Like the poor sap who guesses wrong on Final Jeopardy or buys one too many vowels, I will be going home from today's Blue Man Group auditions with the consolation prize only.
For would-be Blue Men, the equivalent of the home version is a Polaroid close-up of my perplexed-looking mug in a skintight bald cap. Not quite what I'd hoped for, but those are the facts: It ain't easy being blue.
There are a couple of phases to today's try out, which is only the first day in a monthlong process: One of the troupe members on hand to watch the would-bes says it took him several rounds of auditions, both here and in New York, to prove his mettle. But first thing's first: The drums.
When the Blue Men's PR guy asks if I can play, I nod noncommittally and mutter "Sure, a little bit," not yet knowing just how little a little bit can be. The casting director and I are set up side by side, each banging on a tiny practice pad. After several stumbles I pick up the basic beat, and I'm happily imagining my future in blue when the orders start coming: "Faster!" "Hit the triple!" "Bring your right arm up higher!"
It's no use. Flailing away, I glance down from the stage into the imposing vastness of the Briar Street Theater, where the frequently-packed house is sprinkled with troupe members, the band leader and various casting folk and PR reps. Their smiles of encouragement descend into politeness and finally slight embarrassment. "Good, good," says the casting director. I burn with shame, but not nearly as much as I will ten minutes from now, watching the auditioner after me pound away at 2,000 miles an hour like Keith Moon on crystal meth.
After the percussion nightmare comes the acting portion of the audition, which I figure might be my chance for redemption. Squeezing into the bald cap - which isn't blue, but the standard-issue costume shop Curly variety - I am told to straighten my spine and keep my face neutral, in the Blue Men's all-purpose pose of readiness. Then they tell me to use my eyes, to look as inquisitive and probing as possible with just my peepers. "What is that?" they keep saying, as my eyes get rounder and rounder. "What is that?"
Then they take the picture, which reveals that my wide-eyed intensity came off as more of a village idiot stupor. One of the real Blue Men tells me that all the performers got the same goofy photo taken. "In fact, mine's still up on the dressing room door," he tells me. The embarassment of it prompts a wry chuckle, yet all the while I'm thinking: At least you get to be a Blue Man.
(Ben Winters)
copyright 1999 New City Communications, Inc.