Cry-Baby

Yesterday's audition for the Broadway adaptation of John Water's Cry-Baby (Hairspray 2, the audition monitor wryly called it) was actually fun. It kicked out booties, with running, jumping and quick writhing on the floor, leaving us sweaty and out of breath, but the motivation (we were breaking from prison) and peppy music kept us going, and the teaching associate choreographer had the cutest British accent and a hot assistant.

Perhaps the best part was at the end when they said "we'll call you if we need to hear you sing," prefaced by the usual "we're looking for something very specific." There has already been a workshop of this musical slated for Broadway, so we knew the open roles were few is any. Some dancers hate the uncertainty, but I prefer leaving with a modicum of hope to being rejected to my face.

When we came out in our staggered groups of four, I ended up dancing way to close to the auditioners, almost in their face, which was bad, but I don't think they were watching me anyway. They seemed most interested in the two African-American girls in the room (Theater is one of the last frontiers of legal and socially acceptable discrimination based on race, as well as gender, age, weight and just about anything else you want). I have not heard of anyone getting called as of yet.