Baby you can drive my car...

 

My best friend Thurston was a natural acrobat. He could flip on a dime, back hand springs, somersaults anything. Acro was how he broke into the world of performing. His ability to dance was lacking even though he looked like a dancer. He could eventually pick up dance steps but he had no formal training. As he put it “I don’t speak French. Say it in English and maybe I can do it”. I tried to get him to come to class with me and he did. Once. He thought he didn’t need to know how to dance because he had another highly in demand skill.

Soon after he got his Equity card, Thurston was hired for a major production in Germany. One of the main reasons he was cast was because of his acro. I also auditioned for the show but didn’t get a callback. Sometimes I still think I should’ve learned how to do a cartwheel. As happy as I was for his success, it was hard for me to watch him leave for a job that I had also wanted. At the time he and I were virtually the same type (more on that and the reverse of this situation on another blog).

Thurston returned from performing in Germany a few years later. I was overjoyed to have my best buddy, my partner in crime, my twin joined at the brain back in New York. Of course I was prepared for him to come back with a worldlier view of life. But I wasn’t prepared for what else he came back with…Noah.

Noah was a bleach blond surfer from Hawaii who went to Yale School of Drama. Everyone who met Noah loved him and thought he was the sweetest person. The two of them met doing the show in Germany. They became friends and eventually fell in love. When they returned they moved in together to start their lives as New York actors.

Thurston went on to do a couple of Broadway shows (utilizing his acro skills) and several national tours, one of which he was fired from for not being able to handle the dancing.

Noah did a few showcases but couldn’t understand why he wasn’t working on a larger scale. He was incredibly talented afterall. I told him the reason he wasn’t working was simple. He needed to stop bleaching his hair. No one over the age of 5 had hair that color.

An agent saw Noah in one of the showcases and invited him for an interview. I don’t remember if he got signed by the agency but he probably did. I do remember that the agent gave him one of the reasons he wasn’t progressing in the New York Theatre scene…

Needless to say Noah stopped bleaching his hair.

What was perfectly fitting for Hawaii, and even for Yale, was blatantly out of place for New York. Noah decided to take the agent’s advice. He changed back to his natural hair color and he looked great. The saccharine sweet disposition got washed away as well. He finally looked and behaved like a real, whole person.

He’s been working at his dream performing job ever since.

You see, it all comes down to “product”. And you are your product.

You’re hoping to convince people to buy what you are offering, to invest in your talent. Every performer knows this. What performers may not realize is that the people doing the casting are also investing in your height, and your hair color, and your eye color, and your weight, and your chest size and your skin tone etc, etc, etc. They are buying the “whole package”. The more your physical attributes and talent are agreeably related to each other, the more you will work…provided that your package is what they’re searching for.

I went to University with a girl named Sonria. She was only going to school to please her father. Sonria was destined to be on Broadway. She knew it. We all knew it.

Why did we know Sonria was Broadway bound? She was incredibly talented, of course (freshman year she was cast as a lead in the spring musical) and very good looking. She was a beautiful spunky girl next door type. In fact at an early point in her career she was hired by Mattel to portray Barbie’s younger sister “Skipper”. Her singing voice sounded like she looked. Her body type was what you’d expect to see on a girl like that and she danced with just the right amount of sex appeal for a girl who looked like her and sang like her.

All the elements of her product were in line. She had “the whole package”. Sonria only had to wait for the right project to come along for buyers to seek her out. After she graduated, that project on Broadway, came quickly.

Many performers seem to have trouble grasping the concept of “you are the product you’re trying to sell”. I mean we’re talking about art and artists and talent. It’s all quite subjective and ethereal.

But what if it were a car we were talking about?

A buyer who wants a 1966 Mustang convertible is not going to be looking at a 2010 Range Rover. Although the cars essentially accomplish the same task, they’re completely different. If the buyer walks on the lot looking for a Mustang he will move right past the Range Rover. It’s not what he wants. Perhaps a salesman can try to convince him that the Range Rover is what he wants, but even for a great salesman that’s a never ending uphill battle. The buyer only has the Mustang on his mind. Every great selling point of the 2010 Range Rover is going to be compared to every reason the buyer dreams of a convertible. The moment the buyer sees that perfect 1966 Mustang convertible, he will completely forget about the 2010 Range Rover.

It’s the same concept in the Theatre world. Substitute “buyer” with producer, director, choreographer, or casting director. They all have preconceived notions of how the person playing a role will look, sound and act. Substitute “1966 Mustang Convertible” with “sleek, sexy, classically attractive actor”, or whatever the producer, director, choreographer, casting director is in the market for. If you, as the artist are the “Range Rover” (a solid, mature, matronly actor) very often you will remain on the lot, unsold. You weren’t what they were looking for. You as the “product” will be unemployed, though thoroughly talented and capable of performing the job in question.

