After we parked the car, we had to walk more than a half-hour to get to the Exhibition grounds.
As it happened, we found ourselves walking directly behind another auditioner: a man in his mid-fifties, scruffy-looking in that "I'd rather be in a Texas honky-tonk" sort of way, supported by a hat, an amp, a guitar and several friends. I asked Dave if we could walk a bit more slowly so we didn’t have to chat with him on the way to the designated audition spot, and he was happy to oblige.
To get to the Subway Auditions tent, which was tucked discreetly behind the Food Building, we had to walk the length of the entire midway. I wondered whether this was deliberate: were they trying to confront us with a surging sea of humanity even before we made it to the subway itself?
Whether or not it was on purpose, this was indeed the effect. The intermingled smell of cotton candy, Tiny Tom donuts and sweat seemed oddly appropriate as we lugged the guitar the three-kilometre distance from our car. Dave insisted on carrying my guitar (partly because my back had been out for a week and I was favouring one hip) and we had to stop a few times because of my back, the guitar and my suddenly-uncomfortable shoes. We also decided to temporarily ditch the jean jacket that I had chosen for my wardrobe, because the temperature was above 30 degrees Celsius.
Dressing for the auditions was something of a challenge. What does one wear to sing in a subway, exactly? You can’t be too formal, and yet the pre-audition materials advised us we were being judged on "professional appearance". A friend had advised me that I should aim for something "semi-homeless": that is, not too expensive (because then nobody would think I needed any donations) yet not too desperate.
I decided that my jean jacket would do the trick. I had worn it almost constantly since I bought it five years ago, so it looked comfortably lived in, yet pulled-together. But in the heat it had to go. So I was wearing a white long-sleeved t-shirt, my favourite beaded necklace, chocolate brown polyester trousers from Value Village and faux-leather boots which were $19.99 at Zellers. All suitably cheap chic.
The auditions are formal, structured and difficult—the antithesis of what the public assumes busking to be: that is, informal, unstructured and easy. You have exactly seven minutes, and to keep you in line a special events policeman flashes you a "one-minute" card at the appropriate time. You are instructed to stand in a certain spot on stage, make eye contact with the judges and play your best material first, because it’s the first impression that really counts.
I considered myself a seasoned performer, but I was reminded that there’s a big difference between a performance (where people have come on purpose to hear you play) and an audition (when people don’t know you and are evaluating you). Even though my brain said I was relaxed, and I had practised my audition piece hundreds of times, I discovered that some of the notes I delivered effortlessly in rehearsal simply weren’t there, and I had to effect a (hopefully) rootsy growl to get through the excerpt of my second song, "No Place to Go".
I was surprised at how many people were in the audience. Although it was a sunny day and the seating area was blessedly shady, it was still hard to fathom why so many spectators decided to sit for awhile and hear several competitors in a row. But then, it was a free performance… and the people in the seats seemed genuinely interested in the music and eager to assist in the selection process by nodding, clapping and applauding.
It was over before I knew it, and I found myself wishing good luck to classical guitar player who was on deck (a university student recently arrived here from Japan) and the amp-wielding, hat-wearing country singer we first noticed in the parking lot.
I said goodbye to the policeman, who offered me extra bottled water to take home.
Dave was waiting for me and offered to carry my guitar.
"You nailed it," he said.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Monday, August 09, 2004
Ready, Set...
After sending in my application to audition, I didn't hear anything from the TTC for three weeks, which gave me plenty of time to reconsider this rather impulsive, even crazy, idea.
To my surprise, most times when I turned my thoughts to the application, I didn't feel a queasiness in the pit of my stomach. Instead, I felt a brisk resolve, as if I'd decided to apply for a challenging corporate job or train for a 10K marathon (neither of which is likely to happen any time soon). Even so, I reminded myself, my unusual confidence could be simply a by-product of uncertainty: after all, I needed to be one of the first 175 applicants and my forms were sent in at the last minute. It was less nerve-wracking to think that if I didn't get in to audition this year, I could wait until next year.
But today my invitation to audition arrived in the mail. I'm to report to the Canadian National Exhibition grounds, behind the Food Building, a half-hour before 3:20 p.m. on Sunday, August 22nd.
My son Tucker, who is ten, picked up the letter. "Hey Mom, there’s something for you from the TTC."
"Oh," I said, trying to sound casual. "Just what I've been waiting for."
"What’s it about?"
"Um, well, I'm auditioning to become a subway musician."
His over-the-top enthusiasm surprised me.
"Really?!!," he enthused. "That's great Mom. You'll be perfect!"
I was genuinely flattered. I didn't realize he held such strong feelings for either my singing career or the TTC.
"You think so?"
"Yes, Mom. You'll be great. And it'll be fun to ride around in the cars all day."
He was slightly disappointed to learn that if I passed the audition, I'd be singing on a subway platform, not on the actual train. But he was delighted to learn that people would be throwing change--"maybe even toonies, Mom"--into my guitar case.
