Kevin and the Peacock – Part Seven

The thrilling conclusion to the YBB story, complete with lots of pictures and a behind-the-scenes video. Though I’ve been in Studio One several times since the show wrapped, this was the last time I worked there.

Your Big Break – Season Two

As Challenge of the Child Geniuses was going on, preproduction decisions were taking place involving the second season of Your Big Break. One of the biggest decisions was the naming of a replacement for the woman who had led the talent department. Many interviews took place, but the producers weren’t having any luck. I began hearing talk of them bringing back the previous year’s head. I panicked. I knew if she came back, my chances of working on the show were slim to none.

I recalled a talent associate I had gotten to know from the Howie Mandel show name Hedda. Her expertise was not in the traditional celebrity talent. Rather, she found the colorful people or “characters” for shows. She was working on Martin Short’s talk show, but I knew it was being canceled. I also knew she liked me, and if I got her the job, she’d have to return the favor.

As it turned out, she interviewed well, and was not only hired for Your Big Break, but she was also asked to assist with the Challenge of the Child Geniuses. She was indeed thankful, and she did offer me a position in the talent department for YBB. Little did I know the decision would be a nail in both of our coffins.

Buena Vista executives had agreed to syndicate/distribute a second season of Your Big Break, but there were changes (click here for behind-the-scenes footage of YBB, including a look at NBC’s Studio One). Whereas the show had featured five performances during season one, season two had to feature six. The host had to be replaced, and the biggest change of all was a severe cut in the show’s production budget. In short, we had to do more for less money. Doing more for less was becoming a mantra around the Dick Clark offices.

The budget was still taking shape when the talent department assembled to begin the contestant search. I had barely settled into my chair when I was told I was not actually going to be scouting talent. Apparently, I had been the subject of upper level talks, and somebody wasn’t quite convinced I had an ear for voices. I had been given a lateral promotion (translation: more work for the same pay) and the title of executive talent associate.

Everyone else in the department was out hitting clubs and karaoke bars. I sat behind a desk and booked auditions, ordered office supplies and organized the office. Since the budget had not yet been finalized, I was also doing the jobs of the production coordinator and manager. I was overseeing the production assistants, locating venues to hold auditions, making travel arrangements, testing camera and audio equipment, and logging tapes. It didn’t take long for me to feel overwhelmed.

What it came down to was that I was doing the jobs of virtually an entire production staff because we didn’t yet have enough money to hire anyone else. Larry was still the creative producer, and Jack was still the producer in charge of the show’s finances. As pre-production began, Jack went on vacation and Larry had business on his island getaway. This left me… I hesitate to write… in charge of the show, with the exception of which talent was chosen. I knew my limits, and I had far exceeded them.

The camel’s back broke when one of the talent scouts was confused about paperwork for an audition she was holding. I was equally confused, but only because nobody had ever explained it to me. She blamed me for things I had no control over.

When auditions were being held for the first season, nobody knew exactly how the show was going to take shape. Someone thought the show might include footage of contestants as they auditioned. In order to do that, the owner or manager of the venue hosting the audition had to sign a consent form. When the second season came around, we knew the auditions would never be seen by anyone outside the office, but we still asked for signatures of consent. It wasn’t until the talent scout had a manager refuse to sign the form that things got out of hand. Rather than call me, the talent scout called Jack who was vacationing in Florida. Only he had felt ill, so he was actually in a hospital emergency room when the call came in. He called me, about as angry as I’d ever heard him, and all I could say in response was that I wasn’t hired to interpret legal documents. Nor was I hired to do any of the stuff I had found myself doing.

Hedda sided with me and the talent scout in question quit. The season was still in its infancy, but things were falling apart. Other talent scouts didn’t like my methods, and in my frustration my response was to tell them if they didn’t like the way I did things, they could do it themselves.

When Jack and Larry made their way back to the office, things began to improve for me. An attempt was made to keep me from being buried under all the show’s paperwork. They let me hire an assistant. I called Ashley, whom I had worked with on the American Music Awards, and she was a gift from above. She cleared the voicemail, made calls, sent faxes and booked auditions. Ashley had previously made arrangements to spend a week in Hawaii, so I was given an interim assistant, until her return.

