Some have depilated themselves for the occasion. Some come armed with their own drumsticks. Some are sleazy-looking questionables who don’t stand a chance. But with two hours left in the open casting call, these two dozen people (mostly men) staring straight ahead in the rows of chairs, leaning against the walls and meditating on the Venetian’s lobby floor share the same goal: joining the international brotherhood of Blue Men.
Eighty-three have filed through since 11 a.m., says the casting director, who hopes to end the session with at least one viable recruit. After she assesses the internal character of “egoless, genderless” specimens between 5’10” and 6’1” and of athletic build, passing hopefuls enter the real-deal Blue Man Theater, a black, custom-built, industrial expanse filled with risers, hanging tubes and every type of percussion instrument imaginable. They rest their drumsticks, hand their forms over to Tasha, grasp the provided mallets and try to follow the beat Scott lays down on the practice pad. Single-stroke rolls, feet forward, shoulder-length apart. Now faster. Scott drops out. Now we’re going to try different patterns. Look at me. Breathe. “We’ll be making phone calls by 6 today,” says Tasha.
Next up. Single-stroke rolls. No problem. He’s already standing correctly, making eye contact. A more complicated pattern than the others. More aggressive. Scott suggests they try Grandmaster Flash’s “The Message.” Don’t ... push ... me ... ’cause ... I’m ... close ... to ... the ... edge. No problem. “Can you come back tomorrow at 4:10?” Tasha asks.