There are a few lies every singer tells at an audition. Most common is the imagined illness: a throat over-lined with phlegm, a nasal passage conquered by the prickles of oncoming sinusitis, an accidentally ingested grape leaf stuck in the esophagus (not an illness, but still, an unfortunate sort of vocal ailment). They get onto the stage and put their hand to their chest and cough, expelling dry air into the space, looking at the accompanist (tempo? key?) shuffle their feet to the left, to the right, put their hands into the folds of their long skirts, their trouser pants, their mossy sweaters, and breathe. They are not like dancers, who pull their legs up and their arms out, rippling the muscles they plan to show. Their talent does not sit as a golden mantle on their bodies. Some beautiful, some with faces like depressed Chihuahuas, some slouching, some twitching their noses as if they can smell the comments you will think before you make them. Whatever lives in their throat is invisible, even if it speaks to them. The high F is there today, sitting on its shelf, simply reach up and throw it over.
Do they dream of this? If they do, there’s no romance there. No maestro in violet cloaks rushing to his feet to wave a wand and command the performance. No chirping birdsound to score the moment.
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