance first. We danced first, and I was relieved when the choreographer taught the exact same choreography we had learned from Sandi. At least I was familiar with it, but so was everyone else in that room. It killed my knees, because I wasn’t really in dance shape, having not taken classes regularly since I lived in Minneapolis. Still, I loved to dance and felt fantastic when I got it right.
Then came the moment of truth: the singing audition. I prayed to God that I wouldn’t have to sing in front of all the other auditioners. The first number was announced, and the young man went into the room all by himself. Thank goodness! But as soon as the door shut behind him, people began peeking through the crack in the door and craning their necks to hear. The room wasn’t completely soundproof. “Great. The other performers are still going to be able to hear me, but,” I rationalized, “at least not at full volume.” Every time they got closer to my number, I wanted to run away and never look back. I could have bailed and not gone through with it. No one was holding a gun to my head. If I were really that distraught, I could have grabbed my bag and bolted outta there. But a braver, wiser, dream-filled part of me made me stay and go through this ordeal I knew would be painful. It just wouldn’t let me back out and quit.
When my number was finally called, I walked into the room and handed the pianist my sheet music (properly taped together, so he wouldn’t have to fumble with turning pages). I cleared my throat, greeted the casting people seated at a table with my headshot in front of them, and, trembling, announced, “I am going to be singing, ‘You Can Always Count on Me.'” As the musical intro played, my heart began beating faster and faster. Adrenaline pumped through my veins. A wave of heat flushed through my entire body. My nerves took me hostage. By the time my entrance cue arrived, I had no breath support and could barely make a peep. After a seeming eternity of awkward silence, by sheer willpower, I broke free and managed to squeeze out a note. The sound that emanated from my lips was like nothing I’d ever heard, my voice cracking and shaking like a mini, oral earthquake. The same nervous energy that allowed me to kick to my forehead had left my vocal chords careening out of control. Nevertheless, I kept right on singing to the very end of the required sixteen bars, all the while horrified at what I was hearing. I knew everyone within earshot was completely uncomfortable and mortified for me.
“This was my first singing audition,” I blurted out apologetically before the casting people had a chance to comment. My statement was a waste of breath, as my inexperience was painfully obvious after they heard, or didn’t hear, my first few notes. (Never apologize or make excuses for a rotten audition. It just makes you look worse and certainly makes you look unprofessional. Ugh. What humiliation.) Fortunately, instead of being appalled and rude, the casting people were compassionate and kind, and took pity upon me. After all, I had just given a real-life performance of the vocally challenged character Kristine. And I was pretty convincing, if I say so myself.
I walked out of the room terribly defeated and embarrassed in once sense but slightly triumphant in another. Sure I was absolutely atrocious, but I had gone through with it. I had overcome my fear and lived to tell about it. I resolved to take voice lessons, confident that I could only get better.
Once everyone had sung, the choreographer came out and, just like in A Chorus Line after an arduous day of auditioning, announced which people they would like to have stay. He shuffled through the deck of headshots naming the chosen ones. Only after his polite dismissal, “Thank you all for coming,” did we know for sure that those of us whose names hadn’t yet been announced hadn’t been called back. I was disappointed, but certainly not surprised that I got cut after that dreadful singing disaster. Still, I held out hope that they would consider me for the part of Kristine. Unfortunately, none of my castmates had gotten a call back either.
No sooner had we returned to Jenny’s aunt’s house, foiled in our attempt to secure employment post Funny Girl, when the phone rang. It was the choreographer calling for me. “We accidentally put your headshot in the wrong pile. We’d love for you to come to the callback.” I couldn’t believe my ears. The victory was bittersweet, however, as my Beef and Boards buddies hadn’t been invited back. Competing with your friends stinks. It’s the nature of the beast. Even when you make the cut, it’s hard to be completely happy for yourself when you are glum for your chums.
Cut to the chase: I attended the callback and didn’t make the final cut, but I felt proud that I had made it that far. As far as I was concerned, my “failure” was simply a step closer to future success. I wasn’t convinced that I wanted to live in cold, windy, gray Chicago anyway. I missed sunny California. I missed my sister and friends.
Back at ye olde Beef and Boards, I started to feel that five weeks of the same show, no matter how fun initially, would be tedious. I had never repeated a performance more than three times total in the past, let alone eight shows a week for five weeks. Getting settled in a long run—this wasn’t even long by industry standards—was a whole new experience for me. Soon after getting comfortable in the show, I began beefing about being bored. I didn’t know how to relax and enjoy the ride.
The restlessness didn’t last long, however, thanks to one especially effective boredom breaker: visits from family and friends. Indianapolis was a drivable distance from Detroit and Chicago, so parents and pals ventured down to witness my professional musical theatre debut. Having loved ones in the audience was like a jolt of caffeine giving me just the buzz I needed to perk up my show.
Another monotony savior was mistakes. My first big onstage mishap was a costume malfunction that happened in the “Beautiful Bride” number. The wedding dress I wore had a heavy, wire-framed skirt à la eighteenth century France which protruded several feet to either side of me and dripped strands of beads and white doves (see pic above, far left person). As my partner paraded me around, the clasp holding the marital monstrosity around my waist broke. I was horrified as I felt it plunge to the ground and I quickly grabbed it with both hands. The number was about “taking the plunge,” but this wasn’t the plunge the songwriter had in mind. Instead of holding my partner’s hand and attempting any semblance of choreography, all I could do was try to hold up the awkward, weighty bird cage and keep my rear end covered until the end of the number. Of course, the rest of the cast found this hilarious. Even I could giggle about it later.
My five-week stint at Beef and Boards culminated in the traditional playing of pranks at the last performance. We ladies opted to abuse and amuse the guys with the old “lotion in the hand” trick: put a glob in your palm before going onstage, and when your partner grabs you he gets a slippery surprise. Everything that happens on stage then is exponentially funnier because 1.) you know your victim has to keep a straight face in spite of being slimed; and 2.) you know you yourself are forbidden to break character while pulling off such hijinks. The boys were so shocked by our gooey gifts that I had a chuckling fit on stage that could have gotten me fired. As a final bonus, we girls put on thick layers of fiery red lipstick for kissing attacks on the guys when they came off stage. Smothering their faces in crimson smooches, I kissed Beef and Boards “goodbye” and my future in showbiz “hello!”
Although Funny Girl had been funny and fun both on stage and off, bidding farewell to Jenny and my new friends was no laughing matter. I would miss everyone. But I refused to allow the gloom of parting with my performing pals to overshadow my enthusiasm for the entertainment adventures that surely awaited me in sunny California.
Kiss and make up with failure and first times. By starting somewhere, you’ve already succeeded.
Sing on,
Kristi
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