The Audition

In honor of the two-year anniversary of the most unprofessionally run audition of the twenty-first century (thus far), I thought I'd share yet another writing exercise in which I was to describe an event I had been looking forward to, but that didn't turn out as I had expected. Names and locations have been deliberately omitted to protect the innocent.

Of the eight applicants vying for the two open positions in my hometown orchestra, my chances looked good. I was a little upset that I was asked to choose which position I wanted to pursue, as I was planning to audition on both instruments. Assuming that everyone had faced the same dilemma, I chose English horn, as I had been asked to sub on the orchestra's masterworks concert the same weekend, a last-minute call for an extremely difficult piece. I was also thinking that most people would choose to audition on oboe instead of an auxiliary instrument. As it turns out, I was the only one who was asked to audition on one instrument or the other; everyone else (save the college student who didn't have an English horn) was auditioning on both instruments.

Since no one else had to choose between instruments, I tried to get my name back on the oboe audition list that morning, but was told that it was too late, which didn't seem fair. Then the committee decided to separate the auditions instead of having every applicant start on oboe (which is what usually happens), and those they wanted to hear again would return with the English horn in the final rounds. So I sulked in the harshly lit warm-up room I had been assigned and waited for the other seven applicants to finish their oboe auditions. An hour passed. Then another. I started asking questions two-and-a-half hours in, but at that point, they were just moving onto the final round. The screen that separates the candidates from the judging panel is removed during the final round, and musicians are allowed to interact with the committee.

After another 45 minutes of deliberation, the announcement was made that no one played well enough for the Maestra’s liking (I find that hard to believe; there were some great players there!), but that the position would be given by default to the woman who had been awarded the one-year position the season before. After all, she had performed better than all of the other candidates that morning.

Finally, numbers were drawn for the English horn audition. The way rooms were assigned was this: Candidate #1 was placed in warm-up room #1, Candidate #2 (that was me) went into warm-up room #2, and so forth. As I was running over the excerpts that I had been trying not to over practice in the hours before, I heard a knock at the door. The Maestra opened the door and stuck her head in the room.

“Who’s in here?” she asked. I balked, as the first cardinal rule of any legit audition is not to let the committee see any of the applicants before they play.

“Oh,” she said, deflated. “I just needed to use the bathroom. Never mind.” Having practically grown up in that auditorium, I know for a fact there was a bathroom about 20 feet behind where she had been sitting in the auditorium, but I said nothing.

Then I heard a knock at the practice room door next to mine. Through the thin walls, I heard her ask to use the bathroom and she entered the room. Instead of voiding her bladder, however, she proceeded to coach Candidate #1 (who was a finalist from the previous audition, not to mention a great English horn player) on her sound and her playing style. As I listened, thunderstruck, on the other side of the drywall divide, I heard the Maestra tell Candidate #1 that, “this is what I’m listening for. This is how I want this to be played. Do you think you can do that?” Then she left the room and assumed her spot behind the curtain.

Seething, but hoping to remain more professional than the Maestra, I waited until after my audition to approach the personnel manager. I played well, but my focus was shot, as a good portion of my brain was still trying to process what had just happened. I may as well have just left because – lo and behold – Candidate #1 won the gig. Imagine that.

But I still had a concert to play that night. Under the Maestra's woefully unprepared baton. And I couldn't no-show; the orchestra and the soloist would have been just as affected (possibly more so) by my absence as the Maestra. So I stayed and played. I'd like to think I played well enough to make her regret her decision (not that I wanted to play for her again... EVER... in fact, I told the personnel manager to forget my name and lose my number before I left the audition that afternoon). Although I took the high road that night, I also took great satisfaction in reporting her to the Union the following week.

Fortunately, the universe has a way of righting wrongs. I won't go into the specifics of what has happened since, except to tell the Maestra that karma is a bitch, what goes around comes around, etc. etc. etc.