Do you love A-1 Steak Sauce more than life itself? Can you carry a tune? Do you walk upright and possess opposable thumbs? Then you should star in a commercial for A-1 Steak Sauce.
This was the gist of an e-mail forwarded to me earlier this week, searching for songwriters to memorialize their infatuations for steak sauce in the timeless art of song.
Sure. I’ll get right on that.
But after a late Tuesday night on the town, I stumbled back to my place with a saucy ballad begging to escape the confines of my tiny, inebriated head. In a 10 minute fit of semi-artistic fury, I fashioned from raw, unbridled emotion what can only be described as a cloying cheese ball of a tribute to the world’s finest, most disgusting meat-related condiment.
I recorded it for posterity on a $5 laptop microphone. It is here for you to enjoy in all it’s intoxicated glory.
I headed out to the call on Thursday. The casting agency is situated in a prime West Hollywood location – nestled snugly between Ralph’s Discount Liquor and Petco, on the floor above a Lamps Plus.
I hear the squawking of domesticated cockatiels as I climb the stained linoleum staircase. At the top, I am greeted by a scene that can only be described as limbo.
It’s not quite hell, more like the waiting room for it. A sterile white space illuminated by sickly fluorescent light sprawls before me, in which I recognize various species of actor commiserating in their native habitat.
In one corner, a gaggle of the rare pink-cheeked child-stars perches on rows of upholstered benches, semi-supervised by preening stage moms poring over dog-eared scripts.
In another area congregates a flock of the common middle-aged commercial actor – this particular genus balding with thick mustaches – pacing feet apart, gesturing and mouthing lines as they prepare for the role of “Sad Dad” in an AT&T spot.
I feel like an interplanetary tourist as I stroll across the room, noticeably slack jawed. A large chalkboard tells me the A-1 audition is to the left.
Instantly, reality strikes. This is no longer a joke. Do I really want to be the A-1 guy? I mean, the bills need to be paid, but is the road to rock stardom really paved in tangy meat sauce?
I sign in, sit down, and wait my turn. To my left is a guy with a keyboard I swear I saw in a Levitra ad. Dead ringers for two of the kids from Dawson’s creek are pounding bongos to my right.
I take it all in.
My name is called. A woman points me to a door labeled “FOUR” and tells me to wait in front of it.
I suddenly feel like I’m in the Roman Coliseum. Either this door will swing open to reveal a screen test or a bloodthirsty lion.
The door opens. No lion – just a short black folding table and 3 tired casting directors who look like they’d rather be anywhere else.
I’m told to stand on a black X and state my name.
They ask who my agency is.
I say nothing. They say nothing. There are 8 seconds of pregnant silence.
Then one says, “You’re… not an actor, are you…”
They all laugh. “That’s refreshing,” says one, “ok let’s see what the non-actor can do.”
I reach for my guitar and proceed to perform my tribute to the world’s finest Steak Sauce.
As I get to the chorus, one director starts smiling. A tiny chuckle escapes from another.
By the time I reach verse two, they’re all grinning, some tapping their feet. This is going well?
I finish up to a chorus of applause – “Is that YOUR song?” one asks.
No — I stole it from John Lennon’s archive of A1 Steak Sauce ballads.
“Yes, its mine.”
I’m thanked for my time and pack up my bag. I open the door and bump right into Mr. Levitra Keyboard. He looks taken aback.
I think he was expecting the lion.
Filed under: Uncategorized |