One of my least favourite auditions of all time happened quite recently, whilst auditioning for an operetta. Things had gone reasonably well at my first audition and I had been asked to attend the recall, which would involve a ‘movement’ class. Sometimes, ‘movement’ classes mean just that – a brief, relatively simple routine, just to see how you can move – and it is an accepted truth that a lot of classical singers struggle with doing even movement, let alone a full blown dance routine. Unfortunately, the routine for this recall was neither brief, nor simple. And I was about to look like a prize idiot. I probably would have got the routine if I’d had a little time to get it in my head, but the choreographer was not going to make it easy for us. With half the room definitely dancers, and the other half singers, with maybe one or two who could manage both at the same time, a lot of people were struggling, and those who were not struggling, weren’t singing. Then, the choreographer muttered the immortal words that I was waiting for:
“Am I going too fast for anyone?”
There were quite a few relieved looks and a few mutterings in the affirmative.
“Oh well,” he carried on, “tough. I’m a c***.”
Why on earth I decided not to just walk out at this stage is beyond me. But I carried on to hear him tell us that what these women of the Nineteenth century really wanted was to be f*****. The suppressed feminist in me was beginning to unfurl. It was misogynistic and offensive. Imagine if you were at an interview to be a teacher or an accountant and your potential employer came out with, “Sorry I’m f***ing late, but that’s tough s***, I’m a c***. No, this man’s behaviour was really not on and something had to be said about it. It was - when I was eliminated after the movement class, and ranted all the way back to Baker Street about it, at two other girls who had also not made the cut.
The theatrical industry is full of people who swear a lot. It is sort of accepted that once you are in rehearsals, anything goes, but I do draw the line at being sworn at during an audition. This anecdote from Nicholas Hytner, artistic director of the National Theatre – another gem about Sir Michael Gambon, proves my point. Once in rehearsals, it’s all fair game:
“Gambon is a young spear-carrier in the newly founded National Theatre at the Old Vic, terrified (as are they all) of Olivier. He’s having breakfast one morning early in the canteen, all alone. Enter Sir Laurence. Gambon quakes. Sir Laurence realises he has to sit with Gambon, fraternise with the junior, do his bit as company leader. So he takes his coffee and sits at Gambon’s table, says good morning. Gambon quakes some more.
Desperate for something to talk about, Gambon sees that Sir Laurence is carrying an impressive leather document case, embossed in gold with the letters NORGE.
“Norge,” says Gambon.
“What?” says Sir Laurence.
“Norge, Sir Laurence,” says Gambon
“What the f*** are you talking about?” says Sir Laurence.
“On your case, Sir Laurence, it says Norge, Sir Laurence. That’s very interesting. Norge – it’s Norwegian for Norway, isn’t it. Did they give you that in Elsinore, Sir Laurence? For playing Hamlet?”
“Elsinore is in Denmark,” says Sir Laurence, gathering up his coffee. “And Hamlet was Danish. And you are a c***.”
Exit Sir Laurence.”
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
Thursday, 8 January 2009
Little Women, Big Egos...
“It was only one of those plays in which the actors, unfortunately, enunciated very clearly.” (Robert Benchley)
There have been many times over the last eight years that I have wondered why on earth I bother – with the acting thing, that is, not life in general. I don’t seem to like ‘the industry’ and what it represents. I don’t appear to have the killer instinct that is deemed necessary to make it, as I never seem to have the guts to really stand up for myself, or make a big enough noise to be noticed, and at many times, I think it would be much easier to have a small menagerie of children, live in a nice farmhouse somewhere and make greeting cards. It may be totally nauseating for some, but I love being a wife. I love looking after my husband and I think I would love looking after children too. Although having children probably makes auditioning for musicals seem like a walk in the park. But my current primary concern is that clearly, I am beginning to not care enough. I desperately want the audition, and then as soon as I get it, I begin to think of all the hassle there would be if I did get it; how it would ruin my nice evenings in front of the TV with my other half and I’d have to do some horrible commute into London every day. Then I don’t get the job, feel utterly useless and vow to assassinate all involved in the decision process.
Auditions are mostly shocking things to attend, due to the sheer volume of ego that exists in the waiting area, which is usually far too small an area to contain such vast self-importance. Rather too many people are doing their very best to bluster up to full pretension level, and talking FAR TOO LOUDLY about ALL THE WORK THEY’VE BEEN DOING. Excruciating – and frankly bloody annoying – who wants to listen to someone else doing well at anything? Famous joke:
“How many actors does it take to change a light bulb?
One hundred - one to change it, and ninety-nine to say, ‘I could have done it better’.”
But then, you do exactly the same when you spot somebody that you know, which makes you an equally offensive human being. Often when you go in, there will be a couple of people who say, “Good luck,” through clenched teeth, and maybe one or two who tell you how wonderful you were when you come out, whilst thinking – “Ha! You’re not going to get that job – it’s mine - all mine (insert evil laughter here).”
But sometimes, you have to blame the company for the way that an audition is structured. Once, a new musical of Little Women was advertised in The Stage – the industry’s newspaper, instructing people to send in their CVs.
I should at this point explain briefly about different auditions. A closed audition is when you – or more likely your agent - will usually have sent in your CV and photograph, and the casting people or director will request to see you to sing at a specific time. An open audition – usually for big shows and often dancers are found through this process – means that anyone essentially can turn up off the street and have a go. The queues for an open audition can be hours long and if it is for a West End show, you normally get to sing sixteen bars of music (about one page of a song).
So, back to Little Women and its advert: I sent my CV and photograph in (this was when I was sans-agent) and was e-mailed to say that I would be seen for an audition at 8.55am at the infamous Pineapple Studios (a dance studio near Covent Garden, where, as a singer, you were going to be humiliated anyway by the fact that there would always be a younger, thinner and more attractive girl bending her leg around her neck as you walked in). Good, I thought. The musical sounded like a good idea (although most musicals that sound like a good idea, probably are not. For example, the musical Fields of Ambrosia might have sounded like a good idea, but it was not – it was about a travelling executioner; similarly Out of the Blue - The Hiroshima Musical must have sounded like a good idea...) . I arrived full of beans to get ready to sing my song, when I saw quite a large queue of people outside. Oh dear, I thought. Those poor sods are obviously queuing for an open. I went to reception:
“Hello, I have a private audition,” I said smugly.
