Anything Goes by John Barrowman; Carole E. Barrowman Page A
Authors: John Barrowman; Carole E. Barrowman
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auditions, the Old Gold Singers all stayed at my parents’ house in Joliet, which was roughly halfway to Chicagofrom Des Moines. Seriously, Cardiff is closer to Chicago than Des Moines in terms of its cultural cache and coolness. Until the wee hours of the morning, the house was alive with the sound of music. Singers practised in the living room at the piano, a few gathered in the dining room around a tape player, and the rest sang out from the rec room in the basement. But not one of the voices was mine.
At about 10 p.m., I came into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of milk, and kissed my mum goodnight.
‘John,’ she called after me, ‘shouldn’t you be practising with the rest of the group?’
‘I can practise in my head.’ 2
Later, I learned from Andy Barnicle, my acting teacher at United States International University in San Diego, that to practise in your head is a proven rehearsal technique. According to Andy, ‘If you can see yourself doing it, you can perform it.’ But, to be honest, it wasn’t just that. I really didn’t want to let the other members of the choir hear what I could do. In all the time I’d known them, they’d never been much interested in discovering my talent, so why give them a preview now? I went off to bed, letting my competition for Opryland serenade me to sleep.
For the first round of auditions, all of the Old Gold Singers performed in the same room. I was the last one to be called. Now, although I’d taken a couple of ballet lessons while in high school, Billy Elliot I was not. Most of my dancing experience at this time had been the few steps I’d picked up during performances and my own raw skills. I was, however, athletic, and could and still can flip, jump and kick with the best of them. For my Opryland audition, I did a number that would have made Gene Kelly proud. I included a couple of high kicks, some serious tap, a little soft-shoe and thenmy big finish. I closed with a standing back somersault, which I landed perfectly, never missing a beat or losing the final notes.
I looked up at the panel of judges and I knew I had them. I looked at the other Old Gold Singers, watched them readjust their jaws, and knew I’d got them, too.
At the close of this round, Jean Whitticker, one of the casting directors and choreographers for Opryland USA at that time, pulled me aside. ‘We’re not making the callback announcement yet, John, but we know right now that we want to hire you, so don’t go anywhere.’
I didn’t. I said goodbye to the Old Gold Singers and the following summer I went to Nashville.
My work at Opryland during the summers of ‘86 and ‘87 dominates my memories of this time in my life, even though the Nashville shows were not the only performing I did back then. After I left the University of Iowa, I took acting classes in Chicago and I auditioned for commercials and other small jobs to occupy my time in the months between my summer gigs at the theme park.
As it turned out, well into the 1990s I regularly received residual payments from one of those early jobs. It was probably the worst ice-cream commercial ever for Baskin-Robbins. A commercial shoot that was supposed to take a morning stretched into an entire day because I completely overacted and looked like I was having an orgasm instead of enjoying an ice-cream treat. Some day, I know the commercial’s going to show up; when it does, please remember I was very young and be kind.
While performing at Opryland, I met one of my best friends, Marilyn Rising. We hit it off instantly. For a start, she looked almost as cute in chaps as I did. She was small and bubbly, with a big voice and lots of charm and energy. We shared the same passion for the performing arts and a similar outrageous sense of humour. We once spent an entire road trip to Illinois with cockatiels, real ones, on ourshoulders, 3 wearing rubber masks that looked like old-age pensioners’ faces. A trucker followed us for
At about 10 p.m., I came into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of milk, and kissed my mum goodnight.
‘John,’ she called after me, ‘shouldn’t you be practising with the rest of the group?’
‘I can practise in my head.’ 2
Later, I learned from Andy Barnicle, my acting teacher at United States International University in San Diego, that to practise in your head is a proven rehearsal technique. According to Andy, ‘If you can see yourself doing it, you can perform it.’ But, to be honest, it wasn’t just that. I really didn’t want to let the other members of the choir hear what I could do. In all the time I’d known them, they’d never been much interested in discovering my talent, so why give them a preview now? I went off to bed, letting my competition for Opryland serenade me to sleep.
For the first round of auditions, all of the Old Gold Singers performed in the same room. I was the last one to be called. Now, although I’d taken a couple of ballet lessons while in high school, Billy Elliot I was not. Most of my dancing experience at this time had been the few steps I’d picked up during performances and my own raw skills. I was, however, athletic, and could and still can flip, jump and kick with the best of them. For my Opryland audition, I did a number that would have made Gene Kelly proud. I included a couple of high kicks, some serious tap, a little soft-shoe and thenmy big finish. I closed with a standing back somersault, which I landed perfectly, never missing a beat or losing the final notes.
I looked up at the panel of judges and I knew I had them. I looked at the other Old Gold Singers, watched them readjust their jaws, and knew I’d got them, too.
At the close of this round, Jean Whitticker, one of the casting directors and choreographers for Opryland USA at that time, pulled me aside. ‘We’re not making the callback announcement yet, John, but we know right now that we want to hire you, so don’t go anywhere.’
I didn’t. I said goodbye to the Old Gold Singers and the following summer I went to Nashville.
My work at Opryland during the summers of ‘86 and ‘87 dominates my memories of this time in my life, even though the Nashville shows were not the only performing I did back then. After I left the University of Iowa, I took acting classes in Chicago and I auditioned for commercials and other small jobs to occupy my time in the months between my summer gigs at the theme park.
As it turned out, well into the 1990s I regularly received residual payments from one of those early jobs. It was probably the worst ice-cream commercial ever for Baskin-Robbins. A commercial shoot that was supposed to take a morning stretched into an entire day because I completely overacted and looked like I was having an orgasm instead of enjoying an ice-cream treat. Some day, I know the commercial’s going to show up; when it does, please remember I was very young and be kind.
While performing at Opryland, I met one of my best friends, Marilyn Rising. We hit it off instantly. For a start, she looked almost as cute in chaps as I did. She was small and bubbly, with a big voice and lots of charm and energy. We shared the same passion for the performing arts and a similar outrageous sense of humour. We once spent an entire road trip to Illinois with cockatiels, real ones, on ourshoulders, 3 wearing rubber masks that looked like old-age pensioners’ faces. A trucker followed us for
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