An American Idol Epilogue, Part 3
0 Comments Published by ginny on Tuesday, September 9, 2003 at 2:49 AM.
Section 6: In which the crowd gathers, and so do I
So at five, I awoke. Or rather, arose. And began warming myself up, preparing, dressing, and being generally really really nervous and really really excited. My voice was….alternately good and bad. I think my fears about having done permanent damage to it are unfounded, but I also think that whatever I did do to it is going to take a very long time to go away.
So while I've mostly gotten back my tone and my range, there are still times when I sound a lot rougher than I am used to. But I wasn't too stressed about it. I was there, I would do the absolute best I could do, I would put every bit of my heart and soul into it – and I could do nothing else.
In fact, actually, I was remarkably unstressed about anything that morning. Not to say I wasn't nervous (especially, for instance, when two out of the three pairs of stockings I'd brought immediately ran, or when my hair was insisting on doing this weird, Snape-like floppy-limp thing, from which it would only be coaxed by sweet talk and liberal amounts of texturizing cream), but I was also in high spirits. I was going to audition for Simon, Paula and Randy. Omigod!
The desperately precious pink sheet they'd given me at the last audition said that auditions would start promptly at eight. So, at 7:20, I checked out, put my stuff in the car, and walked over, brimming with nervous excitement, to Building 1 of the America's Mart.
Which, by the way, is way more impressive than Building 3, where we'd been last time. Oh, no mere conference center is Building 1. No, Building 1 is the Apparel Mart, which means they have fashion shows there. Which necessitate, apparently, hugely cavernous ceilings and lots of shiny brass and highly polished marble. And swoopy-looking banisters going all the way up.
Walking jauntily (nervously, excitedly, intensely, distractibly), I got to the entrance to Building 1. Where I was wearily informed by a crewmember that the line for auditions would not actually start until 8:30. At the earliest.
Remember, last time, how I learned very quickly not to trust the AI people about details? Yeah. Like I was going to go away and come back at 8:30. They'd already given me the wrong time once. Plus which, I had learned from a few other auditionees staying at my nice hotel that not only had I never received the song list they were supposed to send us (Jess's downloaded one turned out to be a lifesaver), but virtually no one had. In fact, I met only three people the whole time who'd actually gotten it. Which is actually kind of an inexcusable mistake. But we did okay. I mean, they could hardly call us down for not singing off a list they never sent us, could they?
So I made the same decision as everybody else, and hung around the highly marbled lobby until about 8:45, when they actually started to line us up, talking to people. I met some impressive folks during that time, let me tell you.
One excessively pretty blonde who also, from the way she was describing her interviews, has a real way with the camera, a really cool and funny largish african-american girl with glasses (for whom I may be rooting if she gets on the show – I liked her a whole lot), a teeny tiny cutesy eighteen-year-old blonde girl who was there with her (annoying) (stage-mommy) (ultra-competitive and stand-offish) mother, a girl with a darling tiny baby who had somehow managed not only to not retain any pregnancy weight from when this kid was born, but to have a figure after having at least one kid that's way better than any figure I'll ever have.
And then they took us all back outside and we lined up. I'm not sure why we did this, as we were already in the building, but we did. There were some news cameras and some AI cameras, so maybe that's why. They like shots of people in line. Also, they wanted to search our bags, so that could be another reason.
(What they were looking for, I'm not sure. I mean, are they afraid someone's going to bring a gun and shoot Simon if he doesn't like them? Actually, come to think of it, that would be so awful that it's the sort of thing you do need to guard zealously against. So I take it back. I'm glad they searched our bags. I mean, artists are crazy folks.)
During the waiting-in-line time, tiny young blonde girl + mom were right behind me, and though the girl was perfectly cordial, the mother managed to impress me pretty negatively. She kept aiming all these barbs at me, for one thing ("I mean, are you auditioning?" she asks. "How old are you?" And "Oh, yes, we got the list – Patrick [head associate producer] e-mailed us personally, isn't that right, baby? Hey Patrick!" And here she waggled her fingers coyly at Patrick, who looked, as usual, flustered and annoyed).
And then, when the AI cameras were coming by one time, she jabbed her daughter sharply beforehand, hissing "Tiffy! Cameras!"
The girl, who was hunting through her bag for something, didn't look up – and she probably wouldn't have been featured if she had, since they were just sort of sweeping the line to get a sense of people lined up, not focusing on anyone. But after they were gone, the mother shook her by the shoulder and said "Tiff! Why didn't you look at them?"