“For Little Women?” replied the receptionist.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Join the queue outside please”
What had happened was that this company in their wisdom had decided not to tell people that they were in fact attending an open. Everyone had been given the specific time of 8.55am.
Two hours later, we were then trooped in, in groups of about twenty, to sing in front of everyone else and they said there and then whether they wanted to recall you. When I sang, they asked me to come back for the recall. One would have thought that a newly-starting out, struggling performer would have been very pleased to be asked to be recalled. And then, for some reason, I said triumphantly that I was not prepared to hang around any longer, and I would not be attending the recall. The organisers shrugged and said fine. I left feeling pleased with my decision, and then about half way down the stairs, felt like a total prat – now I definitely wasn’t going to get the job.
I was slightly heartened though, to see that as I left, the queue had reached epic proportions, and there appeared to be some sort of riot going on with other auditionees berating the audition organisers for misleading us all. There were shouts of, “Disgrace!’ and “Equity (actor’s union) will hear about this!” Quite right, I thought, and made a hasty exit to the pub to drown my sorrows.
There have been many times over the last eight years that I have wondered why on earth I bother – with the acting thing, that is, not life in general. I don’t seem to like ‘the industry’ and what it represents. I don’t appear to have the killer instinct that is deemed necessary to make it, as I never seem to have the guts to really stand up for myself, or make a big enough noise to be noticed, and at many times, I think it would be much easier to have a small menagerie of children, live in a nice farmhouse somewhere and make greeting cards. It may be totally nauseating for some, but I love being a wife. I love looking after my husband and I think I would love looking after children too. Although having children probably makes auditioning for musicals seem like a walk in the park. But my current primary concern is that clearly, I am beginning to not care enough. I desperately want the audition, and then as soon as I get it, I begin to think of all the hassle there would be if I did get it; how it would ruin my nice evenings in front of the TV with my other half and I’d have to do some horrible commute into London every day. Then I don’t get the job, feel utterly useless and vow to assassinate all involved in the decision process.
Auditions are mostly shocking things to attend, due to the sheer volume of ego that exists in the waiting area, which is usually far too small an area to contain such vast self-importance. Rather too many people are doing their very best to bluster up to full pretension level, and talking FAR TOO LOUDLY about ALL THE WORK THEY’VE BEEN DOING. Excruciating – and frankly bloody annoying – who wants to listen to someone else doing well at anything? Famous joke:
“How many actors does it take to change a light bulb?
One hundred - one to change it, and ninety-nine to say, ‘I could have done it better’.”
But then, you do exactly the same when you spot somebody that you know, which makes you an equally offensive human being. Often when you go in, there will be a couple of people who say, “Good luck,” through clenched teeth, and maybe one or two who tell you how wonderful you were when you come out, whilst thinking – “Ha! You’re not going to get that job – it’s mine - all mine (insert evil laughter here).”
But sometimes, you have to blame the company for the way that an audition is structured. Once, a new musical of Little Women was advertised in The Stage – the industry’s newspaper, instructing people to send in their CVs.
I should at this point explain briefly about different auditions. A closed audition is when you – or more likely your agent - will usually have sent in your CV and photograph, and the casting people or director will request to see you to sing at a specific time. An open audition – usually for big shows and often dancers are found through this process – means that anyone essentially can turn up off the street and have a go. The queues for an open audition can be hours long and if it is for a West End show, you normally get to sing sixteen bars of music (about one page of a song).
So, back to Little Women and its advert: I sent my CV and photograph in (this was when I was sans-agent) and was e-mailed to say that I would be seen for an audition at 8.55am at the infamous Pineapple Studios (a dance studio near Covent Garden, where, as a singer, you were going to be humiliated anyway by the fact that there would always be a younger, thinner and more attractive girl bending her leg around her neck as you walked in). Good, I thought. The musical sounded like a good idea (although most musicals that sound like a good idea, probably are not. For example, the musical Fields of Ambrosia might have sounded like a good idea, but it was not – it was about a travelling executioner; similarly Out of the Blue - The Hiroshima Musical must have sounded like a good idea...) . I arrived full of beans to get ready to sing my song, when I saw quite a large queue of people outside. Oh dear, I thought. Those poor sods are obviously queuing for an open. I went to reception:
“Hello, I have a private audition,” I said smugly.
“For Little Women?” replied the receptionist.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Join the queue outside please”
What had happened was that this company in their wisdom had decided not to tell people that they were in fact attending an open. Everyone had been given the specific time of 8.55am.
Two hours later, we were then trooped in, in groups of about twenty, to sing in front of everyone else and they said there and then whether they wanted to recall you. When I sang, they asked me to come back for the recall. One would have thought that a newly-starting out, struggling performer would have been very pleased to be asked to be recalled. And then, for some reason, I said triumphantly that I was not prepared to hang around any longer, and I would not be attending the recall. The organisers shrugged and said fine. I left feeling pleased with my decision, and then about half way down the stairs, felt like a total prat – now I definitely wasn’t going to get the job.
I was slightly heartened though, to see that as I left, the queue had reached epic proportions, and there appeared to be some sort of riot going on with other auditionees berating the audition organisers for misleading us all. There were shouts of, “Disgrace!’ and “Equity (actor’s union) will hear about this!” Quite right, I thought, and made a hasty exit to the pub to drown my sorrows.
Friday, 7 November 2008
Gamboning in Wales
It would be really excellent if I could say that I learnt very well from the experience I wrote about last week about my disastrous audition in Bromley where I lost the plot on the telephone to me father, and never again have I become utterly hysterical whilst driving in my car. Sadly not. The experience was repeated a few years later when I was driving to a recording session in Wales. I was in plenty of time and was quite clear about where I was going. That was not the problem. As I got closer to the Welsh border, I saw that I was running a bit low on the petrol front. I decided to pull into a service station and it was as I pulled up to the pump that I suddenly realised that I could not remember putting my wallet into my bag. I started to root around, but to no avail. I suddenly realised that I knew exactly where it was. It was in the pocket of my other coat back at my house in Banbury.
Bugger.
