The Audition—short story

My story "The Audition" appeared, in print, in NORTH DAKOTA QUARTERLY Vol. 91 Nos. 3/4. Fall 2024. 

 

My chances were not good, even if I hadn’t been a girl—The Very Famous Metal Band had their choice of bass players to replace Cole, who had died when their tour bus crashed and rolled on an icy road in Germany only two months before. To replace him so soon seemed crazy and caught everyone in the music scene—at least where I was, in LA—by shock. But word got out that their management company was accepting demos, so I thought, why not? What have I got to lose? And why not me: huge fan of The Very Famous Metal Band, and Cole in particular—the oldest and maybe least conventionally good-looking of the four, with his skeletal jaw bones and greasy brown hair, but maybe the best musician overall. Each of their three albums featured a bass solo by him, and the one on the first album really made people notice. I think most non-musician metalheads actually know what a bass guitar or a bass player is because of Cole. I’d memorized all three of their albums, played along to them in my room back in Brighton, Michigan, over and over. I cried when Mike, my boyfriend, told me about Cole dying.

I sent the management company a copy of my band Witchhunt’s CD, Coven of Sisters, which I’m still proud of, even if we recorded it in a week in a cheap basement studio. And, I guess, they couldn’t tell I was female: my name, Kris, being gender-ambiguous and in our band photo I’m not the shortest one, my hair looks as matted as all the guys, with my face half-covered anyways, and I’ve never worn make-up. I’m wearing jeans and a jean jacket just like everyone else in the 80s LA thrash metal scene. And, amazingly, I got the call to fly up to San Francisco and try out.

I don’t know about anybody else who came that day, but I had to pay my way—Southwest airlines ticket and two nights at a pricey hotel near the band’s rehearsal studio, and the taxi fare both ways—a whole month’s wages at Cafe Sole where I worked, basically. But I paid it. Opportunity of a lifetime.

The taxi dropped me off at the main gate of a complex of grey metal warehouses in an industrial part of town. Sky of course overcast—I didn’t even know which way the ocean was, though I could smell it, and there was still fog that morning, the air almost cold, which sucked because that made my hands cold, which meant I couldn’t really play fast with my right-hand fingers until I warmed up, and I wasn’t sure how much warm-up time I’d get. But I presented myself to the security guard at the main gate, who checked his list and let me in. Outside the building a few dudes were smoking—not the band, and not anyone I recognized, though they all had long hair—either my rivals or roadies? But who should be coming out the main door but Travis Gibbs, from Musicians Institute back down in LA. He graduated 1986, the year before me, but had still worked at the library, second shift, so I saw him all the time. He even asked me out once, which I politely deflected. It had been almost two years. He saw me and his face lit up.

“Kris! Holy shit! What are you doing here?! Are you still in LA?”

We didn’t hug. We weren’t like, actual friends.

“Yeah, I’m still in LA, man. My band headlined the Troubadour last month.”

“No shit!”

“What are you up to? Who you playing with?”

“Nobody right now.”

“Did you try out already?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah. I don’t know. I don’t think Josh was into me. I mean, I played good.”

Josh was the lead singer/rhythm guitarist for The Very Famous Metal Band.

“Were you first?”

“No! That’s the crazy thing. They’re auditioning guys all day! I’m just going to go get drunk now and try not to throw up.”

“OK, well, come see my band sometime!”

He gave me a thumbs up.

“All right. I’ll see you around.”

Carrying an electric bass in a hardshell case while trying to get through a metal door is awkward. I should have brought my gig bag, but I didn’t have room on the plane, really—so I don’t think I looked too professional forcing my way in and banging my knee. Inside the small carpeted room ran a row of black plastic chairs along one wall, with one dude, obviously a fellow bass player, sitting with his case leaning against his legs. He stared at me. Three women in their thirties sat behind a long table, with big metal double-doors behind them. They had been talking and laughing, but my klutzy entrance pulled their attention for a second. Loud heavy music muffle-pounded through the wall: someone else’s big audition.

I walked to the table and had to talk a little loud.

“Hi! I’m here for the audition!”

The middle woman, who was dressed more professionally, with an actual white blouse and skirt, smiled politely.

“Your boyfriend’s making you carry his bass? Are you going to play for him too?”

“No! I mean, I’m auditioning! I’m Kris Wells!”

All of their eyes bugged. The middle one said, “Oh. OK. Wow. Cool. I mean, very cool!

The one on the left added, “Hella cool!”

The middle one continued, “I didn’t know they were auditioning any girls. But yeah, I have you down here.”

She pointed to some kind of list or chart on a clipboard.

“We’re running late, of course, so you might have to wait a bit. When they’re ready, I’ll call you and send you in.” She pointed behind her at the double doors. “Someone from the crew will help you set up. There’s an amp and chord. You’re the last one before lunch.”