"I've told you, Mom," the girl said miserably. "I just….I just don't like, I don't know, being on the cameras." And she turned her head away. "Oh for God's sake," the mother breathed exasperatedly. "That's the whole point of this, dummy. Don't do that again!"
So, yeah. Did not like her so much. Felt sorry for the girl. (Though I also seriously wished I looked as good as she did.)
Eventually, we got inside ("Well, you're just making my life easy, aren't you!" the security guy said, when he saw I was only carrying a purse and my clear plastic makeup bag), and were seated row by row, in order of our original auditions, in chairs lined up at the base of an enormous atrium/airshaft space. It was beautiful and cavernous and huge – you could see these space-age capsule elevators going up and down to the right, and the levels of the building spiraling upwards above you. (The theme of this building appears to be spirals – there were huge colorful spiral sculpture things hanging down from the ceiling too.)
My seatmates on either side of me turned out to be the same two really good-looking and really nice african-american guys who'd been near me at the second round of auditions – they'd both made it, to my great delight.
To my right was Treyvon (I think this was his name – no one ever got properly introduced), who is sweet, from Atlanta, and was wearing cool orangeish shades, a sheer black shirt, and sort of almost retro-fifties cool black pants.
And to my left was (I honestly think I must have this right, because how could I mishear a name like this?) Lothario. Who is from Charlotte, is a professional model, and has the best-looking facial hair I've ever seen (he told us he pencils some of it in with an eye pencil, a trick he says all models do – and man, it looks good!), monstrously cool reddish/brown/black dreadlocks, which he'd gathered into a half-ponytail, and contacts that are blue on the outside and fade to green in the middle. He was wearing a very sheer and fitted black shirt only partially fastened over a mesh "shirt" (quotation marks because it was definitely more for effect than covering), tight black jeans, and cool-ass cowboy boots. I think he was by far the best-dressed guy in there – plus which he was really nice.
In fact both Treyvon and Lothario were definitely two of the best-looking guys in the room, and they were both really nice people, which says a lot, I think. I mean, they could have been all snobby, but they weren't at all. They talked to me the whole time we were waiting. Which ended up being quite a while, really.
Section 7: In which I must explain myself, or try to
First of all, after we'd all been seated, contestants on the right, all wearing our numbers (oh, by the way, mine would not stay on. You had to wear it on your stomach, and mine just did not want to be there. So it got all wrinkled like it had been through the wash really quickly), and family and friends on the left, all wearing nervous expressions, the head crewmember spoke to us.
He was….well. One of those people who really enjoys acting as if everyone else has screwed up their jobs and we are in imminent danger of collapse unless everyone does exactly as he says right now this minute! I think he likes to panic. He's a little high-strung. Which is okay. But it meant he yelled at people a lot, especially to stay in our seats. (There were times when I wanted to say "Dude! Chill! You've just told us Simon, Paula and Randy won't even be here for another half hour. We have time to go to the bathroom.")
He explained to us that the process would be thus: first we would go in groups of five to the seventh floor to be interviewed in front of the camera. Then we would come back down. After that, we would begin being called in groups of ten (there were ten to a row) back up to a different part of the seventh floor (it turned out to be a room around the corner from the interview room) to wait outside the Actual Audition Room containing Actual Simon, Paula and Randy. And Ryan Seacrest. And the most important audition of our lives.
And in a little while (But we'd better not leave our seats! No one leave seats! Only if you run! God, why did people keep screwing everything up?!) Nigel Lythgoe would be down to talk to us, and people with cameras would be around all day. And no one! Leave your seats!
So there we stayed. One of the camera operators began pulling people out that she thought were impressively dressed (or just impressive-looking) and interviewing them about their outfits. A girl a few people down from me who'd obviously made her own clothing (tiny, blonde – are you seeing a pattern here? There were a lot of tiny blondes.) got interviewed. She explained that the gap in her pants was cleverly held together with fishing line, and that she'd sewed the piece of green bandana into her straw hat herself. (This sounds weird, but really she looked cute. In a made-her-own-clothes-aspiring-fashion-designer way, which is good.)
Lothario (of course) got interviewed, though apparently they only wanted to talk about his contacts. (I would have asked where he got the boots.) A busty blonde girl in a lacy halter top behind me was interviewed, and they asked her what she thought about the fact that "everyone, of course, would be comparing her to Kimberley Caldwell."
