The Green, Green Frogs of Home

I used to be in choir in junior high and high school. I love to sing, I have a deep bass voice, and I can at least carry a tune (without even using a paper sack). Shortly after my move to Kitsap, I decided to find some activities in the area that would be fun diversions so I auditioned for a local choir.

I met the choir director. He led me into the music room and told me to “la-la-la” along with him echoing the scales he played on the piano. I la-la-la’d my little heart out, never missing a beat. Man, this was easy! I was a shoo-in.

After about a minute, he stopped, took his glasses off and sort of washed his face with his hands. That wasn’t a good sign. My smile kind of flattened out as I was thinking, “Gee, what a short audition.”

Replacing the cover on the keys, he made it clear the audition had ended and politely suggested I think about their “junior choir” where I could get some practice and ...

What?

In a huff, I snorted, “Oh, is that where the retarded singers go?”

What did he know anyway? He wouldn’t know a good singer if it kicked his piano on the way out, so within a few hours, I found that a playhouse was holding auditions for a musical.

I went through my old piano books and found two songs I thought would suffice for the audition: “I Am Sixteen (Going On Seventeen)” and “The Lady Is A Tramp.” While I realize I’m light years away from being either an ingénue or a torch singer, it was the best I could come up with.

When it was my turn, I gave the pianist her choice. She chose “The Lady Is A Tramp,” started the intro, and off I went. I thought I knew the words – I’ve sung that song many times – but I found myself bent over the pianist’s shoulder, reading off the sheet music.

I watched the face of the director grow stranger and stranger, surreal almost, as I belted out the tune at the top of my lungs into the pianist’s ear. I even snapped my fingers like I was way too Ella-Fitzgerald-cool to even be there. I’d heard some others auditioning and started thinking about what part in the play I should pick.

The director’s face was scrunched up tightly in a quizzical expression by the time I was done, but I was sure it would go back to normal during the thunderous applause that was going to begin any second. Instead she asked “Why did you audition for a musical? I mean, you gotta be kiddin’ me right?” Snork-huh? What? (And where was that applause?)

Lamely I think I muttered something like “just trying to humiliate myself, thanks” as I scooped up my music and left the building.

I didn’t get the part, but I’m sure it was only because I looked like a second head growing out of the pianist’s left shoulder.

So now I share my gift of song with those that appreciate it. My dogs. They love it, all three of ‘em howl along every time.

Tando Mando can be found belting out songs on his lawn mower, breaking for dragonflies and salamanders along the way. He can be reached at tandomando@comcast.net.

Comment on this story.

COMMENTING RULES: We encourage an open exchange of ideas in our online community, but we ask you to follow our guidelines for respecting community standards. In a nutshell, don't say anything you wouldn't want your mother to read.