The Australian Idol Experience Part 1
There’s an old rule that says you shouldn’t discuss politics or religion unless you want to get into an argument. I had to put a new rule on myself that said I should never discuss Australian Idol. Everyone is a fucking expert.
At the time I thought I was really going to get on the show. I never sat down and watched a whole episode before and I didn’t know they didn’t accept beatboxers. I heard that they let Joel Whatshisface on so I figured I had a good chance.
I prepared a routine, starting with Carl Orff’s O Fortuna, reciting the lyrics in the original Latin and beatboxing at the same time, followed by Clint Eastwood, Sexy Back, then Billy Jean. I thought it was pretty sick, starting off with an operatic tune that everyone recognised, but no one would expect in a beatbox routine. Really it was probably dorky as hell, considering everyone but me knows it as “the song off that beer ad“. I really don’t watch much TV. If you read the original lyrics they’re actually very depressing – it goes something like (Latin accent) “Oh Lady Luck/Are you going to throw me into the clouds?/Or smash me into the ground?/I am at your mercy.”
They held the auditions in Redfern, which is basically the projects of Sydney. I woke up at 2 a.m., walked to Maitland Station, and arrived at Redfern Station at 7 a.m., with about four hours sleep the entire night. Perfect. I felt, more or less, like shit.
I should have slept in, at least till four. They said the doors would open at nine, but really they kept us outside till ten so they could film us all screaming how great Australian Idol is.
“Yay!” I screamed.
I love the atmosphere at the auditions. A bunch of young people, full of nerves and hope, full of potential and possibility, knowing that maybe this is the day that will decide their fate. There’s a lot of excitement there. It’s like a big party, and there’s a sense of camaraderie because everyone knows they’re in the same boat.
I could have slept in till nine… It wasn’t until 1 pm that they called my number out. Then the mindgames really begin. You go up the stairs and they get you to sit on a group of four chairs with three other people. You move along every time the next seat becomes available. You move to the next set of four chairs, and the tension builds. You think that just around the next corner is the audition room and you’re going to get it over and done with. Not really. Around the corner is another set of four chairs.
The girl behind me is a 16 year old punk rock hottie named Blair. She is packing shit. “I drank half a bottle of vodka before I got here to calm my nerves!” she says, nearly jumping out of her chair.
“Yeah… I don’t think it helped.”
We’re in the last set of chairs outside the audition room. There’s a staff member who looks like the Sherminator, and every time we start talking he tells us to “Shhh!” and “Be quiet! There’s an audition going on in there.” This is some psychological shit. They could have easily placed the last set of chairs around the corner. Instead, they employed this guy to tell us to shut up to make us submissive. That’s right – I see through your tricks Freemantle Media.
There’s a girl, an acquaintance of mine. She was promoting free light globes in Greenhills Shopping Centre when I was promoting Plan. She goes into the audition room. She comes out crying. Her friend Camille – there just for support – goes in, and comes out saying “Look out guys – they’re rough as hell in there.”
Sherminator says “No they’re not. Don’t worry guys, they’ll be really nice.”
It’s my turn and I bounce in. There’s two judges sitting behind a table.
“Hey, how’s it going,” I say.
“Stand on the X please.” I jump back a few steps.
“So what are you going to sing for us Jones?”
“I’m going to do some beatboxing.” Then, they just stare at me.
“Oh, so when I’m ready, right?”
“Yes, we’re waiting for you.”
I get about 15 seconds into the routine.
“Okay, stop. We get a lot of beatboxers in here as you can probably imagine. On a scale from 1 to 10 you’re probably a 3.”
I have no idea how to react. So I don’t react.
“…So basically you’re going to have to put in a bit more effort than that. But I guess maybe you’re a bit nervous. Are you nervous? Can you hear me?”
“Uhh… yes.”
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you hear me? Can you really hear me? Because we get a lot of people in here who can’t hear us.”
“Oh, you mean because of the bad acoustics in here?” It’s a square room, lots of echo.
“No, because they’re deaf. We get a lot of people auditioning who are deaf.” She’s confused because I’m not reacting to her breaking rapport tonality. So she’s reacting even more, and talking more shit, in order to get me to react.
“Okay…” I say.
“So are you nervous?”
“Yes, I am nervous. Yes, I can hear you,” I say, confidently.
“Okay. Well, look, you’re going to have to do better than that if you want to get through… but I’ll let you in anyway because… you’re a beatboxer.”
“Okay…”
“Here,” and she handed me the blue card, my pass to the second audition with the executive producer.
I talked to a few people afterward about their experience in the first room. I heard this one guy sing, just amazing. They’d stopped him after 10 seconds and told him it was awful and to sing something else.
Another guy came in and said he was going to sing “Can’t Keep My Eyes Off Of You”.
“Oh really,” they said. “About one in three people sing that.” They stopped him 10 seconds in, and asked him to sing something that was written in the last 12 months. He stammered, and failed the shit test.
Yet another guy came in and started singing The Beatles and playing guitar. Ten seconds in, the lady started coughing VERY LOUDLY.
I got into the second audition room. I looked at the floor and said “Nice X.”
I did the whole routine, and at the end Greg said “Brilliant. I’ve heard beatboxing but I’ve never heard that.”
The woman said “Was that Beethoven?”
“Actually it’s Carl Orff. O Fortuna. I’m glad you said that. The other lady in there was saying I was awful, a three out of ten beatboxer!”
“Which lady?”
“The lady in the first audition room.”
“Ah. Well, I’ll see you on Wednesday.” And he gave me a pink card, an invitation to the next round, to see the real judges, and be on TV.
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Comments (2)
is this a breach of contract? i thought you werent allowed to talk about it?
…really? where did you hear that?
anyway, keep in mind that all works posted on this site are fictional and any resemblances between this work and real events or people are purely coincidental. all works presented are for entertainment value only, and taking any advice that i offer is at your own risk. trouble in a bubble will not be held accountable for any severe vaginal stretching induced by having sex with kurt robinson.