After she got back to her seat, she said, somewhat whinily "I mean, god, like who is she?" We explained she was a contestant last season. Thing is, this girl didn't really look like Kim C. at all – she was just busty. And blonde. So I told her she didn't need to worry – she didn’t really look like her. "I didn't think so" she replied. "I mean, like, I have my own style."
I was only on the second row of chairs – contestant number 18, actually, though the number that refused to stay on my stomach was 030560 -- which tells you how early I actually had managed to get to the Dome back two weeks ago, compared to everybody else, so it was not too long before my group of five got called up to interview.
Head crewmember herded us urgently and exasperatedly into one of the capsule elevators, telling us not to touch anything. (They even had crewmembers push the elevator buttons for us. They didn't want any chance that we would mess things up.) On the way, I passed the associate producer who'd put me through the first time, who waved friendly-like and addressed me by name. I like him a lot.
When we got to the seventh floor, we were shepherded past some tables with crewmember/producer food (actually, I don't know whether the crewmembers got to eat it either. Maybe it was just producer food) and into a line of chairs outside a closed door. We were told we could whisper, but not sing or talk loudly, and to wait there as we were called in, one by one, for our interviews.
Sitting near me were Lothario and Treyvon, of course, but also a boy named…oh, lord, I ought to remember this. Nate? Nat? He'd made it to California last year, but got cut out there, and was kind of loud and arrogant; and a tiny, incredibly beautiful (in a natural, not overly made up way, too) Puerto Rican girl who had a teddy bear that sang "Shout" when you pressed its stomach.
Actually, all my bets are on her to go the whole way through to the top twelve, although she had a cold on audition day. If she does – you heard it here first, folks. I called it. I don't know if she made it, and I never even heard her sing – it's just that she was so beautiful, and so sweet-seeming, and cute too. And Puerto Rican, which made her exotic.
(Okay. This may be going to sound terrible, but I hope not. Here is how I think television producers work, though: they categorize people. They categorize people by body size, by "type," by age, and by race. And I am almost positive that one of the categorizations the American Idol people had made this season is that they wanted at least one very, very strong Latina contestant to make it as far as she possibly could; i.e., they would be thrilled to get a Latina winner this season, though they will be thrilled with any winner they think they can sell, of course.
Which is part of the reason why I was able to pick out this one also beautiful Latina – not the one in interviews with me, but a slightly less stunning and more reassuringly regular girl-next-door sexy but still beautiful girl -- in front of us as the only one in the first row of auditionees who would make it through. And she was. I'm sure she was tremendous – she certainly looked it -- and I think she was nice too; but she was also Latina, and I think they were particularly looking for that.)
Anyway, we waited for our interviews. Associate producer Patrick, it turned out, was conducting them. Patrick had been one of the ones who'd spoken to us extensively since the beginning of our time at the Dome, and I'd gotten the impression of him as….not the nicest of the associate producers.
He definitely had a lot on his shoulders (I think he may have been even some kind of head associate producer), which made him short-tempered to begin with, but he also had that loud, bullying "god when will you quit fucking up!" manner that a lot of show business people have. He didn't really speak to people, he snapped or commanded. He always frowned, and I heard him snap at people several times that he "didn't have time for fucking questions."
Which, again, is within his rights – he had a lot to run, and it had to be run right, because mistakes are simply too expensive to make in this business. And his manner was, like I say, not unusual – I've met a ton of show-biz/producer types who act exactly as he did. And I didn't expect to be coddled. Not by any means. In fact, I was consistently surprised and delighted by how nice many of the people on the show were, especially my own associate producer. I mean, I didn't expect them to be at all.
But anyway, it was Patrick running this camera, which was used for both entrance and exit interviews. When it was my turn, he came out, yelled to someone "Don't let fucking anyone into this goddamn room before I come back out because I can hear it on my fucking camera!" and said to me "this way."
You had to navigate this maze-like arrangement of halls until you got to a tiny room where they'd set up an even tinier room with hanging black curtains in the middle, housing only the lens of a camera (Patrick stood behind the curtains and operated it) and a tape mark for your feet.
Patrick told me where to stand, and I stood. "Look directly in the camera," he told me. "People want to be you."
The first question was easy – or it should have been. "Tell me your name and your number," he said. "I'm Ginny," I said "and I’m……..um….not good with numbers." I looked down at my stomach. "03060."
