By the time Saturday morning at 10:30am rolled around, I had sung the last 16 bars of “Love Changes Everything”, including the final b-flat, about 35 times choking only twice. I felt pretty good. And the strain I felt in my voice would be eliminated by the adrenaline which usually can add about a step higher to any range. All with Hope’s help.

Auditions at a regional theater are an interesting thing. Everyone knows everyone because there is this limited group that auditions for everything. Every. Thing. And they all talk like they are shoe-ins for the role. That kind of attitude doesn’t help me in the slightest. I suppose it’s a side-effect to being in multiple shows. I really don’t know. I’ve never felt that way. In fact, I’m a terrible auditioner (is that a word?) It’s a combination of a lot of things, but mostly, I just feel incompetent. Especially when I have a particularly passionate interest in the part. I blow it every time. The last time? Chauvlin in The Scarlet Pimpernel. I was called back a second time and as the director was telling me how he wanted me to perform the scene, I kept finishing his sentences. No lies, I was finishing the director’s sentences. A combination of nerves and the fact that he was speaking at a rate of 5 words every two weeks.

What was I doing here? Did I really have a shot? Surely this show would bring out the big guns. I haven’t sung on stage for 3 years. Sung in public twice since then. What could my voice possibly offer this show at this point? These are the things that go through my mind before auditions and usually the reason why I rarely get cast in a musical.

They called us in by three’s. My three was me and two gals. Excellent. They wouldn’t be comparing me to any other guys. Caught a break there. I was however, first. And that was not exactly welcome.
“Start here,” I said to the 19 year-old piano player, pointing to the music.  That’s another harrowing issue facing auditioners. You work on a song on your own with someone you trust, someone you’re comfortable with getting pumped about the 16 bars because it’s sounding so good and then you have to walk in to a room you’ve rarely spent time in and hand your music over to a guy you’ve never seen and have no idea whether he can even tell an a-flat from a green lump of putty, but he’s your only option so you pray for the best.

“Skip here, and go straight to here.” I had no idea what I was doing. Fortunately, at this point, I was quite confident I was the only one in the room that knew this.
He started to play, I started to sing. It was awful.
“Wait. You started in the wrong place,” I interrupted. “Love burst in and suddenly.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No problem. It’s just my self-esteem we’re dealing with here.” I was now quite confident that everyone in the room knew just as well that I, in fact, had no idea what I was doing.

It is here that I usually ride wildly off the tracks. Any confidence would have been shot. And when that happens, I might as well be a Simpsons character. But for some freaky reason, I didn’t. In fact, the opposite happened. I felt stronger, more determined, and yet looser. Like I was willing myself and the production staff to love what I was going to do. Finally, we got on track, The b-flat was money and I turned to the monologue they wanted us to memorize. The music director had other plans.

“Danny, I want you to sing it like you’re angry at love. I mean when love changes everything you hate that.” Translation: Sing it like Edward Hyde. Luckily enough, I had messed around with that very thing during one of my 35 times singing it in the last 48 hours. It was okay. I forgot the first line. Mostly because I was trying too hard to be angry at it. The delay between auditions was rearing its ugly head. But I got through it (“a little ‘Lloyd-Webber’ freak-out at the end, but that’s okay”) and got through the monologue (Jekyll's request for a human subject from the Board of Governors) reasonably well, by which I mean, no stumbles and it sounded like I was trying to convince someone of something which, in fact, I was.

I sat back down, politely listened to the two girls, packed up my books and paper and was stopped by the producer.

“Danny, will you do something for me? We’ve seen your Jekyll, now I want to see Hyde.”
The song not good enough for you, Mr. Bigshot? Out loud I said, “Of course.” Here I was, thought I was finished, but no. Part of me saw it as an opportunity. Part of me saw it as a betrayal to the rules.
They gave me a “Hyde” monologue to work with, told me to come back in a few minutes with another group and give it my best shot. So I took their direction and did just that.
If they wanted to give me another chance to wow them, I wasn’t going to throw it away. I wanted to distinguish myself from my Jekyll, not just in performance, but in appearance as well. I wish I could say I ran home dressed as best I could as a conscience-free psycho complete with top hat and fur coat, but the best I could find was a faucet. I wetted and rustled my hair widened my eyes, became familiar with my lines and walked in there like I was ready to burn the place down.
They laughed. I don’t think it was a mocking laugh but the kind of laugh you made when Michael Jordan shot 42 points in the NBA finals with a 104 degree fever or when Rocky stares Creed down before their second fight. At least that’s what I like to think the laugh was like.
“Okay Danny,” after the laughs had quieted down. “Let’s see it.”
“Danny is no longer available.”
Again with the laughs.

Finally, when Hyde was ready, I got up and performed. No laughs after that, let me tell you.

I walked across the street, across the wide open lawn in front of our home to Hope who was sitting on the porch waiting for me. I felt as though I had given them my best, an anomaly that i still don’t quite understand. What was the difference? The attitude. It was all in the attitude.