At that moment, I felt profoundly grateful that my children, at 7 and 10, are still young enough to be impressed that their mother might be a subway busker, and that they might see my trip to the subway each morning as a form of actually going to work. I realized that in a few years, none of this would seem cool in the least, which gave me yet another reason to seize the day.
I got to work, planning my audition. Turns out auditioning for the TTC is not an easy task: each musician must present a "medley" of at least three songs, in an audition that is 7 minutes or less. Performers are judged on "musical talent, entertainment value and stage presence". "Uniqueness" is also a plus.
Because most popular songs are at least 3 minutes long, you have to do at least some editing to get three of them in a set, and in order to present a seamless performance, it's best if you don't have to use a capo to change the tuning on your guitar. (A capo is a small metal clamp that affixes to the guitar's neck and has a tendency to unclamp and fall clattering to the floor whenever a nervous performer is under stress.)
I decided not to use a capo.
I thought it might increase the "entertainment value" (and possibly "uniqueness" as well) to play songs that actually referred to the TTC. So I'd start with "Complicated Things", which starts out (in the un-capoed key of C): "Sometimes I want to be a streetcar driver". Then I could finish with "When I Walk, I Run" ("When I walk, I see the steeple, hear the streetcars chime…") But then again, maybe they'd see my endorsement of walking as a put-down of public transit? Hmm…
I decided to introduce the song by saying that no ride on the subway is complete without a brisk walk to or from the station. Done.
Filling in the rest of the seven minutes, I added a part of "No Place To Go" (a high-energy country number), "Stage" (I introduced it by saying "There's no shortage of places to play in Toronto, from bars to cafes to street corners to…subway platforms!"), "Stroller Up the Hill" (with praise for parents taking small children on the subway) and "I Would Recognize You Anywhere (Introduction: "No matter how big the city gets, nobody's really a stranger.").
By playing a verse and chorus from each song, I could fit all of these into a 7-minute audition piece. Feeling confident and energized, I started to rehearse, stopwatch in hand.
Then suddenly the queasiness arrived, as I visualized the audition itself at the C.N.E. The audition materials mentioned that the auditions would be judged by a panel of "industry professionals". That got me worried. Who were these "professionals"? Did I know them? (Despite the hundreds of people who work in the Toronto music and media industry, I immediately thought of people I knew and disliked.)
What if they knew me and felt sorry for me, auditioning to be a busker? What if they thought this meant I was giving up on a "real" music career forever? What if--horror of horrors--they thought I wasn't actually good enough to play on a subway platform? What if they were those horrible judges on Canadian Idol?
By being a contestant and not a judge, was I confirming my worst fears about myself, that I wasn't a "music industry professional" and never would be? Would auditioning to be a subway musician be seen as an act of desperation?
And how would it be viewed by the audience? Presumably, there would be an audience and probably a sizeable one, since it was held outdoors at the CNE, just outside the ever-popular Food Building. On a Sunday afternoon at 3:20 p.m., there'd be lots of gaping onlookers for sure. I worried briefly that the anonymous crowd would contain somebody I knew: and then I realized how ridiculous that is. What am I doing, auditioning to play on the subway system, if I'm nervous about auditioning for crowds at the CNE? What's the difference between one indifferent crowd of onlookers and the next? I'm actually seeking out an opportunity to be ignored, judged and potentially ridiculed…every single day of the entire year!
I thought, again, about the potential of this experience: both the auditions and the actual busking. Both of them represented experiences I had, up to now, studiously avoided. I had long been afraid of looking "stupid" and "unprofessional"…I had avoided situations in which I might be looked down on…I preferred being invisible and unnoticed to being noticed and disagreed with.
By standing up with my guitar in a public place, I'd be visibly differentiating myself from the "professionals" on their way to work…and yet I'd be actually making more money each day than I would if I stayed home and talked about being "an independent artist".
As far as the audition went, I decided that the only way to succeed at it would be to simply be excellent: to be so good, nobody could possibly ignore me or turn me down. I realized I had to take myself seriously and present myself as a serious artist--a professional--in order to pass the test. By doing so, nobody would make fun of me, they'd just listen.
To my surprise, most times when I turned my thoughts to the application, I didn't feel a queasiness in the pit of my stomach. Instead, I felt a brisk resolve, as if I'd decided to apply for a challenging corporate job or train for a 10K marathon (neither of which is likely to happen any time soon). Even so, I reminded myself, my unusual confidence could be simply a by-product of uncertainty: after all, I needed to be one of the first 175 applicants and my forms were sent in at the last minute. It was less nerve-wracking to think that if I didn't get in to audition this year, I could wait until next year.
But today my invitation to audition arrived in the mail. I'm to report to the Canadian National Exhibition grounds, behind the Food Building, a half-hour before 3:20 p.m. on Sunday, August 22nd.
