The Square Life

It started slowly. I watched the last episode of American Idol, season one, with a friend. I saw Kelly Clarkson beat out the puffy haired guy and was intrigued. I
thought that I might check it out next season. After a few weeks I was hooked; I did not miss a single episode, and at two nights a week,
sometimes three, that is quite the commitment. I became a Clay Akin
fanatic. I watched the show to vote for him, and even if I didn’t watch
the show live, I would call someone who did to find out what number was
his so I could vote. The next season my roommate and I would watch John
Peter Lewis, wondering if BYU-Idaho was as generous with student’s
personal information as BYU in Provo. And I cried when Fantasia sang
Gershwin’s Summertime.

There is a strange phenomenon that
happens in pop culture today. I, like many of you I’m sure, thought
that it was something that could only happen if you were an adolescent
caught up in the frenzy. It is “The Scream.” Watch TRL on MTV for 5
seconds and you will know what I am referring to. “Hi, my name is-
insert average name here- and I want to give a shout out to everyone
in- insert small middle America town here- and I wanna see Britney
Spears new video because she rocks! WOOOOOOOOOOO!!“ I would see
these kids and wonder how any generation could be that obnoxious, let
alone that one person. But I got sucked in. I screamed along with them.
I became one of them: I went to see The American Idols in concert. I
was given tickets as a birthday present, and besides the parents in the
audience I was the only person there over the age of 16. There were
posters and glitter galore. It was a spectacle. It was beautiful.

Over the next summer I then became friends with another AI obsessee,
Angela. She and her sister, Allison, had been in New York the summer
before and, both being accomplished singers and performers, actually
tried out for the show. It didn’t take us long to decide that this year
they were going to try out again, and I was going with them.

Now I must explain something. I don’t sing. No, let me rephrase that. I shouldn’t
sing, but I do all the time. I’m not awful. Fifteen years of piano
lessons taught me a few things about music. But when I told friends and
family members that I was going to live out my dream and try out for my
favorite reality TV show I was met with laughter. “I know you, Linda,”
a friend said. “You wont do it. You‘ll chicken out.“ All that managed
to do was give me the guts to really go through with it.

So
it happened that Allison, Angela, and I drove down to Las Vegas on a
hot Thursday night in early September, practicing our song selections
as we sped through the desert. Then, Friday morning at 4 a.m. we went
down to the ‘Orleans hotel, just off The Strip. There were hundreds of
people there already. The sun wasn’t even up and it was around 85
degrees. There were stanchions wrapped around and around, reminiscent
of Six Flags, but nobody had any idea what the ride at the end of this
line would be. There was no information given to those in line. They
all believed that all they had to do was walk into the hotel lobby and
there they would see Randy, Paula, and Simon, waiting to tell them that
they were the next big pop sensation. In actuality, only about 2% of
the people that try out in each city even get to see the Big Three. And
if you do make it past all those cuts, it is a week long ordeal in
whatever audition city you come to. But the ignorance of the crowd only
created more energy and excitement in the air.

Waiting in line
for those long hot hours was the first of many instances where I found
myself thinking, “Is this for real? Are these people serious?” The
whole thing seemed completely absurd. And I would look around to see if
anyone else found it as amusing as I did. It didn’t take long to
realize that, with the exception of my travel companions, nobody did.
Cameras were all over the place, and people with megaphones got the
thousands of us to scream in unison. “I am the next American Idol!”
“Viva Las Vegas!!” “WOOOOOOOOOOO!!” I was doing the damn scream again.
I couldn’t help it.

As the sun rose, I noticed the fashion
choices. The large majority of people there were dressed to kill, with
makeup melting in the sun. Pointy stilettos, large hoop earrings, and
funky hats were a basic staple for the Idol hopefuls. Then there were
those that had a gimmick to get noticed. One girl had a tee-shirt and a
huge picket sign with her picture blown up on both, declaring that she
was the next American Idol. Another girl was wearing a formal dress
complete with tiara. One guy had on every color of the rainbow, and was
carrying a large staff with a teddy bear impaled on top. (We enjoyed
him, because once the line started moving, he tracked its progress.)
When I started talking to those around us I became even more struck
with the absurdity of the whole thing. We met a mother and daughter
from Minnesota. They didn’t know that they would need to be in Vegas
for more than one night, just for the initial audition. They had spent
most of their money on dinner the night before, and the cab ride to The
‘Orleans. (They were staying at one of the cheaper motels on the
outskirts of the city.) They weren’t sure if they would be able to pay
for dinner that night, but it didn’t matter because that woman knew
that her daughter needed to be there. She was going to win. We met an
adorable 19 year old from Oklahoma. He had saved his money for the last
year, working two jobs, and flew to Vegas all by himself. His church at
home had the whole congregation praying for him. A religious 19 year
old can’t do much hanging out in Las Vegas, but he didn’t care. He knew
that he needed to be there. He was going to win. Two girls next to us
were with a Southern California radio station D.J. They had won a radio
contest to go to Vegas and try out, while the D.J. documented the whole
experience for the radio show. While waiting in line the D.J. decided
that he was going to audition along with the contest winners. He told
us that they were unable to book a room for the next night, none of
them had extra money, and they had no idea where they were going to
stay. It is a good thing that Vegas never sleeps, they said. They
didn’t care. They knew one of them was going to win. That is where I
differed from the masses. I knew that I was not going to win.