I still lived in Anaheim. Apartments near Hollywood or the valley were not cheap, so I made the commute like so many other underpaid fools. So when Hedda announced we were all to attend one of the auditions and “bond” as a team, I figured I’d just sit in the office until it was time to go to the club, rather than fight traffic from Burbank to Orange County and back again. My temporary assistant invited me to hang out with her at her house, and since hanging out with a woman beats sitting behind a desk web surfing, I accepted.

She said all the right things. She kept referring to her previous job, working on Shannon Tweed’s latest porn flick. She wore all the right things. Go-go boots. Enough said. She had the right attitude. She was the type of girl that kept a photo album on her coffee table of people, including herself, engaged in various and indescribable sexual activities. She had the right body. As Bloom County’s least literate resident Steve Dallas once said, “You’re all I needs, boobs, butt and knees. Be my main squeeze.” She had the right moves. Her sultry dancing even made eighties music tolerable. She had it all, yet something was wrong.

Maybe it was the foul aroma of over a month’s worth of unwashed dishes and unemptied garbage cans in her house. Maybe it was her confession that she really only wore go-go boots because it was the only way she could think of to hide the fact she didn’t have a clean pair of matching socks. Maybe it was the fact she kept more pens, pencils and other assorted supplies in her hair than Marge Simpson.

Any one of those reasons could have been the cause of my discomfort. Maybe it was one or a combination of my aforementioned issues, but most likely it was the pig.

It was not one of those dwarf, potbellied pigs. Nor was it a fuzzy, pink ball of love like Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web. We’re talking about a 300 pound hamhock with stubby legs and a snot-filled snout, which she kept mainly as an indoor pet. The noises and smells it produced were unlike anything I had ever experienced in my life.

People constantly told me I had set my standards too high. While I was willing to concede the need for me to lower my expectations of a woman, I was far from prepared to lower them to the level of a barnyard.

In the meantime, the production team was beginning to take shape. They brought someone in to handle the tape archives and logging. Then they hired a travel coordinator. They found someone to locate audition sites out of state. When all was said and done, they brought in over a half-dozen people, not counting production assistants, to do all the crap I was doing. I was left with only having to find locations for local auditions and help book people to attend the auditions.

While things were good on my end, bad turned to worse for Hedda. Larry and Hedda disagreed on everything. I had learned it was Larry who didn’t want me as a talent scout. Well, it turned out he wasn’t too keen on Hedda either. When I was given my lateral promotion, Larry pulled me aside and assured me it was nothing personal. As he and Hedda clashed, I found myself in the middle. I knew Hedda was on her way out, and she wanted me to walk out with her. I had no other source of income to walk to. But when discussions resumed with the previous season’s department head, I contemplated leaving.

I made it clear to both Larry and Jack that I could not stay if the former head came back. I do not know for certain why she didn’t return, but I was pleased with the decision. I was more pleased when Larry and Jack told me they had no intention of letting me go. Leadership of the department was spread out amongst a group of people. I loved the comedic element. You see, I was working for Dick (Clark), with no head (of the department).

Auditions were held in restaurants, bars and karaoke establishments across the country. Thousands of people sent in tapes, but only a few (less than five) were chosen solely on their tapes. The audition process was like a karaoke gong show. Each person filled out a form stating who he or she sounded like and what song he or she wanted to sing. If that person chose too obscure an artist, or an artist whose music we couldn’t secure the rights to, the auditionee had the option of picking someone else or walking away. The auditionee was only allowed to sing for about a minute or so. The really bad ones got the boot quicker than the rest. Tapes of the really, really bad ones were set aside for our own, interoffice amusement.

The show had a few unwritten rules. Although contestants were made to appear, as much as possible, like the celebrity they sounded like, none would ever appear in black face. On a similar note, males could not portray female singers and vice-versa. I took a call from a disgruntled man from New York who had been turned away from an audition. He was a man’s man: a native New Yorker with a loud, deep voice, and east coast accent, who collected garbage for the city. His singing voice just happened to be a dead ringer, for Judy Garland. After he complained, it became policy to turn away no one from an audition, even though they had no chance of being on the show.

Talent scouts had to find over 100 contestants for the show. When all was said and done, over 7,000 people auditioned for season two. Contestants were more or less hand picked by Larry. At the end of the day, there had to be someone who decided who had the voice and who didn’t. Larry’s background with shows like American Bandstand, Live Aid and the American Music Awards made him a natural for the task. He also didn’t pull any punches. There was no mistaking whether or not Larry liked the way someone sounded.