Sonria was a mint condition cherry red 1966 Mustang convertible. She was the car of choice. Buyers couldn’t wait to drive her. She worked all the time.

Thurston was a 1966 Mustang convertible, but his clutch would stick: he looked like a dancer but couldn’t dance. His packaging was not in line with what he was selling. So a couple of times he was sent back to the dealership: he got the gig but couldn’t handle the dancing so he was released from his contract.

Noah was also a 1966 Mustang. But he wasn’t a convertible, he was a hard top. He piqued the interest of the buyers but ultimately they went with their original idea. Noah then worked on his product by changing his hair color and his disposition.  He was always amazingly talented just packaged badly. Now he has the best “product” and "packaging" that he can possibly have. Everyone wants to work with him.

As performers we need to constantly assess our situation: our talents, our strengths and weakness, and our looks. Each of us has to accept the fact that not everyone is born to be that cherry red 1966 Mustang convertible. Some of us were born a 2010 Range Rover or a 1982 Chevy Nova.

Take stock of your “product” is. Learn what you do best and keep that “well oiled”. But just as important, know what you need to learn or change. Then go learn it and change it. Get into dance class. Take voice lessons and speech classes. See shows, showcases and movies. Read books, scripts and newspapers. Get a hobby. Get braces. Workout. Dye your hair. Learn a new skill. Meet new people. Sit in a park and do nothing. All these things and so many more will make you a well rounded person and ultimately a better performer.

After all, if you were born 2010 Range Rover you should be the best damn 2010 Range Rover on the lot. So when the buyers come looking for one, they don’t have to look any further than you.

To pee, or not to pee...

My audition buddy Bruce asked if I would sign him up for a chorus call on Friday. I was planning on going to an Equity Principal Audition (EPA) that morning and then afterwards going to Actor’s Equity to sign myself up, so I said sure.

Friday at 6am I headed out to the EPA. I got in line and waited. It was day three of this particular audition so there weren’t many people there, which isn’t always the case. At 9am I was able to pick the time slot I wanted. Afterwards I went over to the Equity building at 165 West 46^th Street, 2^nd floor.

Chorus Call signup sheets are posted at 9:30am one week before the audition. I arrived at 9:15am. I had a few minutes so I decide that it was time for my “I got up at the crack of dawn for an audition” breakfast treat. I went downstairs to McDonalds, got my favorite and came back.

Auditions at the Equity building were now in full swing. Non-Equity (non-union) actors are not allowed into the Equity (union) lounge. It’s a rule. Non-Equity actors, who are hoping to audition, sit outside the lounge on benches. Since eating or drinking anything besides water in the Equity lounge is another rule, I joined the non-union actors on the benches in the hallway.

As I ate I overheard two very young girls:

Girl 1: I just better be seen at this audition.

Me: (in my head) Oh my god. This sausage biscuit is so good!

Girl 2: I know. I am so close to getting my Equity card. I just need a few more points.

Me: (in my head) Yes! There are benefits to waking up before the sun gets up!

Girl 1: I just need my Equity card and then I am good to go.

            Me: (in my head) It’s like Manna from heaven!

Girl 2: I know. I have to have my Equity card by the end of the summer.

            Me: (in my head) Wow. They just don't know.

Back when I was non-equity, the place the three of us were sitting was called the “Bitter Bench”. The seats got that name because anyone sitting there eventually became bitter. We became bitter that we weren’t Equity. We became bitter we had to get up so early. We became bitter we had to wait in line to maybe been seen at an audition. We became bitter when we weren’t seen and we became were bitter when we were seen. After all how can they expect us to be in top form after sitting around doing nothing for hours on end?

What made us the most bitter was that we weren’t allowed to go in the Equity lounge, not even to use the restroom.

We were convinced becoming Equity would make all of that better. We wouldn’t have to get up in the dark of night to go stand in a line. We wouldn’t have to wait around for hours to audition. We could get the better opportunities, the better jobs, and the better pay (remember, as non-Equity I made $65 a week from my first “away from home paying performance job”).

Everyone thought the same. Even in school we were told we had to be Equity before we went to New York or we wouldn’t get work.

At my university there was an older guy in my class, named John Balance, a tall, very good looking, very manly-man with a pleasant baritone singing voice. He was one of the lucky incoming freshmen who landed the romantic lead in the university’s spring musical. We all called him John “Equity” Balance (before it was chic to do so) because all he could talk about was becoming Equity. “When I am Equity…” was his favorite way of starting or joining a conversation…any conversation. To him it was the be all and end all. The Equity Card was the Holy Grail of performing. After getting it, one could command the sun, moon and stars.