With
the sun high in the sky, I then noticed the people themselves. There
were people from every ethnic background. There were people from every
age possible within the contest restrictions, and beyond with children
and parents acting as entourage. They all looked so serious, as if they
were above obsessing about a teen pop show. Yet there they all were.
There were upper class, lower class, those who had spent their life
savings to get there, and those whose bank account would barely be
scathed by the expenses. Every person had a story. They had been taking
voice lessons for years and knew they had the talent, or they always
thought they were okay, and were now putting themselves to the test.
They were there alone, or they were there with their whole family. The
tragedy was, out of 30,000 people there that weekend they were only
one. And chances were, and we saw, they were not going to win.

The media marketing frenzy that was going on as the day wore on was out
of control, over the top. FOX was on the prowl, handing out candy, key
chains, paper fans, flyers, anything you can imagine, to promote their
upcoming TV. season. They handed out little mirrors that had The Swan
logo on the back. They had coupons to go to JC Penny and buy the
American Idol fragrance, because even if you don’t make it as a star,
you can still smell like one. At one point wrist bands were thrown into
the middle of the line. As the line had progressed it was learned that
we would all get wrist bands to then come back the following day.
Everyone assumed these were the coveted bands, and a small frenzy
ensued. Amidst screams and pushes, people grabbed for their band only
to realize that all the band did was advertise the date of the Season
Premier of the O.C. (That is when I pushed and shoved to get my band.)
One former AI star was interviewing people in line. But nobody around
us recognized her. We heard a lot of, “Oh my goodness! Its…that one
girl!…” And, sadly, there was no Ryan Secrest.

After 5 hours in
line, we finally were able to go inside. Only to get into another line.
Another half hour or so, and we were signed in, had the wrist bands,
and were given tickets with seat assignments where we were to go sit in
the arena. We went and took our seats, along with the other thousands
of hopefuls. Picture the E Center. And picture it filled to its maximum
capacity. And imagine that all of those people really thought they were
“IT.” That was my experience. On the floor of the arena there were 2
British men who began to address the crowd. Ken and Nigel (of recent
“So You Think You Can Dance“ fame), the real powers behind Idol, the
main producers for the show, asked if someone in the masses was going
to be the next American Idol. The noise was deafening in response. Then
they asked if there was the next William Hung in the group. Me and a
few others yelled for that one. We were to return the next day between
four and six a.m., (welcome to show biz, they said) and sit in the
exact seat we were sitting in then. That was when the first audition
would really happen. And then we were released. Seven hours later, and
one wristband richer, my friends and I went on to dinner at the
Cheesecake Factory and shopping at the Forum Shops, while others had
nowhere to go.

The next morning, again before the hot desert sun
had risen, we arrived at The ’Orleans and took our designated seats.
Once all the seats were filled, at about 6:30 a.m., they asked the
crowd to sing The Pointer Sister’s hit, I’m so Excited. The
cameras were there on the contestants for the first time, so everyone
was excited. The words were given on a large jumbo tron screen, and the
tens of thousands of us sang and danced and screamed. And then they
asked us to sing it again. They needed different camera shots,
different angles, they needed us to be even more energetic, even more
lively. So we sang it again. And again. And again. By the 4^th or 5^th
time around, the enthusiasm was lost. And then they asked us to sing
the Elvis classic, Viva Las Vegas. And so we sang that song. (Or rather
tried, as nobody knew the words to the verses. But we always nailed the
chorus). And then we sang that one again. And again. And yet again. We
were told that each audition city would have a musical montage, and a
“theme song.” Sadly, when the show finally aired, there were no Pointer
Sisters to be heard. All that was shown was one second of “Viva Las
Vegas.”