My son Tucker, who is ten, picked up the letter. "Hey Mom, there’s something for you from the TTC."
"Oh," I said, trying to sound casual. "Just what I've been waiting for."
"What’s it about?"
"Um, well, I'm auditioning to become a subway musician."
His over-the-top enthusiasm surprised me.
"Really?!!," he enthused. "That's great Mom. You'll be perfect!"
I was genuinely flattered. I didn't realize he held such strong feelings for either my singing career or the TTC.
"You think so?"
"Yes, Mom. You'll be great. And it'll be fun to ride around in the cars all day."
He was slightly disappointed to learn that if I passed the audition, I'd be singing on a subway platform, not on the actual train. But he was delighted to learn that people would be throwing change--"maybe even toonies, Mom"--into my guitar case.
At that moment, I felt profoundly grateful that my children, at 7 and 10, are still young enough to be impressed that their mother might be a subway busker, and that they might see my trip to the subway each morning as a form of actually going to work. I realized that in a few years, none of this would seem cool in the least, which gave me yet another reason to seize the day.
I got to work, planning my audition. Turns out auditioning for the TTC is not an easy task: each musician must present a "medley" of at least three songs, in an audition that is 7 minutes or less. Performers are judged on "musical talent, entertainment value and stage presence". "Uniqueness" is also a plus.
Because most popular songs are at least 3 minutes long, you have to do at least some editing to get three of them in a set, and in order to present a seamless performance, it's best if you don't have to use a capo to change the tuning on your guitar. (A capo is a small metal clamp that affixes to the guitar's neck and has a tendency to unclamp and fall clattering to the floor whenever a nervous performer is under stress.)
I decided not to use a capo.
I thought it might increase the "entertainment value" (and possibly "uniqueness" as well) to play songs that actually referred to the TTC. So I'd start with "Complicated Things", which starts out (in the un-capoed key of C): "Sometimes I want to be a streetcar driver". Then I could finish with "When I Walk, I Run" ("When I walk, I see the steeple, hear the streetcars chime…") But then again, maybe they'd see my endorsement of walking as a put-down of public transit? Hmm…
I decided to introduce the song by saying that no ride on the subway is complete without a brisk walk to or from the station. Done.
Filling in the rest of the seven minutes, I added a part of "No Place To Go" (a high-energy country number), "Stage" (I introduced it by saying "There's no shortage of places to play in Toronto, from bars to cafes to street corners to…subway platforms!"), "Stroller Up the Hill" (with praise for parents taking small children on the subway) and "I Would Recognize You Anywhere (Introduction: "No matter how big the city gets, nobody's really a stranger.").
By playing a verse and chorus from each song, I could fit all of these into a 7-minute audition piece. Feeling confident and energized, I started to rehearse, stopwatch in hand.
Then suddenly the queasiness arrived, as I visualized the audition itself at the C.N.E. The audition materials mentioned that the auditions would be judged by a panel of "industry professionals". That got me worried. Who were these "professionals"? Did I know them? (Despite the hundreds of people who work in the Toronto music and media industry, I immediately thought of people I knew and disliked.)
What if they knew me and felt sorry for me, auditioning to be a busker? What if they thought this meant I was giving up on a "real" music career forever? What if--horror of horrors--they thought I wasn't actually good enough to play on a subway platform? What if they were those horrible judges on Canadian Idol?
By being a contestant and not a judge, was I confirming my worst fears about myself, that I wasn't a "music industry professional" and never would be? Would auditioning to be a subway musician be seen as an act of desperation?
And how would it be viewed by the audience? Presumably, there would be an audience and probably a sizeable one, since it was held outdoors at the CNE, just outside the ever-popular Food Building. On a Sunday afternoon at 3:20 p.m., there'd be lots of gaping onlookers for sure. I worried briefly that the anonymous crowd would contain somebody I knew: and then I realized how ridiculous that is. What am I doing, auditioning to play on the subway system, if I'm nervous about auditioning for crowds at the CNE? What's the difference between one indifferent crowd of onlookers and the next? I'm actually seeking out an opportunity to be ignored, judged and potentially ridiculed…every single day of the entire year!
I thought, again, about the potential of this experience: both the auditions and the actual busking. Both of them represented experiences I had, up to now, studiously avoided. I had long been afraid of looking "stupid" and "unprofessional"…I had avoided situations in which I might be looked down on…I preferred being invisible and unnoticed to being noticed and disagreed with.
By standing up with my guitar in a public place, I'd be visibly differentiating myself from the "professionals" on their way to work…and yet I'd be actually making more money each day than I would if I stayed home and talked about being "an independent artist".
As far as the audition went, I decided that the only way to succeed at it would be to simply be excellent: to be so good, nobody could possibly ignore me or turn me down. I realized I had to take myself seriously and present myself as a serious artist--a professional--in order to pass the test. By doing so, nobody would make fun of me, they'd just listen.
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