Seattleites are the world’s champion coffee drinkers and were long before the green lady in the sunburst took over the world on a street corner near you. People say it’s the weather, and it is. There’s something about a cold, sparklingly gray day that makes one’s fingers itch to surround a comfortably steaming mug of something caffeinated, sip slowly, and discuss something vaguely ideological in an extremely sophisticated manner while gazing out the window at the evergreen trees that point toward the boundless gray skies and dancing raindrops . . . Ouch! Now I’m homesick!
I started reading the audition notices in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer at the age of 6, and early on, I began a tradition I called Audition Coffee. Every time I did an audition, I’d blow the budget and take myself out for an unhurried coffee. It was a little celebration all my own.
A post-audition coffee no longer blows my budget, and the coffee shops I frequent are in Manhattan rather than Seattle—but (with a few lapses) I have kept up the tradition. If it was a very good audition, I order a large.
Today, however, I’m not in the mood for a large. Today I’m in the mood for triple grandes, extra shots, cinnamon swirls, and something to eat on the side. Bring on the biscotti! Ha, ha! I have auditioned! Veni, vidi, vinci!
A colleague was quite surprised the other day when I told her I love to audition. (“You what?”) And yet, and at last, I honestly do—once I’m in the door, that is.
The process can be quite tiresome. What particular manifestation of “lyric coloratura mezzo cute with a flair” is clean and hanging in my wardrobe? Do I have to put on makeup again? (I never wear makeup, except to auditions, when I plaster it on with an air of martyrdom, usually at a stoplight.) Left turn? Right turn? “Pardon me, sir, could you direct me to . . . ?”
Then I arrive. “Yes, hello, I’m here to . . .” “The sign-up sheet is . . . oh, hi! Haven’t I seen you at another audition someplace? So nice to run into you again!” “Please tell me all about your Fach changes, and your hair looks . . .” “Is there a warmup . . .?”
I hate this! Why was I born?
I’m an hour early, and no one is in the audition room. “Would it be alright if I go in and get a sense of the space?” I ask.
In I go. All right. The Capulet’s home is there. Romeo and Juliet are getting amorous right there at that window, and I’m going to perch right here on the hitching post and sing them a serenade. Hey, look, another thing in the room I can use. I declare it a tree. Check, check, check. Tra la. Acoustics are fine. Back to the car to take a nap.
Back in the audition waiting room. . . . Why was I born? I hate this! I peer through the window and shamelessly eavesdrop. The Artistic Committee looks as though it’s lost the will to live. I resolve to cheer them up.
“Good evening, I’m Imelda Franklin Bogue . . .”
Well, here I am again, so glad I came in before. Hey, now there are people to sing to. Wow, this is actually fun! This is a blast!
“Que fais-tu, blanche tourterelle . . .”
“Do you have anything else?”
“Ich lade gern mir geste ein . . .”
“Do you have anything else?”
“. . . and a biscotti, please.”
If you have a post-audition tradition, we’d love to hear about it at editorial@classicalsinger.com.
