It’s 5 a.m. The alarm rings. You don’t want to get up, but you force yourself to drag your sorry behind out of bed, knowing you’ll regret it if you don’t.
At 5:45 a.m., you step into the subway. The car that will be teeming with people in just a few hours is still rather empty. You’re grateful, because that means you can sit for a few minutes.
At 6:10 a.m., you make your way down the unusually quiet street, the light of dawn just beginning to shine on the only other people up at this ungodly hour—the street vendors setting up for the day. Maybe you’ll stop for a muffin . . . but on second thought, better not. There’s time for that later. First things first.
At 6:15 a.m., you arrive at your destination, and there awaits the largest group of people you’ve seen yet today. The line has already started to form. Most are standing but some are sitting, using their large bags as barriers between their clothes and the dirty city sidewalk.
What could drag so many people from their beds at a time when the city that never sleeps is actually asleep? Black Friday? A Vera Wang Sample Sale? Nope. It’s not bargain prices or name brands, but an open casting call for an upcoming national tour of The Wizard of Oz.
And the fun is only just beginning. You add your name to the “unofficial list” taped to the still-locked front door of the studio. You won’t be able to get inside until the building opens at 7:30 a.m., so you join the waiting game. You’ve done this before and you know the routine.
You’re no. 20 on the list—a list that could grow to nearly 800 names before the 10 a.m. audition start time rolls around. With that many people on the list, the auditioners will likely choose to type “in” or “out” before hearing anyone sing. This means they’ll line you up in groups of 10 or 20, take a cursory glance at your headshot and résumé, look you up and down, and then type you “in” or “out.” If you’re typed in, you get to come back several hours later and sing 8, maybe 16 or, if you’re really lucky, 32 bars to show all of your talent and ability in 60 seconds or less.
Similar scenes play out at studios around New York City nearly every day during the busy musical theatre audition periods. This is the price that musical theatre actors who are starting out pay. What price do aspiring classical singers pay?
. . .
Audition fees can and do add up, taxing the already strapped-for-cash singer. They also, however, make the audition process a little more civilized. You submit your materials for review ahead of time. If you’re granted an audition, you know its date and time . . . in advance. . . . You plan your day around the 30 minutes you’ll be at the studio. You know you’ll sing at least one complete aria, and most likely two.
The classical singer audition scene is far from perfect, and certain changes can and should be made. Those changes, however, will often come at a cost. If opera companies did go to a musical theatre format, how long would it take singers to complain about the above scenario? “I can’t possibly be expected to sing my best after getting up at 5:30 a.m. and waiting around all day!” “I get just 16 bars? How can a panel really determine anything in that amount of time?” All valid points! Perhaps the musical theatre alternative to audition fees isn’t that charming after all.
As I wrote in 2009, when you are starting out, there is a price to pay. As singers call for change (many of them warranted!), it’s critical to carefully evaluate the pros and cons of each demand, as Sadler conscientiously lays out this month in part two of her series. Better the devil you know than the one you don’t.
