The Michigan Daily-Sundc Page 4--Sunday, February 12, 1978-The Michigan Daily From here to oblivion: Trying out for a part in 'West Side Story' ")eme.4wbree, ODe-two-hree." Would-he chorime S saa Ades, last emren d The productim staff malis ever prospective Jets and Sharks. From left ti right are Chereographer Peter Kentes, Costume Dis r Kaay Sebadt, Directur 2" Alexaider and r ier Jim Sies. F OUR HUNDRED people saw me get kissed for the first time. Oh, maybe it was three-fifty-what's the difference-the important thing is, I kept my eyes properly shut and my lips properly phiant. I wasn't about-to rmk bei Cald a fish, not even in time name of *eatre. So this five-foet, 8-pound 14-year-old playing time lead w a sime'r samp extravagafsa, 4 mai, delivered a 15-second unrehearsed smooch with much aplomb. The rest was a sheer debaele. -Dino Pearson, my leading man and a not-to-be-trusted 17-year-old, tried to French kiss me in between scenes back- stage. -A counselor caught a stealthy chorus of pimply boys drooling as they watched my costume change - undershirt ex- posed. -A crew member uprooted the better part of one braid in hurriedly coiffing my unruly locks. -My rehearsal-strained voice refused' to reach the low notes in one heartrending song, and in my crooning I lost the "don't" which preceded "throw bouquets at me.. ." The audience found it very funny, but was fortunately short on flowers. And I swore off acting for the rest of my life. The rest of my life ended a few weeks ago when I took my place among scores of would-be Tonys and Marias, sashaying and shimmying, improvising, intoning and inching my way into UAC Musket's production of West Side Story.. But this time I had nothing to lose - neither my modesty, my hair, nor my voice - I was assigned, as a reporter, to* raise the curtain on the college chorus line. As an outsider commissioned to tell the inside story on auditions, I was deter- mined to hang on long enough to feel the creeping symptoms of stardom: the compulsion to burst into song in crowded places, the tendency to try out foreign accents on strangers, and the urge to go on a crash diet. In other words, I was hell-bent on making the call-backs. Susan Ades is a former Co-editor of F fe dun Ia£Mg 7ine, Beyond that, there was no ego involved. This was purely business. The odyssey begat as umt eOderi- day odysseys do-at a mass meeting. Actually, I'd call this one a mass reunion for the casts of Cabaret, Appane, and frtm. way back whel, Gys -and k. I fit in nicely with a haaul of Er it who, not to be intimidated, spewed lists of high school musicaks to their credit. "I did West SiM. a ry t lest year," one debonaire newcomer offered to no one in particular. "You know," said another, searching his memory, "I don't think I've ever done this one." But mingling with the motley 300 were those who made it known they could sift PHOTOS BY ANDY FREEBERG the talents from the no-talents at 100 paces. "Oh, there's so-and-so," they'd say as so-and-so breezed into the Pendleton Room like so much fresh air, "she was made for the part." Soon all the stars were accounted for; criss-crossed conversations were un- tangled, lithe bodies settled into seats, necks craned for the unobstructed view, and the show began. A regiment of stiffly-smiling organizers took their places before the group, some in pedestrian folding chairs and others director, producer and vocal director - in high-backed, mahogany ones. Costume for the most part was drawn from the 1978 college student collection, but the chore- ographer wore characteristic tights, a heavy, boat-necked, cabled fisherman's sweater, European visage and whispy hair. The Big Three were distinguished by sportcoats, turtle necks and double- knits. At least no one was smoking a cigar. To that magical tune of applause and cheers, the organizers were introduced. They took their bows. Then, in no-non- sense professional tones, we were given our terms. Auditions were slated for Friday and* Saturday (two days away), callbacks for Sunday. Bob Alexander, the director, would be examining your posture, which he called "attitude," for "poise." Ben Whitely, the vocal director would be dissecting yaw voice for "rave and rhytim." Tihe choreegrapler, er Kentes, would judge your leaps and dives for "movement quality." Some thirty-two Eus meM make it to e stage. - The so thsayers couhd be seen esmating off the likelies on their fingers. * * * Tha same evening. Midnight. Pfwc- tice session in a grimy, tiny, stark room in the deserted basement of the Michigan Union. Backstage