Now, why on earth I did what I did next is mystifying. I decided I had better carry on with my journey and try to get to my destination on what little petrol I had left - my reasoning being that as they were paying me in cash, if I got there, I could just use some of my earnings. So I left the petrol station having not filled up, and carried on with my journey. However, no sooner had I left the petrol station than my petrol light came on, and the onset of panic arrived. Then I realised that I had completely forgotten about the £4 toll charge at the Severn Bridge to get me into Wales. The panic tightened around my chest and I began to feel sick. I telephoned Michael, my husband who was at home, with my wallet. I was – once again – hysterical:
“I’ve…(sob)…left…my…wallet…in…my coat…and…I’ve…no…petrol…and…(sob)…I can’t…pay…the…toll.”
“Why are you crying?” said Michael.
I think the reason I was crying was that I had decided that without any money, I was going to be arrested and would end up running out of petrol, missing the recording and having to sit there whilst Mike drove to Wales to bring me my purse and release me from police custody. The Severn Bridge was approaching. I was still hysterically crying. I rang off from Michael and prepared to meet my fate:
“Oh, whatever’s the matter dear?” said the woman at the kiosk.
Response: hysterical sobbing and whimpering about not having my wallet and running out of petrol and my wallet being with my husband in Banbury, etcetera, etcetera.
“Oh dear,” she said, “You’ve got yourself into quite a state, haven’t you? Go on – on your go. Don’t worry about the four pounds. Now I’m sure if you go to the petrol station and get your husband to give your bank card details over the phone, they’ll be able to process the payment for your petrol.”
Oh right. Well that seemed simple enough. What a lovely lady. I got back on the phone to husband and explained the situation:
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? What a nice woman. Why are you still crying?”
By this stage, all was lost. I went into the petrol station, and despite the fact that a solution had been found, I was, once again, unable to be consoled. The pre-pubescent cashiers processed the transaction as I blubbered my way through my card details, looking at me as if I had completely lost the plot – which frankly I had.
The following is an extract from Gambon: A Life in Acting, by Sir Michael himself, to show that even the very best of the profession can sometimes get themselves into a little bit of a pickle, which makes me feel a little better about the Bromley/Wales debacle:
“There’s a bit of a prima donna in me. I was playing Oscar Wilde in a three-part television adaptation about his life. We were shooting a scene down in Bristol. They wrapped about four o’clock and were supposed to go to Oxford. I was not happy with the scripts, so I was in a state anyway. We went back to the hotel; I was still dressed as Oscar Wilde – full make up, big black wig and Edwardian clothes, boots, silk cravat, a silver-tipped cane. I got back to the hotel and my room had been let and my civilian clothes had been lost. So I threw a moody. I ran through the streets of Bristol dressed as Oscar Wilde with the production manager chasing after me in his car. I managed to get away from him by leaping over the central barrier of a motorway that runs through the middle of Bristol. I crossed the motorway as Oscar Wilde, went into the main station and bought a first-class ticket to London. And all the while I was shouting obscenities at this man whenever he caught up with me.
I got into the train and went to London as Oscar Wilde. I was dying with unhappiness. I went into the buffet car and got completely pissed. When I got to Paddington station, the BBC big boys were at the barrier, waiting. The anger had died in the train, but when I got to the barrier, I managed to get it back up again, and I threatened to kill them. I handed the inspector the ticket, and I ran, and they ran after me. I jumped into a cab and went home. And by that time I was in deep shit. You know you do these terrible things, and they get worse and worse, and you regret it, but you won’t give in...”
Bugger.
Now, why on earth I did what I did next is mystifying. I decided I had better carry on with my journey and try to get to my destination on what little petrol I had left - my reasoning being that as they were paying me in cash, if I got there, I could just use some of my earnings. So I left the petrol station having not filled up, and carried on with my journey. However, no sooner had I left the petrol station than my petrol light came on, and the onset of panic arrived. Then I realised that I had completely forgotten about the £4 toll charge at the Severn Bridge to get me into Wales. The panic tightened around my chest and I began to feel sick. I telephoned Michael, my husband who was at home, with my wallet. I was – once again – hysterical:
“I’ve…(sob)…left…my…wallet…in…my coat…and…I’ve…no…petrol…and…(sob)…I can’t…pay…the…toll.”
“Why are you crying?” said Michael.
I think the reason I was crying was that I had decided that without any money, I was going to be arrested and would end up running out of petrol, missing the recording and having to sit there whilst Mike drove to Wales to bring me my purse and release me from police custody. The Severn Bridge was approaching. I was still hysterically crying. I rang off from Michael and prepared to meet my fate:
“Oh, whatever’s the matter dear?” said the woman at the kiosk.
Response: hysterical sobbing and whimpering about not having my wallet and running out of petrol and my wallet being with my husband in Banbury, etcetera, etcetera.
“Oh dear,” she said, “You’ve got yourself into quite a state, haven’t you? Go on – on your go. Don’t worry about the four pounds. Now I’m sure if you go to the petrol station and get your husband to give your bank card details over the phone, they’ll be able to process the payment for your petrol.”
Oh right. Well that seemed simple enough. What a lovely lady. I got back on the phone to husband and explained the situation:
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? What a nice woman. Why are you still crying?”
By this stage, all was lost. I went into the petrol station, and despite the fact that a solution had been found, I was, once again, unable to be consoled. The pre-pubescent cashiers processed the transaction as I blubbered my way through my card details, looking at me as if I had completely lost the plot – which frankly I had.
The following is an extract from Gambon: A Life in Acting, by Sir Michael himself, to show that even the very best of the profession can sometimes get themselves into a little bit of a pickle, which makes me feel a little better about the Bromley/Wales debacle:
“There’s a bit of a prima donna in me. I was playing Oscar Wilde in a three-part television adaptation about his life. We were shooting a scene down in Bristol. They wrapped about four o’clock and were supposed to go to Oxford. I was not happy with the scripts, so I was in a state anyway. We went back to the hotel; I was still dressed as Oscar Wilde – full make up, big black wig and Edwardian clothes, boots, silk cravat, a silver-tipped cane. I got back to the hotel and my room had been let and my civilian clothes had been lost. So I threw a moody. I ran through the streets of Bristol dressed as Oscar Wilde with the production manager chasing after me in his car. I managed to get away from him by leaping over the central barrier of a motorway that runs through the middle of Bristol. I crossed the motorway as Oscar Wilde, went into the main station and bought a first-class ticket to London. And all the while I was shouting obscenities at this man whenever he caught up with me.