Even though we all secretly believed the very same thing, we spent many hours laughing about him. We were kids. Soon even non-theatre majors made fun of him. My friend Sally, a Travel Tourism and Trade major, all these years later remembers him and can do a spot on impression. It still makes me laugh today. (More on Sally and outside friends another time)

After graduating I had chances to get my Equity card but turned them down. Don’t get me wrong. I am a union man through and through. But somewhere along the line while growing up, I wised up. Before I finally took my card I’d come to some realizations.

The main difference between a union (Equity) actor and a non-union (non-Equity) actor is a piece of paper, that initial contract that allows you to pay the initiation fee to get your Equity (union) card. It doesn’t make you more talented, more beautiful or a better person. It’s a piece of paper.

Equity has a lounge space in midtown, where some auditions are held. A space where audition notices are posted, free tickets to shows are given (if they’re available), a place to hang out (as the old timers do) and it’s somewhere to use a restroom in midtown between the hours of 9 and 5:30.

Equity gives you protections against unscrupulous producers and people who take advantage of performers. That’s why Equity was formed many years ago.

Equity offers you the opportunity for health insurance, should you meet the criteria of minimum weeks worked in a specific period. Given that only about 2% of union actors are making a living through performing, this is more difficult than it sounds.

Equity offers a pension based on what you’ve earned as a member, should you become “vested” with Equity.

Equity offers workman’s compensation if you’re injured, bonding to make sure you get paid and most importantly collective bargaining, where they look out for your best interests when negotiating the terms of new contracts.

Equity is wonderful. Belonging to such an organization gives you a sense of pride, accomplishment and community.

Having your Equity card does not mean you get to sleep late.

I was chatting with the director of the show I’m currently doing, who is an actor and contemporary of mine. We realized that at the height of audition season, an Equity actor sometimes has to get in line at 4am in order to insure a time slot at an EPA. A few times we did just that and still weren’t seen.

My friend Howie did the 4am thing a few days ago. He was third in line.

Having your card does not mean once you’ve gotten up at 4am and have an EPA audition time that this spot is guaranteed no matter what. Miss your check in and/or name being announced by even seconds and you will be replaced by another Equity member who didn’t get a time and is on an alternate list; someone who has been waiting around for hours with the hopes of being seen. (Sound familiar?) And you will miss your name being called, more than once and through no fault of your own. I can guarantee it with three little letters: MTA.

Having your card does not mean you are the consummate professional, or a pinnacle of talent and decorum. It means someone needed “you” in a show.

Your card doesn’t give you all the answers. It means you worked in an Equity house or several houses. It means you’ve worked with a signed Equity contract and both you and the place you performed at abided by Equity rules…in theory.

Having your card doesn’t mean that you will ever work again. In fact it’s a lot harder to get Equity job number two than it is to get Equity job number one. John “Equity” Balance was one of the first of my class to get his Equity card. He even got Equity show number two quite quickly. But for whatever reason he couldn’t get another performing job after that.

Today John owns a construction company in his home town. In his spare time he does community theatre (Don’t make that face!). Performing is what John loves to do, but to do it he had to give up his Holy Grail, his Equity card. Once Equity (union) you’re not allowed to perform without an Equity (union) contract.

I am an Equity Actor. I realize either way, not much is guaranteed and every situation is different. I made my choice before turning Equity to work at Equity houses, learning the ropes, “paying my dues” and adding enough to my resume so that I could take off the university shows and the community theatre shows and “appear” professional. I made my choice by being informed.

The people who choose to work non-equity (and I have a lot of friends who work non-stop as non-union) also realize that either way not much is guaranteed. They also make their choice by being informed, and by not putting the Equity Card on a pedestal thinking it can solve world hunger. It’s a piece of paper.

That Friday after I finished eating my breakfast I left the “Bitter Bench” and went into the Equity lounge. I used the restroom and then got in another line to put mine and Bruce’s names on a list for the audition that was a week away. As I was waiting, sleep deprived and sated from my sausage biscuit, I had a brief moment of clarity.

Through all of this Equity versus Non-Equity, professional/non-professional debate, there is one guarantee. With your Equity card, you’re guaranteed “the privilege to pee”.

Now I know...

I went to a small private Catholic university. My class was the biggest the Theatre department had ever seen: 21 incoming freshmen. Most of us were musical theatre oriented so we were loud, outspoken and always singing and dancing. My roommate Giancarlo was the biggest offender (more on him another time).

Three freshmen were cast as leads in the fall musical. In addition to that my roommate and I were given the only two dance solos in the show. (I was a dancer then. Nore on that another time). The upper classmen were not happy. It was a breach of protocol not only to cast freshmen in shows but to give them leads. We didn’t know. We had just gotten there and the only thing we were guilty of was doing what we loved to do.

