Audition

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.