Then the “personal release” form was handed out to each
one of us. We were to sign our lives away for that afternoon. As a
reader/writer, the verbage used in this form was fascinating. I, of
course, took an extra copy home. Here are some of my favorite lines
(emphasis added) “I understand that I may reveal, and other parties may
reveal, information about me that is of a personal, private,
embarrassing, or unfavorable nature, which information may be factual and/or fictional.
I further understand that my appearance, depiction and/or portrayal in
the Program may be disparaging, defamatory, embarrassing, or of an
otherwise unfavorable nature which may expose me to public ridicule, humiliation or condemnation….I acknowledge and agree that Producer shall have the right to broadcast and other wise exploit…depictions or portrayals in any manner whatsoever in any and all media now known or hereafter devised, or for any other purposes, throughout the universe in perpetuity…I agree to follow all of Producer’s rules…which rules are subject to change at Producer’s sole discretion…Producer
reserves the right, exercisable at any time…to disqualify me from the
program should I…fail to abide by the rules or regulations of the
Program, or for any other reason or for no reason at all.” Basically it said that they owned our image forever and ever and into the eternities. And we all signed it willingly.
And then, finally, it was time. In the floor arena area there were 10
folding tables, each divided by a small curtain partition. At each
table sat two people, our first judges. The arena seating was in a U
shape, and we were at the hump. They started at one end, and had a
section go, row by row, single file, and line up 4 at each table. And
then lined people up behind them, until each line had about 10 people.
And then they started to sing. Each group of 4 would take a step
forward to their table, and then the judges would point to one of them
and say, “Go.” And then the person would step forward, sing for 20
seconds or so, and then they would say stop. And then they would point
to the second person. “Go.” Each of the 4 would take their turn. Then
all 4 would step up to the table and would hear “No, no, no, no” and
their wrist bands would be cut off and they would have to exit the
building immediately. You were not allowed to stay for any reason. Some
left with their head high, some left in tears. But the common factor
was that most left. If there was a rare, “Yes,” they kept the wrist
band, and were given a yellow sheet of paper admitting them to the next
round. The “yes” people went thru another door, amidst screams and
cheers from the others waiting in the stands.

So all we had to do
was wait for our turn. Easier said than done. It seemed streamlined,
having 40 people trying out at a time. But it takes longer than you
would think. We did not have our turn until around 4 in the afternoon.
And we weren’t allowed to leave. So people started to wander around and
talk to one another. The concession stands were open selling pretzels
and licorice and soda. For me that was perfect. Seeing these auditions
was the best spectator event I have ever been to.
With all the
time to kill most people began to rehearse in the hallways, bathrooms,
stairwells- anywhere that wasn’t in the actual arena. Small groups
formed where the contestants turned into critics. We watched many
performances out in the hallway. And again, here I was thinking, “Who
are these people?! They can’t be for real!” The cheese factor that
existed in all of them was almost overwhelming. Picture an amateur
musical production that you’ve seen in your life. The smiles are too
big, the gestures exaggerated, the tunes a bit off key. But because of
the energy, you can’t help but be entertained. We watched and critiqued
many a performance. We got several people to change their song choices,
to tone down their movements, or to take out that one extra run. There
were some that wouldn’t perform for their competition. They would
seclude themselves in a corner somewhere, and sing quietly. There were
also those with the tape recorders, listening to themselves, critiquing
themselves. I was asked many times that day to sing for the others. I
just smiled and said, “I don’t want to make you too intimidated.” 

Finally, it was our turn. Our row went down to the floor, and into the
lines. I couldn’t believe I was about to do it. I was thinking to
myself that my friends and family were right. I couldn’t feel my feet I
was so nervous. But then I thought to myself, Why not? Maybe even I
could be the next American Idol! Maybe even I could have my 15 minutes!
And so it was my row of four’s turn- me, my two friends, and randomly a
girl from Orem. We handed them our release forms, and waited. They
pointed to the girl from Orem. “Go.” She stepped forward, but all too
soon she was done. And they pointed to Angie. “Go.” And then all of a
sudden they were pointing at me. “Go.” It was my big moment. I took a
step forward, and I sang the first line to “I Need a Hero“, from Footloose.
“Where have all the good men gone,” I belted it out. “And…and…..” And I
forgot the words. “Hold on a second…“ I tried to regroup. “Where have
all the good men gone, and where….where….” I turned back to Angie and
Allison. “I forget the words!” I whispered emphatically. They
encouraged me, “Go on, your doing great, keep singing!” and so I tried
one last time. “Where have all the good men gone….” It was useless. My
mind was a blank. I then remembered the absurdity of the whole thing. I
was standing there trying out for American Idol! And so I started to
laugh. Hard. Our table of judges cracked the first grin I’d seen out of
them. “I think I have wasted enough of your time,” I told them, and
took a step back into the line, still laughing.

