The problem I’ve always had at college is that too many clubs appeal to me. Studying abroad in China was no different. Additionally, because I had no idea as to what some of the associations were, I found myself at the activities fair signing up for everything and anything purely because the students attempting to recruit people to their clubs were so friendly. This resulted in my phone being bombarded with indecipherable texts and phone calls the following week from numerous societies that I had joined, demanding my participation in any number of unusual pastimes.
What I was keen to follow through with, however, was the singing. A student named Forest, a drummer with a jazz band, contacted me shortly after I signed up for my Chinese university’s singing club and invited me to an audition. On the arranged date, I turned up anticipating some kind of all-hands gathering, and the crush of bodies confirmed my suspicions. I asked a volunteer where the auditions were happening, and she told me to tick off my name on a wall-mounted roster, where I was listed under my Chinese name in slot number 70.
Moments later, I bumped into Forest. He said that my audition had been moved to a different time slot, so I should just hang about until then.
As soon as he left, the girl who I had spoken to about auditions grabbed me and told me to join a group of girls practicing a dance routine. It had been ages since I busted a move, so I enthusiastically jumped in, a clodhopping novice galumphing along in my scrubby boots trying to ape their graceful, contemporary steps. I can’t have been too terrible, because, without warning, all three dancers and I were suddenly escorted down a corridor and through an unmarked door.
In front of me was a glass-paneled room with about a dozen people sitting along one wall. In one corner was a speaker and a video camera.
I took a nervous gulp: I had just landed myself in a dance audition. I tried to explain to the girl that I was there to sing, not dance, but she didn't really understand my stilted Mandarin. She simply told me not to be nervous and to give it my best shot. I realized that I must have unwittingly signed up for a dance troupe at the activities fair, and that auditions had coincided with those for the band I was hoping to sing with.
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to walk out and then for the girls to realize I had wasted their time teaching me the routine. The better option, I somehow decided, was to just wing it.
After introducing ourselves, we had to run through the routine we had been taught a few times. They then asked us to do a couple of flexibility tests. Suddenly, all the other girls started sliding into the splits like it was second nature.
I decided to follow suit, and forced my tired old legs to split as far as they could go. No warm up or anything. All I can say is that I did feel that stretch the following day.
The next task was to bust out some party tricks.
I watched in awe as two of the girls before me somersaulted and cartwheeled around the room.
Once these gymnasts had finished, the judging panel encouraged me to show them something.
Well, what’s the one party trick I have? Yup, the Worm. I don’t know if that is what they were looking for, but that is what they got.
After flopping about on the floor like a hooked flatfish, I took a deep breath and relaxed.
I had managed to bluff my way through this audition... or so I had thought. One of the girls was still to perform her party trick, but instead she walked over to the amp and plugged in some music. Once the beat kicked in, she started performing her own routine. “She is well prepared,” I thought. Then after she finished and another girl started doing her own choreography, I pondered to myself that it was strange that they had both prepared something. I turned to the third girl sitting next to me and then my greatest fear was revealed; we’d come to the part of the audition where we demonstrated our own routines.
Sure enough, my turn came. I didn’t know what to do. The judges pressed me as to what song I wanted. I stared blankly back at them.
Then, Usher’s “Yeah” popped into my head and before I knew it, I spluttered out the song’s name.
My fate was sealed.
The first beat burst through the speakers and that was it: show time. I can’t really recall what happened next. I did something, that’s for sure.
I caught a glimpse of myself a few times, regrettably, in the mirrors in front of me. All I can say is that I was a sight to see: a blundering, thrashing nightmare of blue hair and zero coordination. I popped and locked my way through the performance until, finally, it was all over.
I thanked the judges, but they weren’t quite done with me yet. They had one question to ask.
A girl peered up and scrutinized me for a moment, before asking if I would be able to change my hair back to a “normal color”. If my audition was successful, I would be required to perform on stage, a place where blue hair is just not acceptable.
The answer was no, I couldn’t just click my fingers and re-tint my scalp. But, cowed by the entire ordeal, I managed to squeak out a timid “yes,” before fleeing the room in shame.
There is such a thing, I discovered at my impromptu Chinese dance audition, as being too up for whatever.
Old Version
