I want to be an ‘Idol’: Truth behind auditions

At one point midmorning, we had our own little ray of sunshine — "American Idol" host Ryan Seacrest strolled into the auditorium.  Everyone got excited and moved around craning for a glimpse.  A glimpse was all we got; from where I was seated, Ryan Seacrest looked more like a walking stick figure.

He grabbed the microphone and welcomed us, and we were all tricked into thinking that the auditions were about to begin, but as was par for the course, they did not.  For the umpteenth time, we were required to pose for the camera.  Mr. Seacrest had to do his own takes, and we were his wallpaper.  We had to sit silently and wait for his session to wrap, and occasionally, cheer on cue.

One poor guy was called out in front of the entire auditorium for wearing a hat with a logo on it.  The producer told him to remove his hat and spoke into the microphone that the show is “sponsored by Ford, not Honda.” Ford tough, indeed.

It was now almost 11 a.m. and not a single person had sung before a judge. 

Finally, we were done with Seacrest’s shots, and a new media titan joined the group: Nigel Lythgoe, producer of “American Idol” and “So You Think You Can Dance.” After he plugged his upcoming documentary about running a vineyard ("Corkscrewed: The Wrath of Grapes"), he told us about the audition process.

There were supposed to be 12 stations of judges, two to each booth (in reality there were only 11 because they either couldn’t make the tables fit across the floor or else they’d forgotten to pack one). We, the contestants, would be brought down in sections and placed in groups of four at one of the 12 (11) booths. We eventually would have about 15 seconds to perform a song of our choice. 

For those of you who are poor at math, that’s 48 (44) people auditioning every minute or so.  From there, we would either receive a Golden Ticket to advance to the next round, or we would have our wristband cut off, our dreams crushed, and be sent on our merry way. 

It became apparent that there would be no rubbing elbows with the Immaculate Three.  Simon, Paula and Randy were not in the building.  We would, however, get to audition for Mr. Lythgoe if we made it past the first round.  Mr. Lythgoe wished us luck and encouraged us to argue with the judges if there was a camera nearby. Then we were off.

Fifteen seconds of fame
I was in a middle section, so I knew I’d have a bit of a wait, but nothing prepared me for the five hours I was about to endure in a cramped seat, still soaked and now being blasted with Key Arena's fine air-conditioning. 

I entertained myself by watching the Crazies.  There were people with signs, people in costumes, people dressed like ladies of the night and their brokers. My favorite sign claimed that if they didn’t let a  certain girl on television, her boss would fire her. I saw Wonder Woman, Uncle Sam, and Madonna from every decade.  The Crazies were selling indulgences, but instead of money they were rationing out dignity, and instead of Heaven, they got a ticket onto television.  And several of them did get that elusive Golden Ticket.

But I did not.  After overhearing a couple singers (a horrible version of "Can You Stand the Rain?" and a dynamite take on "Signed, Sealed, Delivered," which did earn its crooner a golden ticket), I was finally up before two judges, to sing second in a group of four women.

The woman in front of me was terrible (and didn't even bother to wear anything classier than sweatpants), but at least she smiled.  I had originally planned to sing “Sin Wagon” as my audition piece, but eventually decided not to sing a Dixie Chicks song in front of Fox producers. 

I picked Eva Cassidy's version of "At Last" instead.  I sang my fifteen seconds, and I was pretty pleased at how I sounded.  The two singers that sang after me weren't terrible, but there wasn’t anything flashy or fancy about the four of us. The male judge took a moment to consider and then delivered his verdict, “I’m sorry ladies, but I’m going to have to pass this time.”

As I left the audition I wondered — should I have worn a costume?  Dressed up like a Madonna? The Madonna? Should I have made a sign announcing that my hometown was hundreds of miles away? Should I have done cartwheels or handsprings like some of the other contestants?  I then remembered that I can’t do cartwheels or handsprings, and reality set back in.  Reality.  Reality television, and not a talent show.  Jessica’s words came flooding back to me.  I could have done any one of those things sacrificing my dignity, and perhaps gotten on television, but was it worth it?

I had walked through the gates and come back out again, not with a Golden Ticket, but with the knowledge that I had done the best I could and there’s some pride in that.  Perhaps the reality is that I’m just not cut out for reality television.  I rather like my dignity, and prefer to keep it intact.

Although, I do wonder when "The Apprentice" auditions are coming up.

Although being the next "American Idol" is not in Whitney Henry's future, she will graciously accept a record deal from another company.

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