Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Anthony Rapp has been acting professionally since he was nine years old. He's best known for originating the role of Mark Cohen in Jonathan Larson's Pulitzer Prize-winning landmark rock opera Rent, taking the show from off Broadway to Broadway, Chicago, and London. He shared an OBIE Award with the rest of the original cast for his performance. He has appeared in numerous films, including Adventures in Babysitting, Dazed and Confused, the Oscar-winning A Beautiful Mind, and, most recently, the film adaptation of Rent. In 2000, he released his debut album, Look Around. He lives in New York City with his partner, Rodney To, and their three cats, Emma, Sebastian, and Spike. This is his first book.

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Without You

Simon & Schuster

I.

I sat down on the curb of Forty-fourth Street between Seventh and Eighth avenues, in front of the St. James Theatre, and glanced at my watch: no way was I going to be on time for my audition. Fuck. I raced to get my shoes off and my skates and helmet on, and launched myself into traffic, my skates gliding and buzzing, my arms pumping, my breath quickening, my skin relishing the balmy autumnal breeze that flowed around me. Rushing around New York City like this had always focused me: all my senses became more acute as I sped down Broadway, swerving among taxis and around jaywalkers, sprinting through yellow lights, avoiding at all costs any lethal car doors that threatened to spring open in my path. I hoped the Rent people would understand my reason for being late. They should. It wasn't as if I could've just up and left my friend Bill's memorial service early; that would have been unconscionable. I would just have to explain myself.

Ten minutes later, and twenty minutes after my scheduled appointment, I slid to a stop at the glass doors of the New York Theatre Workshop on East Fourth Street between Second Avenue and the Bowery. Even though I lived only six blocks away, I had never actually been there. Still breathing heavily, I peered inside. Two actors, one male, one female, sat in the concrete-floored lobby on small wooden chairs between two sets of bright red wooden double doors. At least there were some people ahead of me. I rolled in and plopped myself on the ground, nodding hello to my fellow auditioners, unlatching my helmet, and wiping the sweat out of my eyes all at once. I quickly swapped my skates for shoes and reached in my backpack for my sheet music: R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion." I hadn't had a chance to warm up my voice yet, and there wasn't going to be a chance to now. So I hummed some random notes at what I hoped was an imperceptible volume, just to get my chords working a little. If the others heard me, they thankfully didn't say anything; instead, their eyes alternately scoured their music and gazed vacantly out at East Fourth Street.

At least I now had time to settle my breath, to let my mind clear from what had been an emotionally draining and cathartic morning. I stared at my sheet music, even though I knew the song, in an attempt to zero in on something outside my head.

My fellow actors went in one at a time, and as much as I disliked listening to other people's auditions (I didn't want to disrespect them, but even more importantly I didn't want to psyche myself out if I caught the sound of someone who was really great), I couldn't help but hear the strains of Bonnie Raitt's "Something to Talk About" and Steve Perry's "Oh Sherrie" floating through the doors. Both of their voices were raw and strong and very rock and roll, and altogether intimidating. At least the three of us weren't all up for the same part, as far as I could tell; the guy looked older than I, and the girl was, well, a girl.

At last it was my turn to go in. I looked up from my music as the Steve Perry singer exited the theatre, and Wendy Ettinger, the casting director, poked her head out the door.

"Hi, Anthony, we're glad you could make it."

I gathered up my stuff and stood. "I'm sorry I was late."

She smiled. "Not a problem. We're running late too." Well, that was a relief.

Wendy opened the door for me, and I followed her into the theatre, feeling the familiar tinges of shyness and formality that often clouded over me when I headed into an audition room, at least during the introductory chitchat phase; once I got to read or sing, I was usually in good shape.

I had met Michael Greif, the director, a few months ago, when I auditioned for his production of The Seagull (he called me back, but didn't cast me), and I immediately recognized him sitting in the middle of the seats, his mop of black curls and dark, round, wire-framed glasses offsetting his pale, cherubic face. Having seen his production of Machinal a few years before, I was eager to work with him; I had been invigorated by the inventive, dark, and refreshingly theatrical vision he'd displayed. I always walked into an audition wanting to make a good impression, but the opportunity to get in front of Michael Greif again motivated me to try to make a great impression.

"Sorry I was late," I said, extending my hand for a shake. "I was at a memorial service for a friend." Had that been too formal of me to say? Too personal? A mistake?

"I'm sorry to hear that," Michael said. And right away, I was relieved; his tone was warm and gracious. "Well, we're glad you're here."

"Thanks." I glanced furtively at the other people spread out among the red velvet seats of the theatre: a young woman and two men, one younger than the other. I didn't recognize any of them. Well, that was no big deal; it was normal at an audition not to know who everyone was.

"So, are you ready?" Michael asked.

"Uh, sure." Good. I would get to do my thing right away.

"Great. Tim will play for you."

At the bottom of the aisle, in front of the stage, sat Tim at an upright piano. I made my way down to him.

"How you doing?" he asked amiably, a lot more amiably than most of the audition pianists I'd encountered over the years.

"Fine. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm great." He seemed like he really meant it, too, as he nodded and smiled. "What are we doing?" I handed him my music. "Oh, great tune."

"What are you singing?" a voice from the audience asked. I looked up to see that it belonged to the younger man, who was hunched down in his seat, a pencil in his mouth.

"'Losing My Religion,'" I said.

He nodded vigorously, also smiling. "Excellent." That response boded well.

I set the tempo with Tim, and jumped up onto the stage, glancing again at Michael, Wendy, the pencil chewer, and the two others I didn't know, all sitting there in the impassive yet attentive manner casting teams always displayed. I took a deep breath, and gave Tim the nod to begin.

The song's opening chords chimed. They were among my most favorite chords of any pop song ever, so simple and so hummable, and so right for the song. My body involuntarily pulsed in time with them, and I launched into my singing.

Ooooooooooh life

Is bigger

It's bigger than you,

And you are not me

I loved the way the song felt in my voice, right in the pocket, so I wasn't straining to hit any notes; I was just soaring on the melody and pouring myself into it. Images from the video of a twirling Michael Stipe danced in my head as I sang, my arms splayed out to my sides, my chest full.

That's me in the corner

That's me in the spotlight

Losing my religion

I had read in an interview somewhere that this song was a love song, that in the South, where R.E.M. was from, losing your religion meant falling in love. I wasn't trying to sing it as a love song to anyone in particular; I was trying to sing it with as much heart and passion as I could muster, to anyone and everyone. I was singing it for the sheer joy of being able to sing it, and I could feel myself flying with it, grateful for the chance to open up my voice and fulfill some of my rock star fantasies, and to pay tribute to one of my all-time favorite bands.

I got so swept away that I lost the sense of...