right, an ar- thritic, maltuned upright piano. My agent, accompanist and Daily cohort Jeffrey P. Selbst, is seated at the piano Backstage left, trusted friend and emergency singing coach Leba Hert. pressed herself into a corner to maintain distance, and thus undistorted listening. Iam centerstage. HE PURPOSE of this vigil was to find the perfect song for my imper- fect voice. While I had the projec- tion of an air raid siren, I had the range of a hoarse auctioneer. Meanwhile, my fair-skinned, country-girl looks did nothing for my feigned West Side Puerto my Ades Rican image. We needed a song that rendered me urbane, yet vulnerable - that rendered me Maria. It tek as three hours to find that song. We Uterd st with the 4scure of the obscure so as not to run the risk of a face-off between me, the imposter, and me ne who ceal remey aing the samm _ .e . e as ! ahie - froms the wimm me Rodgers and Hart tune, "I Could Write a Reek," to George Gersh- win's 1de'jplittig "52, lea, Sle." But the wee hours brought en myopia ad my plea for songs that I knew by heart. We barely bypassed the sweet and lyrical "Who Will Buy" from Oliver for the more feisty Guys and Des number, "If I Were a Bell," which masqueraded brilliantly (or so we thought) for a difficult song requiring at least a minor tour de force. Most of the song was within my octave and one-half alto range. But where the lowest note came out like an asthmatic wheeze, Jeff artfully beefed up the piano works. And when the notes rolled off my vocal chords with power and finesse, when I used a sexy bend in the notes at strategic points, Jeff let up on . the keyboard. Sounds like an easily detect- able cover-up, but we did it with a hell of a lot of class (or so we thought). Thursday was mine for polishing up my act by singing "If I Were a ell" aaft with Isabel Bigley of On wrigbal Guys and Dolls cast album. Friday evening, it was back to the Union basement for the fiae tuning and vital advice freom Laen how to keep my hands out of my pockets (wear something without pockets!), and how to strike an "attitude" that &p*Ued I washed my hair to tame the childish curls and went to bed. * * Nine a.m. Michigan Union. Wide hallway outside bolted Pendleton Room crawling with tense dancers. THE PENDLETON Room doors opened shortly after ten, 75-odd auditioners flocked inside, and the trials began. The Big Three, quite casually dressed - still no cigars - were there and so was the choreographer, sans fisherman's sweater. But most important was a new personality, the assistant choreographer, Dave Marshall, who could have been lifted straight out of Saturday Night Fever (save for his refined accent). He was there to guide us through some jazzy dance steps and acrobatics - elements so crucial to West Side Story. Unblinking, we lunged and pirouetted and wiggled our hips. We walked across the floor and pranced across the floor; some executed precision Russian-style leaps and others, like me, had it right in practice but offered poor imitations of Russian-style leaps when under the spot- light. They watched us. We watched us. And we watched them, as they whis- pered incessantly behind cupped hands. The only eye that gave me a second glance was the eye of Andy Freeberg's camera, compliments of The Michigan Daily. If you messed up the dancing - for instance, performed a learned 30-second sequence right once but out of sync in the two succeeding trials - the odds were ten to one you'd be out of the running. After all, West Side Story is a dancer's musical. Yet here's the catch: there were but a few among us who were patently good. I was part of the larger, amateur-but-corri- gible-strata, and the singing perform- ance, I reasoned, would be the deciding factor. The singing audition was a lonely affair. Four contestants at a time were admitted into the consuming Pendleton Room, with the curious onlookers con- be left, lifts demned to deer wind own accon spport, b companit The firs accompau rhythm . alertel behind th quently, I "paie." Number inhibited nervousne singer. "Do you refrain bi asked him "Oh yes "Then le Beautifu Number Through duction, m cap house when I ope out undau down, I be exact sti "O.K. ' came the Reflectior "What a "Yes." "And v jotting do' "Rough answered I took m: But the the script were give to bring a Maria, ari the Anita delivery s pick up he pressure, followed trying to and tone - was back organizer what was my buffoc The cal office doo I wasn'1 It's Susan centerstage for the singing segment of the audition, belting out the refrain from "If I Were a Bell."