Pop Band “Audition”

So later on Monday I had an “audition” with a blues/folk-inspired pop band from gumtree. I hate that word, “audition”. Sounds far too formal and reminded me of music college days.

Very nearly didn’t bother going. Felt some serious anxiety and every time I looked in the mirror I was disappointed with what I saw. I had to change my clothes about 30 times as I couldn’t find an ensemble that I was happy with. When I got back there was a mountain of clothes on my bed.

Well, finally set off about an hour later than intended. Luckily the singer had called through earlier to put it back an hour, but I still managed to be late – I must have spent literally an hour and a half trying to get my ensemble right. And I still wasn’t happy.

Finally got there after a tube journey from hell involving going to wrong stations and then having to change to overground lines, getting out the A-Z, asking ever-friendly Londoners for directions and fearing being mugged in this strange new area.

When I got in there was no band, just the singer (who looked completely different from her photos, incidentally), and her guitarist. So they played through three numbers and I tried to jam along. It didn’t really make sense without the rest of the band, but I did okay, at least on the first song. In the other two, the chords were changing a little unexpectedly so I hardly played anything, at least nothing audible. I don’t think they were that impressed but they asked me back.

I had to get the tube back with the singer as she lives down this way too. It was interesting sitting with her traversing the underground. I felt kind of awkward. We’d only just met and I found myself not sure whether to be friendly and playful or more serious. I ended up opting for serious with occasional awkward flashes of playfulness and smiling. Yep, awkward.

Anyhow, it was one of those occasions again where my assumptions were skewed. Firstly, the word “audition” struck fear into my heart. I had images flashing through my mind of being scrutinised. Secondly, I pictured the band as a bunch of trendy musos with pointed shoes, tight jeans, scruffy hair and strong opinions. They were a little trendy but not to the extent feared. They didn’t wear tight jeans or pointed shoes, and the guitarist seemed possibly even a little shy, unless he “adapting” to my vibe.

The ensemble I settled on in the end was black trainers which make my blue jeans hang badly and a maroon shirt. I felt so unstylish, like some council estate kid. It’s interesting how being around certain sets of people can change your perception of yourself because usually I feel like I am stylish when I’m with, for example, people from my house. I felt particularly stylish and handsome when I was doing that English-teaching course last year. Every time I looked in the mirror I felt good, and even in the pictures from that period I still feel I looked good. Sigh, weird.

Music shops, lack of sleep, anger…

Despite getting in at 4:30 my body decided to wake up around 10am yesterday. I had a lot to do so I couldn’t complain, except that I felt completely knackered. I had an “audition” with a band in North London, I needed to listen to their songs and I wanted to go and buy myself a mute and then take it back after using it – I thought it would make me look a bit more professional, but I wasn’t about to part with £80 for the pleasure, at least not permanently.

Having resolved never to step foot in brass specialist Phil Parker’s – they’re well known for being a bunch of smartarse pricks in there and I have personal experience to confirm it – I looked in my London guide book which told me that Charing Cross was the place to go for music shops. I headed down that way first stopping at Wigmore Street near Oxford Street to have a look in the Boosey & Hawks shop. I felt al’right initially despite the crowds, quickly getting off Oxford Road and heading up the side streets. Unfortunately Boosey & Hawks turned out to be little more than a sheet music store with a few violins hanging around, so after thumbing through a few piano books I headed out – I felt too self-conscious to walk in and then straight out again. (I need to work on this. Why should I care what other people think? It’s a needless waste of energy and life is too short.)

Anyway, headed down to Charing Cross. Felt fucking terrible. Lack of sleep, sweating but feeling cold at the same time and the constant weaving between the crowds was really pissing me off. Why did I ever think London was a cool place? Why don’t people walking in one direction keep left and the others right? Why do some people just stop suddenly? Why do couples insist on walking side by side so that I have to walk all the way around them? God damn it. I could fucking kill someone.

Finally got to Charing Cross and discovered that this place was less a ‘music shop district’ and more a ‘guitarist’s district’. Wandered up and down the street for a while looking at what they had by way of wind instruments and realised it wasn’t much. What a fucking waste of time!

As I weighed up the situation and considered heading back home, I decided to ask in a few shops to see if they had mutes anyway. None did. About to give up I headed to a shop which was separate from all the others as a final attempt – they had a few cheap trumpets and other wind instruments in the window so it looked more hopeful. I walked in, it looked like a tiny stock room, it was a kind of disorganised brick-a-brack we-stock-all-kinds-of-crap type place. Not one of the three assistants greeted me or even looked at me with a ‘be with you in a moment, sir’ type eye contact. Evidently they were too busy doing important things like looking at a scrap of paper, opening a box and using a phone.

Waiting for the guy on the phone to finish I stared in his direction. ‘Do you do harmon trumpet mutes?’ I asked. ‘We do, but I don’t think we have any in right now…’ he said as he poked around for some under the counter. I moved a couple of sheets of paper out of the way on the counter and saw a stash of them clearly on display underneath the glass surface. Politely avoiding busting his balls for not knowing what lay beneath the shop’s small main counter, I said, ‘ah, do you have any of those?’ pointing at the Jo Ral bubble mute.

Taking the mute out he said, ‘I don’t think we have any of those left, they are £80′. ‘Hmm, hold on, you don’t “think” you have any left? Well, why don’t you check?’ I thought. Anyhow, I looked at it for a minute. It was dirty and looked like it had been on display so long it had gathered moss. ‘Well how much can you knock off for this [display] one then?’ He looked at me as if to say ‘are you stupid?’ and repeated himself cockily, ‘those are all £80′. Hold on didn’t you just say you “thought” you had none left? Didn’t I just let you off for stupidly not realising that there were a stash of them on display under the main counter? Who here is really stupid, you or me? Moreover, wouldn’t the qualification “I think” seem to suggest this particular one was not for sale? And, again, why don’t you check to see if you have any left rather than just “thinking” it?

Taken aback by his manner I tentatively responded, ‘Yeah but this one is a display item, it’s second-hand’. With a further look of disdain, he curtly responded, ‘everything’s second-hand here’. Firstly this was not true, the other mutes, metronomes and small bits and pieces around the counter didn’t look used, and secondly how was I supposed to know this? I didn’t work here. I’d just walked in off the busy street.

‘Yeah, but this one is covered in dirt’ I said, looking at him, this time hiding my disdain. The smartarse front faltered a little, ‘well I think they are £130 brand new’ he said. Total bullshit, the RRP is £80. And, again, you “think” it? How about checking shitforbrains? At this point a slightly more polite shop assistant stepped in and took over. I was about to part with my cash anyway as I didn’t want the whole day to be a waste of time. As he got out the credit card machine and I reached into my pocket I asked whether I could take it back if I didn’t like the sound. He said they didn’t do refunds so after a moment’s false pondering I said ‘I’ll leave it then’ and walked off.

What is it with music shop workers in London? Pricks. I purposefully went to Charing Cross because I can never set foot in Phil Parkers (the UK’s main brass specialist in London) because they are such a bunch of smartarse ball-busting wankers. And now I can’t go to this place either. Alas, it looks like I’ll have to continue using the Internet for all my music needs. Fuck these people.