I got into the train and went to London as Oscar Wilde. I was dying with unhappiness. I went into the buffet car and got completely pissed. When I got to Paddington station, the BBC big boys were at the barrier, waiting. The anger had died in the train, but when I got to the barrier, I managed to get it back up again, and I threatened to kill them. I handed the inspector the ticket, and I ran, and they ran after me. I jumped into a cab and went home. And by that time I was in deep shit. You know you do these terrible things, and they get worse and worse, and you regret it, but you won’t give in...”
Thursday, 11 September 2008
Tears of a Clown...
My introduction to the world of musical theatre had been at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane in about 1984, and the production was 42nd Street. I thought it was wonderful - people tap-dancing on coins, gorgeous dresses, handsome men and wonderful songs. One of the main concepts of 42nd Street as a musical, is the show within a show. In 42nd Street, during the show within the show, the character that the male lead is playing gets shot. Well, for me, at the age of six, this was devastating, mainly because I thought they had really killed him. It took many months of therapy to get over that one. They do say that most people’s fundamental traumas occur in the first seven years of their life (source: actually, I’ve made that up, but I bet it is probably true). But really, I should have seen what 42nd Street was trying to teach me: the show within a show. There I was trying to get onstage and I didn’t realise that I was doing very well creating a totally self-induced, idiotic drama of my own.
One summer a few years ago, I was scheduled to have an audition in Bromley, South London, for a nice little opera company, who were doing a production of The Marriage of Figaro. I had been asked to prepare Susannah’s aria Deh Vieni Non Tardar. For those of you who are not familiar with this piece, it is meant to be coquettish, flirtatious and alluring. I was about to show the audition panel how I was precisely none of the above.
For some reason I decided I was going to drive to the audition. I was at the time living in South Bucks, and it was a forty minute drive around the M25. My audition was at 4.30pm. I left with plenty of time and merrily began my journey. I had done a clear and succinct route planner and printed it off from the computer (this was also pre-sat-nav – not that I have that now either) and knew that I had to come off at junction 4 of the M25.
I suppose at this stage I should hold my hands up to something, and say that my sense of direction has never been quite what you might call, accurate. I am in fact the person who once got lost in their own village, ended up walking six miles in the wrong direction and had to get my sister to come out and find me and a terrified yellow Labrador, in the car. However, I do feel I have some defence in the events that followed.
Some of you may be aware that the at junction 5 of the M25, the motorway splits and if you go left, you carry on the M25 and if you bear right you go onto the M26 down towards Dover. Well, I stand firmly by the fact that this was not clearly indicated. When I got to junction, I got very confused. I didn’t know which way I was supposed to go, and suffice to say, I chose to go on the M26, rather than correctly remaining on the M25. A slight panic hit me, but then I thought, no matter, I’ve still got loads of time; I’ll just go to the next junction and then come back. Then I saw a sign Next junction 18 miles. Bugger.
This can still be done, I decided positively. I put my foot down slightly and carried on in my Renault 5 as fast as I could: not very. I finally got to the next junction, where I then had another eighteen miles to get back. Time was ticking on. I decided it was time to phone the audition panel. Was there any chance that I could be seen a little later as I was having a few traffic problems? Unfortunately not, as I was the final audition of the day. No problem, I said. I’ll be there.
I steamed back up the M26 and got back to the M25 junction. But now, the junctions were all different and I must admit, I got confused. I decided I had better just come off at the first junction I came to and Croydon was probably pretty near Bromley, and somehow I’d find my way. This was nothing short of a dreadful idea. I now had no route planner to follow and I was incapable of reading maps. The situation was getting a little desperate, and it was at this stage that I phoned my Dad. I got on the phone and instructed him to get on the internet and find where I was. This was in the days before Broadband, so as he struggled to get his computer connected, I just carried on driving in what I thought might be the right direction.
“OK,” said Dad, “I’m on. Where are you?”
“Dean Street,” I replied.
“OK. Hang on.”
A minute of two passed.
“Right,” said Dad, “I’ve got Dean Street.”
“Well, I’m not there anymore. I’m on Parsons Road now.”
“OK. Hang on.”
“Right. You need to turn left out of Parsons Road…”
“I’m not on Parsons Road any more.”
This carried on for about ten minutes, until Dad suggested that perhaps I stopped so that he could find my positioning for definite. It was at this stage that I decided the only thing left to do was to break down in tears.
“(amidst considerable sobbing) This… is… the… biggest… audition… of… my… life… and… I’m… not… going… to… make… it,” I spluttered.
Now my Father has never been the best at seeing his daughters upset and at this stage, he felt the only thing left was if he broke down too:
“Oh God Jessie, I love you!”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Anyone would have thought I was about to meet my Maker, rather than attend an audition for a minor English opera company. The crying carried on and I decided to get back on the road and phone the company. They told me, in no uncertain terms, that they were now waiting for me, and if I was not there in the next ten minutes, they were going to go home as it was getting near the end of the day and they were getting tired.
“I’ll be there! I’ll be there!” I assured them. “Please just hang on!”
I then got back on the phone to Dad.
“(More considerable sobbing) They… say… they’re… going… to…go… home… if… I… don’t… make… it…soon.”
“Get off the road Jessica. You’re hysterical.”
It was at that stage that the magic sign reading Bromley appeared before my eyes. I suddenly had a very dim recollection of where I was (shockingly, I had actually made this journey before for some reason – even more pathetically astounding, therefore, that I could not remember any of the route to get there). I picked up where I was on my route planner, and realised somehow I was only a mile or so away. It was 4.50pm. Maybe I could still make it. My stress levels were not in a good way and I was still crying, but I could show them that I was reliable and I would make it.
I arrived at the church where it was taking place and saw the pianist, who I happened to have worked with before.
“Hi,” I said, trying to look bright and breezy, and then promptly broke down in floods of tears again. The pianist suggested that I took a few minutes. I went to the bathroom. What little make-up was left on my eyes, was half-way down my face. I looked a total mess.
