I have been going over in my mind how it was, when nothing in my history warrants believing it, that I could have learned about auditions and then two days later feel like I had just given my best audition ever. And then that awful, terrible, no-good voice inside my noggin reminded me, “Danny, you don’t have a clue how you did in there.”

One of the first rules of auditions is this: “Forget about how well you did, only that you did the best you could.” Strange rule at first, certainly, but it makes perfect sense to anyone who has stood before that astounding scene of producers, directors, and production staff all peering into your dramatic soul and deciding whether or not you are worth a second look. Even though I felt very good about how I did, I was as in the dark about whether I would be invited to callbacks, and if so, when would I get the call, and if I did get the call, what exactly are you calling me back for?

Usually, actors have some control over this third question because a) it is the most irrelevant and b) You can notify the theater that you are only willing to take certain parts. Irrelevant because if you’ll take any role offered, you don’t ask the question with nothing much more than an excited curiosity and if you’ll only take certain parts, you don’t ask the question because you’ve already agreed that these are all fine roles.  I told them it was Jekyll or nothing. Again, for a guy who keeps complaining about never being cast in a musical, I see a picture being painted here and that it wasn’t like I really made it easy. Musicals are long, arduous, time-consuming commitments. Rehearsals six days a week, plus any outside workshops for songs, dialogue, etc., and then there’s all that other time you’re spending memorizing and working on music on your own. And while I thoroughly enjoy the stage, I am far more interested in the specific roles on stage. And Dr. Jekyll/Edward Hyde was one of a handful of roles - for me as an actor - that’s on my “To Accomplish before I die” list.

Speaking of, I have a pretty comprehensive “Bucket List”. Things like, see Mt. Rushmore, write a novel, go to an NFL game. But then I have stupid things on it, like “Perform Dr. Jekyll/Edward Hyde” on stage. Stupid not because it isn’t an honorable pursuit, but that it is completely not up to me. I also have “Sell a screenplay” and “sing with a full orchestra” on there, two things which, unless major financial changes are in my future, are also stupid for the same reason.  

Auditions are really out of your hands. All you can do is be sure your voice is clean and strong, that your nerves are dipped in steel, and you don’t finish the director’s sentences. So much depends on timing, who else is auditioning, the theater and their focus. For example, there are acting singers and singing actors. I’m the latter. Always have been. And while my vocals have dramatically improved over the years, my strength is in my interpretation.  A lot of directors want that highly-trained singing voice and are willing to sacrifice the performance to get the sound they want. Others put more emphasis on the interpretation of the song to carry any raw sound through. Here’s the problem: Utah is FULL of actors that can do both. Again, doesn’t help me in the slightest.

Oh, and you can’t count on Randy, Simon, or Paula to give you any hints. The best you’ll get is, “Okay. Thank you.”

All I was able to discern was that auditions would be Tuesday or Wednesday and that only those called back would be, you know, called back.  So I did my best, from 10:30am onward, to pretend not to worry about it. I kept busy, ran some errands with my wife, typical Saturday “good time to get things done that you wouldn’t normally do even on a Saturday” stuff.  But I couldn’t help thinking about it, no matter how hard I pretended not to.

I don’t know if this is common, but I tend to analyze why they wouldn’t call. They didn’t like the tone of my voice, they didn’t like the color of my shirt or my hairline. But I kept going back to my Hyde. It was a great Hyde. And unless they had Anthony Warlow or Anthony Hopkins for that matter, I couldn’t see how they could NOT call me back. Surely, I was good enough to deserve a second look.

“That’s your phone!” cried my beautiful wife. I measured my steps. I can’t get my hopes up. It could be anyone from anywhere. Didn’t recognize the number. Probably a wrong number. It wasn’t. They were looking for me. Scott, the producer on the other end of the phone, asking me if I would come back on Tuesday and do some reading, do some singing, and give them another look at me. If only car dealerships worked this way. “Hey, I’m really interested in the blue one. Why don’t you bring it around the house next week, park it in my driveway, see how she feels.”

I, of course, said I’d be happy to. I hung up the phone, smiled for a minute, turned to my wife and told her the truth.

“Well, I’m really in it now.”