An extract from Gary Day’s Anthology
THE GRASS IS BROWN ON BOTH SIDES OF THE FENCE

This was my first real professional gig.
The play, about a homosexual birthday party, had already been a huge success for the Harry M. Miller Organization. Now a second cast was going to pick up where the first had left off, for another tour that would, this time, include Queensland. And NEW ZEALAND?
The new cast being Tony Atherton, Rick Scully, Tom Stanchovich, John Stanton, Alan Lander, Byron Williams, Brent Verdon, and myself.

The original Boys in the Band cast were the first to get paid for rehearsals. Before then, an actor lucky enough to score a gig in commercial theatre, had to support themselves through the rehearsal period until the play opened. This could be up to eight weeks and seems hard to believe now. However, these were the days when actors pissed in the sink if they were lucky enough to have one. Back then dressing room accommodation, even in our most famous theatres, was pretty basic. The first cast had left big shoes to fill. But we were also going to be directed by the original director John Tasker 1933 - 1988. Rehearsals did not go well and you could feel Tasker’s displeasure. This came to a head when we moved to Newcastle, which was the first stop on the Tour that would include Brisbane, Sydney and New Zealand.

NZ caused me some concern because, playing conservative Christchurch in a play about a gay birthday party, would not go down well with my parents. My father in particular. But as this was an issue that had yet to arise, I put it on the back burner and concentrated on more immediate problems. Like the impending opening night in Newcastle.

The play was in shocking shape and there were only two more dress rehearsals before we opened to preview audiences. The first of these ended up with the play grinding to a halt early in the second act. No one had a clue what was supposed to happen next. The next, was the director John Tasker walking slowly up the aisle to the front of the stage. He took his time before announcing that the whole production was just a pile of steaming shit, and that he had had enough, and was going to the pub. As for us, we could do what we liked. If we wanted to start again, feel free, as it would be no skin off his nose, because he would not be there to see it. He then left for the pub, leaving all the cast standing like idiots on the stage. We decided to have another go at the play and rough as it was, we managed to get through it. Then a drunken John Tasker weaved his way down to the front of the stage, and said that he had come back for the second act, and that it had improved. With as much brandy as he had on board, I am sure it would have seemed so. However, we had got through it and although it was to be a shaky opening week, it did improve. By the time the Newcastle run was over we felt confident about tackling the Brisbane season.

Queensland was then known as the Deep North.
Boys in The Band had caused such a controversy in Melbourne, it resulted in a Court case that Miller had won and was responsible for changing the archaic censorship rules in Victoria.

Queensland censorship had been seen as too risky for the first tour, but Miller now felt the time was right to shake its cage as well. There was a line in the play when one of the characters says, ‘Who do you have to fuck to get a drink around here?’ Using that word on stage had the same effect as when – in an even more conservative period – My Fair Lady’s Eliza Dolittle yells at a racehorse, ‘Move your bloomin’ arse’.

While rehearsing the play, John Tasker had a specific direction for me after the line ‘who do you have to fuck to get a drink around here?’ As that line got a huge laugh, I was to walk over to the bar, make two gin and tonics, and deliver them to two of the play’s characters who were standing downstage. Then, as according to Tasker, the laughter would only have started to subside, I was to return to the bar at a speed that would be designated by the diminishing mirth, to make another gin and tonic for myself. Being in an empty rehearsal space with no audience, the time it took to fill that void seemed ludicrous. Surely the laughter couldn’t possibly last that long. I questioned the prickly John Tasker on this several times. He allowed for my disbelief and was patient with me, because I guess he could understand why I was questioning his judgement. But he was absolutely right. On opening night in Brisbane, the weight of the laughter swept over the stage like a tsunami, and I had to lean against it on my walk to the bar, where I made two gin and tonics, and delivered them before again returning to the bar to make another for myself.

This being in spite of the censorship authorities demanding that the line in question be cut. Having had the Brisbane Police in at a preview, it had been laid out in no uncertain terms that if anyone said the word ‘Fuck’ on stage, they would be immediately arrested and the show closed. This caused a lot of discussion between the censorship powers that be, the police and the Miller organization. Finally, a substitute word was found to replace the offending FUCK one. The line was changed to ‘who do you have to SUCK to get a drink around here?’ This was seen as acceptable because Fuck was a swear word and Suck wasn’t.
The hypocrisy of censorship. Unbelievable.

