After about an hour and a half of “group songs,” the auditions start. Picture this: The Freedom Hall stage is sectioned off into 12 spaces with black drapes that, unfortunately, aren’t soundproof. This means I can hear every Christina Aguilera and Whitney Houston wannabe singing to the top of her lungs. Because we all know that louder is better, right?
When my section is called, I hand my release form to an “American Idol” staffer, who directs me and three others toward the security guard, who directs us to the next available table, where we wait to meet the producers who will decide whether we move on to the second round of auditions in September.
There are two doors for us to go through: one for rejects and another for those who score a “golden ticket.” Yep, just like Willy Wonka! “Holy crap,” I think. “Is this competition like magic or is it reality?”
I’m three rows away from auditioning when a young girl looks at me and asks “Do you wanna take my spot?” I ask her if she is nervous. She denies it, but I agree to take her place anyway. It puts me one step closer to figuring out what all this is about.
All I can hear is people singing — behind me, beside me, in front of me. One guy comes to the conclusion, while still in line, that he isn’t going to get to the next round because he is too “musical theater.” But he continues to sing anyway. Some people across the room are mangling songs at massive volume. One girl is singing Whitney Houston’s version of “I Will Always Love You.” One guy is singing a Creed song. I just want the noise to end.
Right before I get to the front of the line, one of two producers for whom I’m supposed to sing leaves. On her way out, she offers this advice: “Make sure you get to the big part of the song soon, because you don’t have a lot of time.”
The remaining producer asks who wants to go first. I step up with a smile, tell her the name of my song and get started. It’s my version of Ray Charles’ “Drown in My Own Tears.” I am normally a very subtle singer, but I quickly get to the big part. I feel confident about my singing but am not sure how much eye contact I made with her. (Eye contact is a sign of intensity. But too much eye contact — the “stalker’s stare” — can be a sign of insanity. I’m aiming for somewhere in between.) She lets me sing for about 18 seconds. Then I step back.
Next to me is a Clay Aiken remake who sings “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” He is too cute, with dark hair and a black shirt. He seems confident and sounds as if he trained mostly in theater. Next to him is a good vocalist who sings “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman,” and does a pretty good job with it. She is a short, cute black girl with long hair. Next to her is a woman with a baby-like voice. I have no idea what song she chose, though, because it sounds as it is Anna Nicole’s infant child who is singing.
Then we are done. After waking before dawn — twice — and standing in line for three hours — twice — we get less than a half a minute to sing. Now we stand before a producer who says, with the cutest Australian accent, “You guys did a good job, but unfortunately you aren’t what we are looking for.”
My first reaction? I should have sung a Lil Wayne song.