Finally, just before 5pm, I went in to sing my piece. They had waited an extra half an hour to hear me, so I had better be good.
“Hi,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “Thanks so much for waiting. I’d… like…to…sing… (sob, sob) Deh… Vieni… (sniff, sob) Non… Tardar from The…Marriage… Of… Figaro.”
The music started and I began my aria. Tears streamed down my face. God knows what was coming out of my nose and my ears were blocked. Flirtatious and sexy this was not. Catastrophic and humiliating – those boxes were definitely ticked. I didn’t even get to the end of the aria, when the director said those immortal words:
“Thank you very much Jess. I think that’s all we need to hear for now.”
I bet it was.
Note to self: If you have an audition and you are feeling a bit ill, or, as in this case, you’ve pretty much lost the plot, don’t go. They’ll think you’re an idiot. They don’t want to hear excuses, and they’ll probably never want to see you again.
One summer a few years ago, I was scheduled to have an audition in Bromley, South London, for a nice little opera company, who were doing a production of The Marriage of Figaro. I had been asked to prepare Susannah’s aria Deh Vieni Non Tardar. For those of you who are not familiar with this piece, it is meant to be coquettish, flirtatious and alluring. I was about to show the audition panel how I was precisely none of the above.
For some reason I decided I was going to drive to the audition. I was at the time living in South Bucks, and it was a forty minute drive around the M25. My audition was at 4.30pm. I left with plenty of time and merrily began my journey. I had done a clear and succinct route planner and printed it off from the computer (this was also pre-sat-nav – not that I have that now either) and knew that I had to come off at junction 4 of the M25.
I suppose at this stage I should hold my hands up to something, and say that my sense of direction has never been quite what you might call, accurate. I am in fact the person who once got lost in their own village, ended up walking six miles in the wrong direction and had to get my sister to come out and find me and a terrified yellow Labrador, in the car. However, I do feel I have some defence in the events that followed.
Some of you may be aware that the at junction 5 of the M25, the motorway splits and if you go left, you carry on the M25 and if you bear right you go onto the M26 down towards Dover. Well, I stand firmly by the fact that this was not clearly indicated. When I got to junction, I got very confused. I didn’t know which way I was supposed to go, and suffice to say, I chose to go on the M26, rather than correctly remaining on the M25. A slight panic hit me, but then I thought, no matter, I’ve still got loads of time; I’ll just go to the next junction and then come back. Then I saw a sign Next junction 18 miles. Bugger.
This can still be done, I decided positively. I put my foot down slightly and carried on in my Renault 5 as fast as I could: not very. I finally got to the next junction, where I then had another eighteen miles to get back. Time was ticking on. I decided it was time to phone the audition panel. Was there any chance that I could be seen a little later as I was having a few traffic problems? Unfortunately not, as I was the final audition of the day. No problem, I said. I’ll be there.
I steamed back up the M26 and got back to the M25 junction. But now, the junctions were all different and I must admit, I got confused. I decided I had better just come off at the first junction I came to and Croydon was probably pretty near Bromley, and somehow I’d find my way. This was nothing short of a dreadful idea. I now had no route planner to follow and I was incapable of reading maps. The situation was getting a little desperate, and it was at this stage that I phoned my Dad. I got on the phone and instructed him to get on the internet and find where I was. This was in the days before Broadband, so as he struggled to get his computer connected, I just carried on driving in what I thought might be the right direction.
“OK,” said Dad, “I’m on. Where are you?”
“Dean Street,” I replied.
“OK. Hang on.”
A minute of two passed.
“Right,” said Dad, “I’ve got Dean Street.”
“Well, I’m not there anymore. I’m on Parsons Road now.”
“OK. Hang on.”
“Right. You need to turn left out of Parsons Road…”
“I’m not on Parsons Road any more.”
This carried on for about ten minutes, until Dad suggested that perhaps I stopped so that he could find my positioning for definite. It was at this stage that I decided the only thing left to do was to break down in tears.
“(amidst considerable sobbing) This… is… the… biggest… audition… of… my… life… and… I’m… not… going… to… make… it,” I spluttered.
Now my Father has never been the best at seeing his daughters upset and at this stage, he felt the only thing left was if he broke down too:
“Oh God Jessie, I love you!”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Anyone would have thought I was about to meet my Maker, rather than attend an audition for a minor English opera company. The crying carried on and I decided to get back on the road and phone the company. They told me, in no uncertain terms, that they were now waiting for me, and if I was not there in the next ten minutes, they were going to go home as it was getting near the end of the day and they were getting tired.
“I’ll be there! I’ll be there!” I assured them. “Please just hang on!”
I then got back on the phone to Dad.
“(More considerable sobbing) They… say… they’re… going… to…go… home… if… I… don’t… make… it…soon.”
“Get off the road Jessica. You’re hysterical.”
It was at that stage that the magic sign reading Bromley appeared before my eyes. I suddenly had a very dim recollection of where I was (shockingly, I had actually made this journey before for some reason – even more pathetically astounding, therefore, that I could not remember any of the route to get there). I picked up where I was on my route planner, and realised somehow I was only a mile or so away. It was 4.50pm. Maybe I could still make it. My stress levels were not in a good way and I was still crying, but I could show them that I was reliable and I would make it.
I arrived at the church where it was taking place and saw the pianist, who I happened to have worked with before.
“Hi,” I said, trying to look bright and breezy, and then promptly broke down in floods of tears again. The pianist suggested that I took a few minutes. I went to the bathroom. What little make-up was left on my eyes, was half-way down my face. I looked a total mess.
Finally, just before 5pm, I went in to sing my piece. They had waited an extra half an hour to hear me, so I had better be good.
“Hi,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “Thanks so much for waiting. I’d… like…to…sing… (sob, sob) Deh… Vieni… (sniff, sob) Non… Tardar from The…Marriage… Of… Figaro.”
The music started and I began my aria. Tears streamed down my face. God knows what was coming out of my nose and my ears were blocked. Flirtatious and sexy this was not. Catastrophic and humiliating – those boxes were definitely ticked. I didn’t even get to the end of the aria, when the director said those immortal words:
“Thank you very much Jess. I think that’s all we need to hear for now.”
I bet it was.