After that he asked me how I felt -- "really really nervous! Really really excited!" I said – what I planned to do – "give it everything I've got," I said – some other questions I don't remember – "things!" I said (I think he may have asked me how long I drove to get there, and what I predicted the judges would say. I said I thought Paula would like me, Simon would hate me, and Randy was a swing vote) – and whether I was the next American Idol.
"Yes, I am the next American Idol," I said confidently, because dear god, as they'd told us a lot of times, if you can't come on there as if you're the next American Idol, you don't belong at the audition.
"Why?" he asked me.
"Well," I said (thanking my lucky stars that I'd prepared for this, because otherwise I would have sounded even more like a fool than I'm sure I did already) "Because I really am a girl next door. I mean, a lot of the time people are all like 'oh, she's such a girl next door type' [and I used a snooty voice], and I think 'good lord, where did you grow up, next door to a modeling school? So I think I really am someone people could have actually grown up next door to."
Then the interview was over, and he pointed me to the door. "Loved the 'where did you grow up' part," he muttered, half to himself. "That was hilarious."
"Thank you!" I said. Because even if he was saying it to himself, it was probably as close as a person ever gets to a compliment from Patrick.
Section 8: In which Seacrest is really thoroughly cheered for
After that I went back downstairs. And waited. Some more. After a while, they got cameras set up, and we all cheered for Atlanta. ("ATL," we shouted "ATL!" They told us we were so far the best group for energy.)
And after that, there was a stir near the elevators, and towards us stepped…Nigel Lythgoe! He explained to us again what the head crewmember had explained – that we'd be interviewed and then auditioned and then thank you very much go home or go to Hollywood. He gave us a little pep talk about how they really wanted to see our best, how they expected each and every one of us to be a real American Idol, and how they also expected all but about twenty-five of us to get cut. (They had taken, he said, eighteen girls and nine boys from New York. That was it.)
And he answered some questions – the saddest part of the show for him is when most of the people from the final thirty-two get cut, because he's grown attached to some of them, but can do nothing because the public voted; He's loved working with all the kids; No, they're not doing an American Seniors. (He made the kid's dad who asked this question get up and sing – three pretty people played the judges. They filmed it.)
And then, they turned the cameras on again, and told us to look up and cheer and wave because who was coming down the elevator but….Ryan Seacrest! And we cheered. Loudly, enthusiastically, excitedly, bewilderedly
("Who did he say it was? Woooo!!" "Seacrest! Woooo!" "Who? Woooo!" "Seacrest! Woooo!" "Oh! Woooo!") And then we did it again because they didn't get a good enough shot. And then one more time.
And then Seacrest came and talked to us. Man, let me tell you, he is tiny. He's a very short man, to begin with – probably only about 5'6" or 5'7", but he's also really, really thin. And somehow, not as sparkly as he seems on camera. I mean, he was perfectly nice and everything, but when he's not on camera, he is so guarded. Most people, when they're not being filmed, they sort of let go a little. They talk to someone else, maybe stretch, take a drink of water, smile at someone, frown at someone – something like that.
Seacrest does not. He is in character and on his guard the whole time, from what I could see. Which, like I say, doesn't make him unpleasant at all – just different from how I would have expected. He isn't garrulous and hyped up like most radio DJs. Also, if you ever wondered whether all his corny jokes are scripted – no, they're not. He definitely makes at least most of them up on the spot. I saw him do it. That wit, folks, is god-given. (Still love you, Ryan!)
And oh – a spoiler, because this will almost certainly make it on the show. This one mother had a sign that said "Give me a hug, Ryan!" And when he came down (he had a cold, by the way), he did.
And then she flipped the sign over and it said "And a big kiss!" And he shrugged his shoulders, looked and the camera and said "Okay!" And he kissed her on the lips! Chastely, of course. So, yeah, look for that moment. On the show.
After Seacrest had gone back upstairs (they filmed us cheering for him two more times as he went up), there was more waiting.
But it was heightened waiting. Tense, keyed-up, excited waiting. Waiting tinged with the feel of a hundred pairs of ears following what head crewmember was saying on his headset ("Did he say Simon Cowell?" someone whispers. "Is he calling for a group of ten?" squeaks someone else); waiting punctuated by last-minute flutterings back and forth of parents and friends and siblings; waiting coupled with scurrying to and from bathrooms and digging in and out of bags. Because we all knew – soon they'd call the first group. And soon after that, they'd call us.
And then...they did.
Going up! Go to Part 4
Labels: american idol, celebrity, trips, tv
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