Anyone who’s seen “The Donkey Show” will tell you: it’s bat-shit crazy. The concept sounds like something from the world’s campiest, most hallucinogen-happy comedy improv troupe: “Alright, darling, I want ‘A Midsummer’s Night Dream’ told in the style of ’70s disco—with roller skates, and glitter, and no pants.”
This truly is madness, but might there be method in’t? That was the question I sought to answer last Saturday as I went undercover to the latest round of auditions of “The Donkey Show.”
Now, I can’t sing, I can’t dance, and I was a bit put off by the audition notice’s requirement that I be comfortable dancing shirtless in go-go boy pants. But the course of investigative journalism never did run smooth, and so after 10 minutes of YouTube research and some Absolut confidence boosters, I felt ready to go make an ass of myself—so to speak.
I crept down the stairs to the basement of Harvard Square’s Unitarian Church, eager to partake in the rites of a different faith. For all the gaudy marvel and garish sparkle of the actual show, though, this audition was serious business: the hopefuls were stretching, all in regular dancing gear—with the exception of one young Adonis whose perfectly toned legs were well advertised between tiny shorts and sequined shoes.
We were asked for headshots and résumés. I didn’t have a headshot, and I scrawled my own pathetic résumé: “Juggling—basic skills. Dancing—a little bit in high school (a big lie) and a lot in trashy clubs (a small lie). Singing—was in a choir once.” After a moment’s hesitation, I decided not to mention my double-jointed thumb.
“Dance like nobody’s business for three hours,” we were commanded, thrown into a bustle of role play and choreographed maneuvers. I wiggled shyly at the back of the dance call but discovered with a shock that, when you’re doing the Bus Stop, the back rather quickly becomes the front.
After a few improv games, we finished off by taking turns in a Soul Train, suddenly filling an ordinary church basement with “Funky Chickens,” “Shopping Trolleys,” and dance moves unlike anything that I could respectfully name.
Then my solo arrived, my very own Soul Train moment. Harvard parties had not prepared me well for this—there was no girl’s bottom to hide behind.
What happened in those few fateful seconds, I can’t entirely remember, but I do know there were John Travoltas involved. I also know that, when I traipsed home minutes later, my hips were sore and my jeans were split. It must have been furious. And when I sashayed back to my side of the train, I might have burst with pride; my sequined-shoed mentor turned to give me a high five and an emphatic “Yeah, boy!”
My stint as a club nymph may have been short-lived, but it will remain unforgettable; I wasn’t asked to come back, of course, so I think I’ll leave to the professionals the serious business of getting silly.