Note to self: If you have an audition and you are feeling a bit ill, or, as in this case, you’ve pretty much lost the plot, don’t go. They’ll think you’re an idiot. They don’t want to hear excuses, and they’ll probably never want to see you again.
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
Cats, Cats & Agents
“(Her)…singing was something between that of a rat drowning, a lavatory flushing and a hyena devouring her after-birth in the Appalachian Mountains under a full moon.” (Auberon Waugh)
My first ever agent was quite extraordinary. He lived in Charing Cross with his partner, and their cat, Maude. This cat was probably the biggest cat I have ever seen. It was enormously fat, but I adored cats, and won favour with this agent in my interview as apparently, Maude liked me, and that was pretty rare. I cannot remember much about that interview except him saying that I should send in a demo tape of me singing, get some new photos and we’d get me auditions for some big West End shows. Fabulous – this was all going very well. I left on a high, thinking I had overcome one of the first hurdles of the theatre world and I had secured myself an agent within a few months of starting out in the industry. The following day I sent in – admittedly a slightly poor quality, but nonetheless passable – demo tape of me doing a variety of opera, operetta, musical theatre and jazz. A few days later, I phoned up my new agent for his verdict:
“Shit. You can’t sing,” my agent stated.
Ah, well, that could be a bit of a problem, as that was really what I was pinning my hopes on in terms of getting work.
“No,” he said. “You’re never going to work as a singer. Your voice is dreadful.”
I put the phone down – a little shell-shocked to say the least. Maybe I was kidding myself – maybe my friends and family were being X-Factor blind, and actually I couldn’t hold a tune. I thought about it over the weekend and decided I should be brave and phone him back and see why he didn’t like it. I dialled in trepidation:
“Hello”, I squeaked.
“Who’s this?”
“Um…it’s Jess Plumridge (my maiden name).”
“Who?”
“(Losing confidence rapidly) Jess Plumridge. I’m one of your clients.”
“Fuck off, it’s Monday.”
Right, well that probably wasn’t what I would call a resounding success. Any self-respecting individual would have walked away at that point, but the terrier (read: desperado) in me wanted to try once more. I left it a few days and then dialled again, trying to sound like I wasn’t terrified out of my wits.
“Hello. It’s Jess Plumridge calling. I sent you my demo last week”, I said, trying to sound mature and like the sort of person who should be hired for leading roles in The Bill.
“Ah yes. Plumridge, Plumridge. Yes. Got your demo. Brilliant. Love it. I’ve put you up for Cats.”
“Oh right. Um…I can’t really dance.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
From what I’d heard from people who have auditioned for Cats, it bloody well did matter.
“Er…right…ok. But I mean I’m really not a dancer.”
“I’ve put you up for the singing role.”
“But that’s a mezzo soprano role.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’m a soprano.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
“But you have to belt an E.” (For non-musicals fans, this is the big note in the song Memory and was way out of my comfort/nice to listen to zone)
“Yes?”
“Well, I can’t.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh right. OK. Thanks.”
As it happened, it didn’t matter. Cats never saw me. In fact, no audition I was ever put up for through him ever saw me. I later heard from a casting director that as soon as anything came from my agent in the post, it would be thrown in the bin immediately. To be honest, that was probably a better option than me actually ever having to attend an audition for Cats.
My first ever agent was quite extraordinary. He lived in Charing Cross with his partner, and their cat, Maude. This cat was probably the biggest cat I have ever seen. It was enormously fat, but I adored cats, and won favour with this agent in my interview as apparently, Maude liked me, and that was pretty rare. I cannot remember much about that interview except him saying that I should send in a demo tape of me singing, get some new photos and we’d get me auditions for some big West End shows. Fabulous – this was all going very well. I left on a high, thinking I had overcome one of the first hurdles of the theatre world and I had secured myself an agent within a few months of starting out in the industry. The following day I sent in – admittedly a slightly poor quality, but nonetheless passable – demo tape of me doing a variety of opera, operetta, musical theatre and jazz. A few days later, I phoned up my new agent for his verdict:
“Shit. You can’t sing,” my agent stated.
Ah, well, that could be a bit of a problem, as that was really what I was pinning my hopes on in terms of getting work.
“No,” he said. “You’re never going to work as a singer. Your voice is dreadful.”
I put the phone down – a little shell-shocked to say the least. Maybe I was kidding myself – maybe my friends and family were being X-Factor blind, and actually I couldn’t hold a tune. I thought about it over the weekend and decided I should be brave and phone him back and see why he didn’t like it. I dialled in trepidation:
“Hello”, I squeaked.
“Who’s this?”
“Um…it’s Jess Plumridge (my maiden name).”
“Who?”
“(Losing confidence rapidly) Jess Plumridge. I’m one of your clients.”
“Fuck off, it’s Monday.”
Right, well that probably wasn’t what I would call a resounding success. Any self-respecting individual would have walked away at that point, but the terrier (read: desperado) in me wanted to try once more. I left it a few days and then dialled again, trying to sound like I wasn’t terrified out of my wits.
“Hello. It’s Jess Plumridge calling. I sent you my demo last week”, I said, trying to sound mature and like the sort of person who should be hired for leading roles in The Bill.
“Ah yes. Plumridge, Plumridge. Yes. Got your demo. Brilliant. Love it. I’ve put you up for Cats.”
“Oh right. Um…I can’t really dance.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
From what I’d heard from people who have auditioned for Cats, it bloody well did matter.
“Er…right…ok. But I mean I’m really not a dancer.”
“I’ve put you up for the singing role.”
“But that’s a mezzo soprano role.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’m a soprano.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
“But you have to belt an E.” (For non-musicals fans, this is the big note in the song Memory and was way out of my comfort/nice to listen to zone)
“Yes?”
“Well, I can’t.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh right. OK. Thanks.”
As it happened, it didn’t matter. Cats never saw me. In fact, no audition I was ever put up for through him ever saw me. I later heard from a casting director that as soon as anything came from my agent in the post, it would be thrown in the bin immediately. To be honest, that was probably a better option than me actually ever having to attend an audition for Cats.
Thursday, 17 July 2008
The Stupid Bat...
