Auditions

A long, long time ago, I went to Tanglewood.

I went accidentally.

My friend, Jennifer, played the flute. All she wanted to do was become a floutist. She practiced all the time. She drove two hours to the city twice a week to take lessons with the principal floutist of the symphony. She was technically perfect, but she could never get the feel of it, the soul. This was to become one of the tragedies of her life. I always marveled at it. How she could be so proficient, yet sound so mechanical, when she obviously loved it so passionately? I thought maybe she was sabotaging herself somehow--holding herself back. She just couldn't send her spirit into it--just couldn't connect. The terrible thing was...she knew it. She knew what was missing.

She wanted to go to Tanglewood. She was originally from the East Coast and knew all about it. But she didn't want to go there alone. So she dragged me along to the auditions.

The auditions were in the city--two hours away. And nobody in our state had heard of Tanglewood except us, so we were the only two people there. They were held in an old high school gym. Jenny went first. Then it was my turn. I wasn't really there to get in, so I didn't put very much effort into my violin playing. After I was done, the guy holding the auditions (who turned out to be the director of the camp, Scott Schillin) winced and asked me, "Do you do anything else?"

"I have the lead in Oklahoma..."I told him.

He smiled and launched in to "Surrey with the Fringe on the Top" singing Curly's part. We went through all the songs--played for about 45 minutes. I got into the vocal program. Not because I could sing particularly well, but because he liked me, I think.

It turned out to be a bit of a mistake on his part. I didn't understand that I'd been let in because of my beaming personality, and refused to act grateful. I thought I should have access to the master classes and protested when we were not all allowed to audition. It was a very difficult summer. It was the summer when I came up very hard against the fact that there were other people who were better than I was. That I had limitations. That there was this whole class of beautiful, rare, gifted artists who, no matter how hard I tried, would always be a cut above. I was used to getting all the attention, and it wasn't going to happen here. A lot happened. And it's probably another story.

But last week, Lilly auditioned for the vocal program at Tanglewood...and Lilly can actually sing.
The auditions were in Chicago. We drove up ahead of the snow. My new years resolution is to be 15 minutes early for everything this year--and we arrived at 5 til three. Her auditions (we thought) were at 310. An old army jail had been converted to a music building--the cells whitewashed and carpeted and turned into practice rooms. The place gave me the creeps. Gas stations and jails can almost never be redone. Unhappiness seeped through the cold walls. Bad vibes.

"We thought you weren't coming," the woman at the desk told us. She was knitting a little pair of blue socks. Baby socks? "We rearranged all the other kids."

"But we're early!" I said.

"It's 5 til 3. Your audition's at 3."

"3:10." I corrected her.

"3. It's all right. She can still audition. What will you be singing?"

"Sebben Crudele." Lilly answers, nonplussed. Both she and I had double-checked the audition time.

"And your second piece?"

"Second piece?" echoed Lilly. "I thought we only needed one."

"It says very clearly you need two pieces."

There's another mother. Her daughter has just gone in. This mother is squat, british, with a kind, seamed face. Through the doors I can hear her daughter trilling an aria from Cosi fan Tutti. She sounds amazing.

"Isn't there something else she knows--from choir or church or something--something she could sing a capella?" She asks us.

"Well...I could sing Samba..." Lilly ventures.

"Jazz is unacceptable." The blue sock knitting woman says. "It'll just have to be one. And is your accompanist here?"

We stare at her.

"You don't have an accompanist." She states. Looks at us like we're idiots. Sighs. "Well, I'll ask Phyllis if she can play this." She takes the sheet music and leaves.

She returns. "Phyllis can play this in her sleep. She's played this hundreds of times."

Great, I think. Not only are we late and unprepared, the one song Lilly will be singing, 240 girls have already auditioned with.

Lilly goes into one of the jail cells to warm up. I try to make small talk. Mistake.

"So," I ask. "Is Scott Schillin still the director?"

"I've never heard of Scott Schillin. Phyllis Hoffman has been the director for years and years and years."

"What about Leonard Atherton. He was the director of the vocal program."

"Are you sure? I've never heard of him, either."

Did I actually go there? I wonder. Did I dream this up.

"Did you go there?" the British lady asks me. "What was it like?"

"Well, apparently it's been about 200 years, but it was magic."

"You went on voice?" Blue sock lady asks me.

"Yes."

"You still sing?"

"No. I wasn't very good." I laugh.

"Well, let's hope your daughter's better."

Geez.

Lilly comes out. "I think I'm ready." She's wearing her snow boots. She's wearing a black cable knit cashmere sweater--one of my old ones. There are moth holes in the sleeve, but she refuses to wear anything else. Black tights. Black short skirt. Her auburn hair swings around her sharp little jaw. She's put on 4 pounds since the anorexia thing started. She's a little softer around the corners, but not by much. She doesn't look like a person anymore. She looks like an anime character. All eyes and legs. Oh, Lilly. Why couldn't we have gotten it right? She's always so dead on it in terms of schedules and details, I didn't even think to double check her. Just drove her up to Chicago. Nick's the one I always have to bird dog. Never Lilly. I feel as if I've been punched in the gut, looking at her.

"Break a leg," I tell her.

"oh--should I wear these?" she asks about her muddy boots. I run and fetch her real shoes.

We stayed in Evanston that night. At the Hilton Garden. Went to see Frost/Nixon. Walked arm and arm in the freezing snowy night, the muffled streets. I took her out to eat at a fancy restaurant to celebrate. Got the rack of lamb. She got the acorn squash. But she picked at the creme brulee on my plate and snatched some of the lamb--with her old greedy bad manners. And that hasn't happened in a very long time. So, all in all, in spite of the fact that we spent about $350 we didn't have driving there, eating, and staying in the hotel for a 5 minute audition we proceeded to bomb--I consider it a success.

That's my 1/2 hour.