It was clear after the previous season that talent escorts did more than just escort talent. The escorts had to see to the comfort and needs of the contestants, while not going overboard. On season one, whenever the non-escort talent staff became involved with the contestants during showtime, problems ensued. To make sure season two didn’t suffer the same problems, I was again made the key talent escort, answerable to no specific person, short of the producers themselves.

Production took place in August and September, which meant Ashley had to go back to school. She stayed on part time which I liked, mostly because she was a hard worker, but I must also confess to finding her cute (but she had a boyfriend… all the good ones are taken). One of the people I hired as a talent escort was Rich, an old friend from high school. Rich was a few years older than me, and he had been in and out of various colleges for about a dozen years, all the while never attaining a diploma. Rich did not live up to his name, and his friends (myself included) were constantly paying for his food and drink when we’d all hang out. I figured the only way to make sure Rich had money was to give him a job. A mutual friend of ours sub rented her old South Pasadena apartment to him, which was only a few miles from Burbank.

Blair, who had been a talent scout during preproduction, took a position as an escort once the majority of the talent had been booked. It was a demotion in rank and salary, but it was either that or unemployment. Lety was the niece of one of my union friends at the Tonight show. He told me she was a good employee and she did not disappoint. Sara, the sister of one of the talent scouts, was equally competent. The team was complete. My crew performed their jobs well, although Rich had a tendency to be late.

We ran a tight, albeit undisciplined ship. Essentially, as long as people were where they needed to be, when they needed to be, we didn’t care how it happened. Nor did we care what happened during the down time. And during the entire second season, I received only one formal complaint from a contestant. Since it was known that contestant had stolen items from the dressing rooms, it wasn’t taken very seriously. Coincidentally, I did get an informal complaint from a female contestant who was convinced I had stolen her clothes, and nothing anyone said could convince her otherwise. She was as easily dismissed.

The first day each set of contestants arrived, they met with everybody they would be working with during their rehearsals and performances. I was the first person they got to meet with. I had to give them the reality speech. The reality was we were not a big budget show. We didn’t have fancy catering. I personally kept the green room stocked with things like Cheez-Its and Rice Krispie Treats. Dressing rooms were typically shared by three to five people. There was a lot of “hurry up and wait” while they were there. Some waited as long as six hours before leaving their dressing room. And as long as they were on the studio lot, they were in our custody, meaning they couldn’t go to the bathroom or take a cigarette break without one of the escorts tagging along. Yeah, I was much loved by the contestants.

Most of the crew from season one returned for season two (we were all gluttons for punishment). Our stage managers Mike, John and Jon were back, as was propmaster Bill. Everyone greeted the return with a general sense of malaise, but it was hard to say no to a steady paycheck. The dancers were back, including my favorite twins and several new dancers. The cutest dancer turned out to be happily married. Of course, she didn’t wear her wedding ring on the job, so I didn’t know that. In my mind, I’d planned the rest of our lives together before I learned the truth. The news Cindy Crawford had a baby with someone other than me didn’t even hit me as hard.

In early September, it was announced the show had more than exceeded its budget. In an effort to minimize the fiscal damage, it was decided the final episode of the season would be taped a week earlier than scheduled, on the same day as two semifinal episodes. It effectively shortened the production schedule by one week (and lengthened a taping day by several hours). It also denied a lot of dedicated men and women, myself included, a week’s worth of pay.

Throughout the season, as we attempted to follow the daily schedules, the elaborate set changes and positioning of the lights caused delay after delay. The production staff, most of whom were hired on a flat, daily rate, went about completing their assigned tasks. Meanwhile, the staging and lighting crews, mostly union men and women, caused everyone to stay well past the scheduled wrap time. While I had come to expect occasional long days as a part of routine television production, during season two, we were averaging wrap times one and two hours past those printed on the schedules on nearly every rehearsal day. When I questioned whether or not the times would ever by adjusted on paper, I was told the schedules would remain as they were.