When I left university, my best friend and I decided we would try the acting malarkey together. One of the first things we went for – and both got - was an unpaid Sunday night at the London Palladium job. In fact, I believe we had to pay £30 for the privilege of being in the show and wearing the horrendous show t-shirt. Hmmm. Something wasn’t quite right; I thought this was my job. And that meant getting paid. But we all have to start somewhere, and I was happy to have an opportunity to be on such a wonderful, enormous stage and to do some singing and to work with professionals. Or so I thought. The rehearsals were mind-numbing to say the least, with the organisers mostly calling all 130 or so performers to the whole day’s rehearsal, and then obviously not using half of them for the whole day. It didn’t fill me with confidence. In fact, it was tedious in the extreme.
The main piece that I was involved in was a famous trio from the musical Sweet Charity, and this seemed to involve a lot of extra rehearsal, most of which seem to consist of being yelled at for ‘carrying plates’; in other words, don’t walk about the stage with your palms out. Fair enough – I’m not sure it needed an extra three hours a week just for that, but what did I know? I was only starting out. But the rehearsals were really endless and having spent the first month working on only the very first line of the song, I was beginning to worry.
The particular rehearsal that sticks in my mind was in Guildford, in an old church hall with a very high beamed ceiling. For various reasons, the other two girls in my trio were both running very late, so it was me and the director and her son-in-law, who was sent out to get coffee. Whilst he was out, she began to ask me about my stage experience. Summoning up as much of a professional stance as I could, I began to tell her of my various triumphs, when, suddenly, we both heard a squeak. I must say, it sounded like an animal of some sort. The director looked around from her seat at the table and the squeak sounded again:
“Oh my God!” she screeched. “There’s a bird, a poor little bird, and he’s stuck in the roof”.
“Hmmm…it does sound like it,” I replied.
We listened intently. Nothing. And so we decided to continue with my non-plate carrying development work.
“No,” she yelled, leaning on the table, “That’s not how it should be done!”
SQUEAK!
There it was again.
“The bird…the bird!” She was becoming apoplectic in her concern.
SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!
And then it dawned on me. It wasn’t a bird at all. The stupid bat was making the squeaking noise. It was coming from her table. Every time she leaned on it, the squeak would be heard:
“Right,” she announced, “you’ll have to get a ladder and climb into the roof and get the bird out.”
And apparently there was no another option. As I stated before, the ceiling was pretty high – I’d say a good 20-30 feet up. There was no way in hell I was scaling some flimsy step-ladder to go and see if there was a non-existent baby bird in the roof. The thought of mountaineering a feeble step ladder to go and see what rodents, bats and birds actually were in the roof – I’m sure they would have been plenty – was not an option. There was nothing else for it; I would have to tell her that she was making the squeaking noise. I began to speak:
“Actually…I...think it might be coming from…erm…your table.”
“What?” she snapped.
“Yes,” I stammered, “I think you’re making the noise when you push on the table”.
“Don’t be so stupid,” she replied.
That told me.
It was at this opportune moment that the son-in-law with coffee returned, along with my fellow performers. Stupid Bat started her protestations to him of how there was a baby bird trapped in the roof, and he had to go and find a ladder. So off he went, whilst we took what was left of the rehearsal to practice non-plate carrying. I left the rehearsal at 9pm to see the son-in-law returning with a ladder and a grumpy-looking caretaker. I must confess I walked past silently, smirking. Shame on me.
The main piece that I was involved in was a famous trio from the musical Sweet Charity, and this seemed to involve a lot of extra rehearsal, most of which seem to consist of being yelled at for ‘carrying plates’; in other words, don’t walk about the stage with your palms out. Fair enough – I’m not sure it needed an extra three hours a week just for that, but what did I know? I was only starting out. But the rehearsals were really endless and having spent the first month working on only the very first line of the song, I was beginning to worry.
The particular rehearsal that sticks in my mind was in Guildford, in an old church hall with a very high beamed ceiling. For various reasons, the other two girls in my trio were both running very late, so it was me and the director and her son-in-law, who was sent out to get coffee. Whilst he was out, she began to ask me about my stage experience. Summoning up as much of a professional stance as I could, I began to tell her of my various triumphs, when, suddenly, we both heard a squeak. I must say, it sounded like an animal of some sort. The director looked around from her seat at the table and the squeak sounded again:
“Oh my God!” she screeched. “There’s a bird, a poor little bird, and he’s stuck in the roof”.
“Hmmm…it does sound like it,” I replied.
We listened intently. Nothing. And so we decided to continue with my non-plate carrying development work.
“No,” she yelled, leaning on the table, “That’s not how it should be done!”
SQUEAK!
There it was again.
“The bird…the bird!” She was becoming apoplectic in her concern.
SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!
And then it dawned on me. It wasn’t a bird at all. The stupid bat was making the squeaking noise. It was coming from her table. Every time she leaned on it, the squeak would be heard:
“Right,” she announced, “you’ll have to get a ladder and climb into the roof and get the bird out.”
And apparently there was no another option. As I stated before, the ceiling was pretty high – I’d say a good 20-30 feet up. There was no way in hell I was scaling some flimsy step-ladder to go and see if there was a non-existent baby bird in the roof. The thought of mountaineering a feeble step ladder to go and see what rodents, bats and birds actually were in the roof – I’m sure they would have been plenty – was not an option. There was nothing else for it; I would have to tell her that she was making the squeaking noise. I began to speak:
“Actually…I...think it might be coming from…erm…your table.”
“What?” she snapped.
“Yes,” I stammered, “I think you’re making the noise when you push on the table”.
“Don’t be so stupid,” she replied.
That told me.
It was at this opportune moment that the son-in-law with coffee returned, along with my fellow performers. Stupid Bat started her protestations to him of how there was a baby bird trapped in the roof, and he had to go and find a ladder. So off he went, whilst we took what was left of the rehearsal to practice non-plate carrying. I left the rehearsal at 9pm to see the son-in-law returning with a ladder and a grumpy-looking caretaker. I must confess I walked past silently, smirking. Shame on me.
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
First night...
So, here it is. After years of having no idea how the internet works, I have finally succumbed to a blog. We all know we live in an age of celebrity. We all know we live in an age where children don't want to grow up to be a train driver, a teacher or even an astronaut - they want to be famous. We all watch the X Factor, Pop Idol, searches for soap stars, musical stars and dance stars. We see the winners. We don't really think about what happens to those who don't win.