Over the years the Theatre department worked to keep our talent and performing skills growing. We had excellent advisers who made sure all of our classes were in line with each other. Any time we had a performance class that studied a particular theatrical time period for instance, our advisers had also put on our semester schedule the corresponding history class or the philosophy class or the religion class. Everything was connected…until senior year.
 
There we were, our fourth year. The class had dwindled down to 12 people. (Giancarlo, my roommate transferred junior year.) Senior year was traditionally the time to finish off all the requirements for graduating. We didn’t know that was how it was done, so me and my classmates had loaded our semesters throughout the preceding 3 years. Now here we were with no performance classes and a huge hole in our schedules. Again the department rose to the occasion and created a “Senior Performance Theory” class.

In this newly created class we did everything from monologues to scenes and songs, to scenes with songs, movement, you name it we did it. The impressive thing the Theatre department did was to bring back one of its very successful graduates, Declan, to conduct a mock audition class with feedback. Afterward he spoke about what life after graduation. One of the things that really stuck with me was the fact that he told us to have the wardrobe to back up your auditions (more on clothing another time). The only thing Senior Performance theory or any other class didn’t touch upon, was the “Business” end of show business. Declan never told us “how”. No one ever told us “how”. We all thought talent prevailed over everything. All we had to do was be there, be somewhere. We just didn’t know where.

The department’s reputation had grown. Students constantly transferred in from other schools. One such person was Bathsheba. She came from a huge New England university. I gravitated to her because she was from a world outside of our little community; some place that since birth, I had longed to be.

One day senior year Bathsheba asked me if I had applied to attend the N.E.T.C’s.

“What are the ‘Any Tea Seas’?”

She was shocked that I had never heard of the New England Theatre Conference, a huge gathering of theatre companies, theme parks, and cruise ships. In one fell swoop a person could audition for hundreds of places. But you had to apply, pay a fee and be accepted.

I don’t remember how many of my class actually applied, but I do remember that four of us including another transfer student Contadina (who has since been in several Broadway shows, even replacing an A-list Star) and I got accepted. We drove together across several states to get to the audition. We auditioned, did callbacks and then drove back to school.

Senior year finished and I graduated. Every year the theatre department did a pre-summer season show at a nearby Equity house. This year it was West Side Story. I played “Chino, the white faced boy” (more about that another time). Good-byes to my classmates came when West Side Story closed. Unfortunately I couldn't say good-bye to the "elephant in the room": What the hell do I do now?

I didn’t know. We never covered what came after school in any of our theatre classes. Trust me, I checked the syllabi. They most valuable thing they did teach us about theatre was to always keep learning.

Contadina left to do a show she booked from the “Any Tea Seas”. I received my call from that audition right before the 4^Th of July, while I was working in an opera as a “super” and waiting to hear if I was going to be hired as a ticket taker at a newly built water park.

One of the theatres that had called me back at the N.E.T.C’s had to change their season. They couldn’t get the rights to a show on their schedule. They needed me for this replacement show. They needed me to be there in two days. Of course I said yes.

The next day I got on the first of three buses to get to the theatre, the one that took me into New York City.

On the long bus ride I chatted with the guy sitting next to me. As we arrived in Manhattan he invited me to come to his place and freshen up before my other two bus rides. Being greener than Kermit the Frog I accepted the invitation. I was from a small town…I didn’t know any better.

 
Today, I know that man was an actor. Today I know he lived in Manhattan Plaza, an artist’s residence in midtown. Today I know he was truly my guardian angel. He sensed my naivete and kept me safe and out of harm’s way until the second bus left Port Authority.

At my first “away from home paying performance job” I earned a whopping $65 per week (more on that another time). But like the MasterCard commercial, the knowledge and friendships I got out of it were priceless. I met a plethora of other people who would join me on my journey of artistic and personal discovery. Some of them to this day remain my very best friends: people like Thurston, my twin joined at the brain who works non-stop, Helga who takes care of everyone’s needs, and my “Big Sister” Leslie, who took me under her wing and gave me answers to questions I didn’t even know I had.

After this gig, I moved to New York City. I had four fellow classmates living here, three suitcases, $200 and me. No job, no prospects, nothing. I just didn’t know.

So every January 15^Th I take stock of my life. I’ve always said that if on this date I ever have less than what I originally came to New York City with, it’s time to go home. Now I know that I am home. I know that even if I don’t have 3 suitcases full of designer clothes and $200, I still have me and several lifetimes’ worth of knowledge as a performer and friends that love me for who I am 

And the best part? Every day I learn more.

My anniversary present this year is to start a blog to share what I’ve learned and what I’ve found out about the “Business of show” to anyone who wants a little more information and a little amusement. It’s not from a “star’s” prospective, or even from the prospective of someone who’s been on Broadway…yet. It’s more valuable. It’s knowledge from an “everyman” actor who is in the trenches every day.

I've learned and now I know…don’t you want to too?