When they gave us
their decision they looked at the girl from Orem and said, “Not going
to work.” Then they looked at Angie. “Not going to work.” Then they
looked at me and smirked. “Really not going to work.” All that
managed to do was make me explode into a whole new fit of laughter.
After all, wasn’t a part of the show about being shot down, criticized,
and made to look ridiculous? I had been mocked by an American Idol
judge! I had conquered!

Now My friend Allison’s experience is a
whole different story. A music and dance major at college, she really
had genuine talent. When she tried out the year before in New York City
she had made it to the second cut, but not beyond. So this year she had
an angle. Usually a conservative girl, choosing Celina Dion, or Whitney
Huston songs, this year she broke the mold. She had ratted crimped
hair, bright red lipstick, a gold sequined jacket, and a skin-tight
black outfit underneath. She sang “Ballroom Blitz,” a 70’s rock song,
complete with the rocker screeching. The judges at our table were
intrigued by her. They asked her who her influences were. She said
Shakira, Gwen Stafani, and Pat Benetar. They asked her what her image
was. She said that she loved hard rock, and that there weren’t enough
females in that particular genre today. She got the yellow sheet of
paper. She was onto the next round. She had infiltrated the American
Idol system. You could tell they wondered if she was for real. But you
could also tell that they are all FOX producers. She was interesting,
she was loud. She was ratings.

Only about 500 of the thousands
there make it to the second round. The next day (day 3 of auditions for
those of you counting) they were to return to the hotel. There they see
Ken and Nigel, the main producers of the show. The duo told Allison
that she was great. She made it to the next round, finally on to see
the infamous Simon Cowell, the sweet Paula Abdul, and the big Dawg,
Randy Jackson. They told her to come just as she was. “The hair, the
makeup, the outfit! It is perfect! Come just like that!” they raved.
Here is where the competition gets tricky. Remember, it is after all a
television show. They want ratings, besides finding a real star talent.
So in that group of 500 there were the William Hung’s of the world,
along with the Reuben Studdards. The bad and the good. The crazy, the
wacky, the horrible, along with the best talent. And even the best
talent is only the particular “type” that they decided they want.

Only about 150 go on to see the three main judges over the next two
days (day 4 and 5- we had to leave Allison in Las Vegas to go back to
work). And the crazy, wacky, horrible people get through that cut too.
So when you see them on TV. crying, incredulous to the fact that they
are horrible singers, think of them making it through three cuts, in
their audition city for several days, perhaps even a week, one of few
picked out of thousands and thousands. Someone who thought they could
be the one, when really they were just bad enough to be shown on TV.
and be laughed at. The clause in the release form, “expose me to public
ridicule, humiliation or condemnation,” made much more sense at that
point.
Allison didn’t make it onto Hollywood. Paula told her that
it was all wrong. She asked her, “Have you ever even watched the show?
What do you think we are all about?” Allison countered by saying, “It
is American Idol, not American Pop! There is room in music today for
this type of thing!” But to no avail. Ironically, those of you who have
been watching this season will know, there are two “rockers” on the
show. Bo Bice and Constantine. Both tattooed up, long haired, tight
leather wearing crooners. Perhaps Allison gave the producers an idea.
Perhaps they needed to expand their genres to reach a larger audience.

I realized in the middle of the day that it was September 11^th.
It was the anniversary of the horrible tragedy that befell our country.
And here all these kids were, vying to be on TV, a pop sensation, a
star. At first I thought it was almost sacrilegious that we were all
there. I thought it disrespectful that these people were all so caught
up in themselves, in stardom, in celebrity. But then I realized it
could be seen as a celebration of the American spirit. Most of these
people had come from nothing. Small towns, no future, and there they
were believing that they could be something bigger. It was the largest
representation of living the American Dream that I have ever witnessed.
All these people were thinking it. You could see it in their eyes. The
“what if” factor. They were all thinking, “What if I do make it. What
if I do win.” And they all thought they could. And inside with them,
after two days of being surrounded by them, I began to believe in them
too. They could win. They could do it. Having that much drive and
passion and real belief in themselves and their abilities, why not? We
asked a few of those rejected what they would do next. The most common
answer- “I’ll be back next year. I have to try again.” They weren’t
phased by the experience. They would carry on. And with the audition
eligibility age being raised to 28, so would I.