Well, I'm afraid they do exist - and here I am - one of theatreland's losers. In all my glory. Now, let's see how in God's name that happened...
As a child, I didn’t want to be an actress. I wanted to be a farmer. I thought being a farmer would be very romantic, and rural, and I would have a chance to be with lots of lovely animals. Being an actress only came in third place, after farming and writing. But that was ok – it was third choice for Tom Cruise too – after wanting to be a priest and a wrestler. Over the past twelve years of being in the theatrical industry, I have managed to accumulate an alarming number of humiliating moments, during auditions and performances. So, there has to have been some point to me remaining an out of work performer, and that has been so that I could memoir my degradation in this little blog, with the fine assistance of some of my colleagues and anecdotes from some of the true greats of our industry. Now, back to being a farmer…
I fully understood that being a farmer required a lot of early mornings and was probably extremely hard work, but I felt that that I would be able to cope. Who could baulk at a bit of mucking out and dawn risings if they had a chance to look out over stables, fields and a courtyard? It was all set.
But then I came to the real problem: farms have to have a pond – any self-respecting farm would always have a pond. It is part of farm life to have a pond of a fair size, with ducks, a pair of geese and maybe a swan would fly in on occasion. If that was all that dwelt in a pond, I would have been fine. But there are other things lurking in ponds - undesirables - a pond meant frogs. Since I can remember, these small, some might say cute (these people are wrong) amphibians had been the bane of my life. I was terrified of them and still am – although I do try to behave slightly more rationally these days; I have made an exception for Kermit and certainly would not condone any sort of frog-massacre. They seem to lie in wait for me and then leap out when I am least expecting it. I will give you plenty of perfect examples of this later on, but suffice to say, that my phobia of all amphibians was going to mean that farming and me had to finish our relationship. The option of having a farm without a pond was unthinkable to an eight year old. I had to move on – that was all there was to it.
Option two – writing – was promoted to my career of choice. My father was a writer – it was in the blood. Perfect. So I began to write my children’s book series Arctic Antics – stories about a seal, a polar bear, a penguin and I think an arctic fox, trying to thwart their arch enemy – the killer whale - written and illustrated by me. However, I was losing credibility, as my father pointed out that seals and killer whales didn’t tend to live in Buckinghamshire woodland. It was a devastating blow. I carried on writing in my teens – mostly angst-ridden, rancid poetry about unrequited love and the like. No, this writing malarkey was going to have to stop. It was far too lonely a profession. I would surely top myself before my genius was recognised. And the Vincent Van Gogh of the writing world I was not.
So, there it was. The writing was out, and the phobia had destroyed my farming career. That meant that there was only one option. An option that did not involve being terrorised by leaping creatures or led to an early death; the option that I would try to deter any poor drama student from doing, saying if there is anything that you would rather do than perform in the theatre, then do it, and save yourself the hassle. But they didn’t have to combat a phobia of amphibians, did they? They didn’t have a father that knew where arctic creatures lived. The things I would rather do, I had already discovered, I couldn’t do. There were no other options left for me. I’d have to become an actress. Oh dear.
Well, I'm afraid they do exist - and here I am - one of theatreland's losers. In all my glory. Now, let's see how in God's name that happened...
As a child, I didn’t want to be an actress. I wanted to be a farmer. I thought being a farmer would be very romantic, and rural, and I would have a chance to be with lots of lovely animals. Being an actress only came in third place, after farming and writing. But that was ok – it was third choice for Tom Cruise too – after wanting to be a priest and a wrestler. Over the past twelve years of being in the theatrical industry, I have managed to accumulate an alarming number of humiliating moments, during auditions and performances. So, there has to have been some point to me remaining an out of work performer, and that has been so that I could memoir my degradation in this little blog, with the fine assistance of some of my colleagues and anecdotes from some of the true greats of our industry. Now, back to being a farmer…
I fully understood that being a farmer required a lot of early mornings and was probably extremely hard work, but I felt that that I would be able to cope. Who could baulk at a bit of mucking out and dawn risings if they had a chance to look out over stables, fields and a courtyard? It was all set.
But then I came to the real problem: farms have to have a pond – any self-respecting farm would always have a pond. It is part of farm life to have a pond of a fair size, with ducks, a pair of geese and maybe a swan would fly in on occasion. If that was all that dwelt in a pond, I would have been fine. But there are other things lurking in ponds - undesirables - a pond meant frogs. Since I can remember, these small, some might say cute (these people are wrong) amphibians had been the bane of my life. I was terrified of them and still am – although I do try to behave slightly more rationally these days; I have made an exception for Kermit and certainly would not condone any sort of frog-massacre. They seem to lie in wait for me and then leap out when I am least expecting it. I will give you plenty of perfect examples of this later on, but suffice to say, that my phobia of all amphibians was going to mean that farming and me had to finish our relationship. The option of having a farm without a pond was unthinkable to an eight year old. I had to move on – that was all there was to it.
Option two – writing – was promoted to my career of choice. My father was a writer – it was in the blood. Perfect. So I began to write my children’s book series Arctic Antics – stories about a seal, a polar bear, a penguin and I think an arctic fox, trying to thwart their arch enemy – the killer whale - written and illustrated by me. However, I was losing credibility, as my father pointed out that seals and killer whales didn’t tend to live in Buckinghamshire woodland. It was a devastating blow. I carried on writing in my teens – mostly angst-ridden, rancid poetry about unrequited love and the like. No, this writing malarkey was going to have to stop. It was far too lonely a profession. I would surely top myself before my genius was recognised. And the Vincent Van Gogh of the writing world I was not.
So, there it was. The writing was out, and the phobia had destroyed my farming career. That meant that there was only one option. An option that did not involve being terrorised by leaping creatures or led to an early death; the option that I would try to deter any poor drama student from doing, saying if there is anything that you would rather do than perform in the theatre, then do it, and save yourself the hassle. But they didn’t have to combat a phobia of amphibians, did they? They didn’t have a father that knew where arctic creatures lived. The things I would rather do, I had already discovered, I couldn’t do. There were no other options left for me. I’d have to become an actress. Oh dear.
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