Days began for the contestants at 8:00 a.m. and ended over 12 hours later at times. I was given nominal petty cash to provide contestants with snacks, and we offered a sandwich tray two out of the three days they were there. However, the long hours of waiting did not go unnoticed by the contestants, forced to sit in their dressing rooms or in the green room while the stage crew reset for another act.

As for my escort team, they were each making a flat rate of $75 a day, the same as the previous season’s crew. Escorts had to arrive before the contestants and stay until after they were gone. Each day, an escort also stayed to assist in the office, in addition to our assigned duties. As with any positions with a daily rate, we are allotted no overtime pay.

Those of us who did our jobs promptly and completely were given no extra provisions for our effort. The crews getting paid hourly simply billed the show for their overtime. It should go without saying that the product each department produced was good beyond description. In spite of the amateur contestants, everything from makeup to lighting was highly polished. But while the high quality of the series was achieved, it was achieved by going over budget.

The quality of the last three shows, however, suffered irrevocably. The skills of the many talented men and women who worked on Your Big Break were wasted on a hastily assembled “grand final” episode. How could the episode’s quality not suffer when four of the six acts weren’t known until mere hours before the episode was taped in front of a studio audience?

No doubt, there were aspects of the situation I wasn’t fully aware of that might have justified the decision to eliminate the final week of production. But I saw the decision as nothing less than a slap in the faces of those of us who didn’t deserve it. And I wasn’t alone.

The final shooting day fell on a Saturday, meaning our neighbors at the Tonight show were off for the weekend. Roberta, their back stage manager, had given me permission to use their dressing rooms when they didn’t need them. I set aside the one normally used by VIP musical guests. On the wall next to studio three’s stage doors were dressing room cards left behind by various celebrities. Everyone who appeared on the Tonight show had his or her name on a card placed in a slot on their dressing room door. But whereas simple folks like me would see it as a nifty souvenir, many did not. The leftovers get posted on the makeshift wall of fame. For no reason in particular, I placed the dressing room card for Gary Coleman on the door to the dressing room I had set aside, then I informed the talent escorts that no contestants, producers or anyone else was to know of my plans for the room (I later amended that by saying all cute chicks were welcome).

The dressing room became our official lounge… an exclusive second floor green room, if you will. All of the contestants had been to the studio before, all were semifinalists and finalists. They didn’t need us bossing them around every 30 seconds. We told them if they needed us, they could knock on our door. The contestants loved the freedom and respected us (or feared us) enough not to abuse it.

Meanwhile, in the privacy of our room, we opted to take part in a glorious day of alcoholic consumption. A lackluster wrap party, complete with cold pizza and warm beer, had been scheduled for the end of the evening, but we didn’t feel like waiting. We began drinking at about 8:00 a.m. and most of us didn’t leave the wrap party until… well, some of us were the last to leave the party after 3:00 a.m. the following morning. It was what happened in between that caused a small panic. We ran out of alcohol.

It was devastating. It was roughly an hour before the final episode began taping, and we didn’t pace ourselves as well as we should have. I attempted to steal alcohol from the site of the wrap party (a nearby rehearsal hall), but Hugh, again the show’s production coordinator, wouldn’t let me. He was setting up for the party, and he guarded the alcohol like a hawk. I considered Hugh to be a good friend, but anyone who tries to deny me alcohol becomes my instant, though temporary, mortal enemy. I needed strategy. I needed guile. I settled for the help of a cute dancer.

My favorite married dancer approached, curious as to why I was lying fetal in the hallway (OK, I wasn’t really lying fetal, but it’s not too hard to picture given the circumstances). I was hit by divine, drunken inspiration. I asked her to go in the rehearsal hall and chat with Hugh. The distraction of a scantily clad, beautiful woman was effective enough for me to make off with nine bottles of semi-decent beer. It was enough to get me through the last show, leaving one or two bottles for the others to fight over. As for the dancer who aided me in my quest, if she hadn’t been married… oh, never mind.

Was it ethically wrong of me to drink during production, and urge the rest of my crew to do the same? Yes. It was unprofessional and could have seriously jeopardized the show and my career. Fortunately, everything on our end managed to run like clockwork in spite of, or perhaps because of, us being shit-faced. The contestants never found out, neither did anyone else who worked the show.

During the wrap party, while everyone else was gloomy and sure the show would not be picked up for a third season, all the talent escorts and I had bright smiles on our faces.