THE AUDITION

BY DAVID SUSSMAN, ASSISTANT PRINCIPAL OBOE

Ahuge game-changing moment for every orchestral musician is going through the stressful ordeal of an audition. What does that entail? First we wait for a vacancy, meaning someone dies, gets fired, retires, wins another position, or resigns. An audition notice is posted at least a month in advance, then the list of musical material is published. Usually candidates must prepare a wellknown concerto, but the bulk of the list contains tricky passages from orchestral repertoire that require the most control for that instrument — of breath, bow, loudness, extreme registers, finger co-ordination, etc.

So, the date for the audition nears. I’ve cleared my schedule, bought a plane ticket (or two if you’re a cellist or bassist) and arrived at a hotel where I’m going to practice whether anyone complains or not! After a fitful night’s sleep, I make my way to the audition. It seems like everybody in the world who plays my instrument is there. All the players are called together to draw lots for the playing order — No. 1 is the kiss of death, but No. 20 means you’ve got a couple of hours to kill. For CPO auditions, to avoid the cattle-call atmosphere (some postings have had more than 100 applicants and 40 candidates), each musician is assigned a time.

Who listens to the audition? The committee is made up of perhaps a half-dozen players from the orchestra. For a string position, string players sit on the committee. For a wind position, it’s mostly wind players. The Music Director and Concertmaster usually vote at all auditions. In a few orchestras, the entire orchestra may be the committee. It’s time. I follow the personnel manager into the hall. A large screen separates me from the audition committee. This is done to protect anonymity — no one should know if the person is friend or foe, man or woman, or of any race or background. Also, if a player has a bad day, no one need know who it was.

I play. This is very different from playing in the orchestra. There is no conductor to watch, no other players to match in sound quality, loudness, character, or rhythm. There is no visible audience. There is just me. I must sound beautiful, confident, musical, rhythmic, characterful, soloistic, virtuosic — and I’d better not miss a note.

All too soon I hear “Thank you very much” from a mystery voice on the other side of the screen. I have played for only a few minutes. The first round is over for me. After all or a portion of candidates have played, the personnel manager calls us together to announce “Numbers three, eight, and nine, we would like to hear you play again. The rest of you, thank you very much.”

If my number was not mentioned, I sit in disbelief. I’ve travelled miles, spent a bundle of money, prepared night and day, and now it’s over. To say I am let down is an understatement. If I’m chosen for the next round, I immediately gear myself up with the surge of confidence at having advanced. In the second round, there is no screen and I can see the audition committee. It’s comforting to play for flesh and blood listeners. This round may be followed by a third or fourth.

If I’ve won the audition, it’s time to celebrate. If not, it’s time to regroup, nurse my bruised ego, and reacquaint myself with fellow players I haven’t seen since the last audition.

Every person you see in the CPO has undergone the audition experience and emerged a winner. Somehow, that winning feeling gives us an extra measure of confidence and security. Now we can dispense with the competitive aspect of music and get on with the co-operative pursuit of making beautiful music as part of the Orchestra.