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Authors: Justin Luke Zirilli
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They call these “cattle calls” for a reason. Hundreds of actors crammed into a long hallway not at all unlike a yard full of cows. All of us mooing (or practicing scales—what’s the difference?), chewing cud, and swatting flies with our tails. Waiting for the slaughter.
I shouldn’t be so negative. It’s just that there are only so many of these things that you can take before you begin to wonder,
Am Iany good? Are they really considering us?
Every once in a while, Stanford, my recently acquired agent, lands me a private audition. Just me, the casting director, and a piano, plus maybe a few assistants. There aren’t hundreds of my long-lost twins just beyond the door, bragging about recent close calls. Nobody mooing but me.
Unfortunately, I’ve blown most of those private auditions too. So here I sit. And wait. And warm up. Just like the rest of the herd.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, do you hear that? Who the fuck sings ‘Lost in the Wilderness’?” one of my twins snorts.
I listen carefully. Shit. The boy in the audition room IS singing “Lost in the Wilderness.” The catty trio of doppelgangers breaks down into a loud fit of snorts and giggles, pulling their legs up to their chests as if they’re trying to keep themselves from peeing.
“Stephen Schwartz?” says triplet number two. “Really? Someone better tell her Stephen Schwartz hasn’t been a smart audition move since Rosie O’Donnell was hosting the Tonys!”
“And still using Tom Cruise as her beard!” closes out the third triplet. “What’s next? A one-man rendition of ‘Seasons of Love’?”
Now they’ve had it. This is the funniest thing they’ve experienced all year! They don’t even try to hold back the giggling. All bets are off, and they’re rolling around on the floor, kicking their legs up in the air, catching the attention of all my other twins lined up behind me. (I know no one actually laughs like this, but remember, we’re dealing with actors here; every action must be performed, otherwise it might go unappreciated.)
“‘Lost in the Wilderness’! He’s going to be ‘Lost in the Slush Pile’!”
More giggling. More uproarious laughter. Meanwhile, my face is burning up.
I shift around on the floor, making sure MY sheet music for Stephen Schwartz’s “Lost in the Wilderness” stays out of view. This is the peril of picking a popular and well-known male solo. One, it’s been played to death. Two, lots of guys still continue to sing it. Since Hunter Foster first belted it at the Paper Mill Playhouse in New Jersey in the late nineties, every tenor has given “Lost in the Wilderness” a go at least once.
I’ve stuck with it for five years. Or it’s stuck to me. I connected with the song on so many levels: the music somewhat, but mostly the message. I was kicked out of my house when my parents found a copy of
Out
magazine in the back of my desk drawer; I felt just like Cain in this song, exiled from everything he knew and loved. My older sister proved to be my savior, letting me live out the remainder of my high school years with her in her tiny house in New Jersey. She had a piano that she never played—until I moved in with her. Then, every night before bed, she’d settle down at the upright and play “Lost in the Wilderness.” Naturally, I provided the vocals.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” another twin says. “There’s no chance any of us will get this stupid part. I heard Grant Majors already got called in for a private audition last night.”
“You serious? I turned down a backup dance gig in a music video shoot this morning for this audition!”
Grant Majors? Jesus. I didn’t know he was going for this part! He’s a shoo-in for the role—he’s already understudying one of the lead male dancers in
Mamma Mia!
, which is something every one of the guys on this line would dream of doing. He’s basically my role model, exactly who I want to be in a couple years, and he’s the
They call these “cattle calls” for a reason. Hundreds of actors crammed into a long hallway not at all unlike a yard full of cows. All of us mooing (or practicing scales—what’s the difference?), chewing cud, and swatting flies with our tails. Waiting for the slaughter.
I shouldn’t be so negative. It’s just that there are only so many of these things that you can take before you begin to wonder,
Am Iany good? Are they really considering us?
Every once in a while, Stanford, my recently acquired agent, lands me a private audition. Just me, the casting director, and a piano, plus maybe a few assistants. There aren’t hundreds of my long-lost twins just beyond the door, bragging about recent close calls. Nobody mooing but me.
Unfortunately, I’ve blown most of those private auditions too. So here I sit. And wait. And warm up. Just like the rest of the herd.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, do you hear that? Who the fuck sings ‘Lost in the Wilderness’?” one of my twins snorts.
I listen carefully. Shit. The boy in the audition room IS singing “Lost in the Wilderness.” The catty trio of doppelgangers breaks down into a loud fit of snorts and giggles, pulling their legs up to their chests as if they’re trying to keep themselves from peeing.
“Stephen Schwartz?” says triplet number two. “Really? Someone better tell her Stephen Schwartz hasn’t been a smart audition move since Rosie O’Donnell was hosting the Tonys!”
“And still using Tom Cruise as her beard!” closes out the third triplet. “What’s next? A one-man rendition of ‘Seasons of Love’?”
Now they’ve had it. This is the funniest thing they’ve experienced all year! They don’t even try to hold back the giggling. All bets are off, and they’re rolling around on the floor, kicking their legs up in the air, catching the attention of all my other twins lined up behind me. (I know no one actually laughs like this, but remember, we’re dealing with actors here; every action must be performed, otherwise it might go unappreciated.)
“‘Lost in the Wilderness’! He’s going to be ‘Lost in the Slush Pile’!”
More giggling. More uproarious laughter. Meanwhile, my face is burning up.
I shift around on the floor, making sure MY sheet music for Stephen Schwartz’s “Lost in the Wilderness” stays out of view. This is the peril of picking a popular and well-known male solo. One, it’s been played to death. Two, lots of guys still continue to sing it. Since Hunter Foster first belted it at the Paper Mill Playhouse in New Jersey in the late nineties, every tenor has given “Lost in the Wilderness” a go at least once.
I’ve stuck with it for five years. Or it’s stuck to me. I connected with the song on so many levels: the music somewhat, but mostly the message. I was kicked out of my house when my parents found a copy of
Out
magazine in the back of my desk drawer; I felt just like Cain in this song, exiled from everything he knew and loved. My older sister proved to be my savior, letting me live out the remainder of my high school years with her in her tiny house in New Jersey. She had a piano that she never played—until I moved in with her. Then, every night before bed, she’d settle down at the upright and play “Lost in the Wilderness.” Naturally, I provided the vocals.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” another twin says. “There’s no chance any of us will get this stupid part. I heard Grant Majors already got called in for a private audition last night.”
“You serious? I turned down a backup dance gig in a music video shoot this morning for this audition!”
Grant Majors? Jesus. I didn’t know he was going for this part! He’s a shoo-in for the role—he’s already understudying one of the lead male dancers in
Mamma Mia!
, which is something every one of the guys on this line would dream of doing. He’s basically my role model, exactly who I want to be in a couple years, and he’s the
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