After the opening night performance in Brisbane, Bernard King, future cooking whiz and raconteur, was quick to the dressing room. At this time, he was well known in Brisbane but not yet to the rest of the Australia. Obviously gay – he carried on as if he had invented it – he came back stage after the opening night performance and told me that there was a lady waiting in the upstairs bar who would like to meet me. As this was the location of the opening night party and where we were all headed anyway, I didn’t take much notice. So, after removing our makeup and changing our clothes, the cast wandered up to the Bar. There was a large crowd of local dignitaries and social butterflies who had papered the house for the Opening Night performance. Cameras flashed, reporters asked questions and Bernard King again reminded me that there was a lady at the bar who would like to meet me. I asked him which one and he pointed to a blonde who had her back to me.
At that moment, she turned around and it was obvious that this was no ordinary lady. Very beautiful, and wearing a full-length, black form-fitting coat, trimmed with delicate black ostrich feathers. As she was looking at me, a tip of an ostrich feather caught on her in breath and, to stunning effect, adhered itself to the lipstick on her bottom lip. WOW. I thought if this is one of the side benefits of being an actor, then I have definitely found my vocation.
I introduced myself. We chatted, drank and held each other’s attention. The party then moved on to a nightclub, and it was there that I asked her if she wanted to dance. She did. Being a hot night, I suggested that she remove her coat. She was reluctant to do this and it was only at her flat afterwards that I found out why. She was wearing nothing underneath it. Later, when we were sharing a candlelit bath with a joint and the odd stray ostrich feather, I asked her what her profession was. She rounded out a perfect night by telling me that she was a lion tamer in a Circus.

Nearly forty years later in Brisbane, at the opening night party for David Williamson’s The Great Man, she walked up to me and asked if I remembered her. I would have, even if she hadn’t had the remains of a black ostrich feather attached to her hair clasp. I told her that of course I remembered her, and nor had I forgotten that amazing night, that had led me to believe that such side benefits would now become part of the norm, when in fact nothing remotely like that ever happened to me again. A couple of laughs later we moved on, having declared that it had been a treat to run into each other again.

The only gay actor in the play was playing the only straight character. It was a popular show and women seemed to gravitate back stage as if they believed that we were gay and that a good rogering would have us back on the straight and narrow. Nobody saw any reason to change that mindset.

The power of acting. Boys in the Band had been touring Australia for years and the wear and tear on the set and props were starting to show. This became apparent during a long scene that involved a telephone. One of the characters – played by Alan Lander – has been jilted, and grabs the phone out of another’s hand, then delivers a tirade of abuse to his boyfriend who is on the end of the line. Holding the hand piece to his ear with one hand, and the cradle with the dial on it in the other, Alan Lander begins his long speech into the phone. However the rest of the cast, watching and listening intently to Alan’s every word, know something that he doesn’t. The phone cord has come unplugged from its base. We watch in amazement as Alan continues to talk into a phone that’s cord just spirals down and is plugged into nothing. Alan hasn’t noticed and is delivering his speech with such conviction the audience go along with it. In a situation like this the cast have an obligation to rectify mistakes and justify them. The others, like myself, could think of no way to help Alan out of this one. I still can’t think of one. So Alan is on his own but going well, because the power of his performance makes the impossible seem feasible. He probably would have got away with it if he had not then noticed that the cord was not plugged in. He turned a deathly white and his voice just melted away to nothing. That’s when the audience were merciless and their laughter knew no bounds. Poor Alan. It was like he had turned into a white sheet of paper that had found a crack in the floorboards to slither through. But then the audience, realising that they had just seen an actor, through no fault of his own disintegrate in front of their eyes, had a change of heart and started to applaud. This brought some colour back into Alan’s cheeks, and the phone call having almost reached its conclusion, had left the essence of the play intact, so it kick started and was soon back on track.

That incident remains an object lesson in what you can get away with if you truly believe in what you are saying.

From Brisbane, the production went on to a successful season in Sydney. The New Zealand leg was cancelled because of anticipated problems over censorship. The Land of the Long White Cloud would later miss out on seeing Barry Humphries too. Why? Because the powers that be at the time, would not allow a show called ‘An Evening’s Intercourse with Dame Edna’ into the country.
So, Boys in the Band never made it to New Zealand. While I was a little disappointed I was also somewhat relieved on my parent’s behalf.

The Tour did get to go to Melbourne as a last-minute replacement for another Harry M. Miller production called Sleuth. Patrick Wymark, the English actor, had died of a heart attack mid season, so it would be over to Boys in the Band to fill the gap.

There were several incidents from the original production of Boys that made theatrical folklore. The lead character Michael is on stage the entire time. On this particular night, the actor playing him is busting for a piss. What to do? He sees a window of opportunity where he can leave the stage and relieve himself. Not knowing why, the cast suddenly see him go through the shutter doors leading supposedly into the kitchen. Through the shutters, the actor now looks for something to piss in. He spots an empty, dusty old wine flagon, rushes over to it and pees in it long and hard.
One problem solved. However, being a true professional, he knows that as he has left the stage, he should justify why. Time has now run out, and his next line of dialogue eminent. After a quick dust of the flagon he is through the shutter doors to be on stage, back in the play and carrying the flagon that he has just urinated into. Makes sense, he went into the kitchen to get some more alcohol. The play continues and he delivers his lines as he puts the flagon amongst the other bottles on the set’s drink caddy. The play continues, no problem, until the cast’s attention is drawn to the steam coming out of the top of the wine flagon. Putting two and two together, it would take a lot of control for the cast to keep a lid on the humour that it had provided.

After the first tour of Boys in the Band ended, one of the actors, under the influence of LSD, believed he had channelled all the evil within him into his foot.
That done, he then amputated it with a knife.
True story. I have seen the nice shiny metal one that replaced it.

Click or tap here to read what happens when Gary goes to NIDA.

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