“Is that good?”

“Who knows? But, might be forty-five minutes.”

I thanked her and dragged my case over to the seats. The dude was wearing a black beat-up cowboy hat. Black beard. Super skinny. I did hate that about the metal scene: most of the guys were skinnier than me.

I nodded to him. “Hey.”

He nodded back. “Hey.

At least he didn’t seem hostile toward me for being his competition.

I didn’t know what else to say, so I sat down. I guess he had to keep going though. He bent forward a little.

“You really play bass?”

I got that a lot, believe me, but given the context, the question seemed even more stupid than usual. Men don’t have to look or sound hostile to be hostile. I nodded though, trying to be polite, but couldn’t help saying, “Yes, I really do play bass.”

“You in a band?”

“Yep. Witchhunt. From LA.”

“Oh, OK. I’ve heard of them.”

“How about you?”

“I’m in Godshell. We’re from here. We’ve played down in LA a few times though.”

I couldn’t help it. Hostility recognizes hostility.

“Oh, yeah. I always wondered if it was pronounced like Gods Hell or like shell.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Is your boyfriend in your band?”

I mean, Mike was, but I didn’t like the question, so I said, “Why?”

“I don’t know. Does he know you’re up here?”

“Actually, yeah, he does.”

In fact, Mike didn’t like me coming up to audition for The Very Famous Metal Band. He said it was stupid, useless, a waste of money. Things had been rocky between us for maybe the whole previous six months—as if the better Witchhunt did, the worse we did. Mike was maybe suffering from LSD—Lead Singer’s Disease—though he was a good singer. Not like operatic, but good and growly. He wrote most of the music and all of the lyrics. I’d been his girlfriend before his bass player—the last one left, I was right there. I wanted to play and I liked Witchhunt, so he let me in. I didn’t have a problem with the other two guys—Roberto and Pete—always thought we got along great, but as Mike and I were butting heads, they were siding with him. The night before I left for San Francisco, he even gave me an ultimatum. “If you go up there, that means you don’t want to be in this band.” Or it might have been an accusation.

“Mike, I have to do this. You’d do the same thing if some band was looking for a singer.”

“No, Kris, I would not. This is my band, and right now you’re fucking it up.”

“So you think I’ll get it?”

“No. Of course not.”

I teared up. “Then why do you care?”

“Because it’s disrespectful.”

“To who?”

“To us. To the band.”

“You mean your band?”

“To the band.”

“You’re just scared I might actually get it!”

That drove him out of the apartment. He was supposed to drive me to the airport the next day too. I took a Super Shuttle. So I wasn’t sure I would even be in Witchhunt when I got back. Or if I wanted to be.

The music—or, the rumbling in the walls—stopped, then started again. Or maybe it was a pause. To the immediate right was a long hallway leading off into, or maybe around, the warehouse. I spotted a bathroom sign and asked the women to watch my bass for me. I had to go. I’d had to go on the taxi ride over, but now that I was actually here, in the building, with The Very Famous Metal Band playing on the other side of the wall, my guts were churning.

I sat there trying to breathe, to calm myself. Which helped. I splashed water on my face at the sink and looked at myself in the mirror—pale and scared. I made a mental note to keep that detail for a song about a witch being burned at the stake. Normally I’d have my notebook and would have scribbled something down. Not that anyone ever used my lyrics, not then anyways.

Feeling better though, I dried my face with a paper tower and walked out into the hallway, staring out the large window at the parking lot I’d just walked across. Travis was gone. The Smoking Guys seemed like different guys smoking, but I wasn’t sure. Metalhead dudes all looked alike. A door opened far down the hallway and another longhaired guy walked toward me. Tall, brown curly hair, super lean face—holy shit! It was Jordan Roberts from Torre Oscuro! I knew him. Or, knew who he was. They were from Phoenix. I’d seen them play in LA, and their first album, Mákina, was great. They were the next new thing. And Jordan was the main songwriter. One song, “Tiburón,” had a hellacool bass break in the middle. He played with a pick, which all the bass players at Musicians Institute would have mocked, but he was still good. Fast.

I blurted out, “Jordan!”

He looked at me as he walked closer. “Hey.”

When he got close, I said, “Are you auditioning?”

He nodded.

“When do you go?”

I was thinking he might be before me, in which case I was truly fucked, but no.

“I don’t go until later. I’m last.”

“What are you doing here so early?”

He shrugged. “The guys asked me to. I’m just kinda checking out the competition, watching what they do wrong. It’s interesting. Is your boyfriend trying out? Or do you work here?”

My body physically slumped a little. “No. I’m auditioning too.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Really?”

I looked down at the floor. “Yes. Really.”

“Oh. Well, OK. I didn’t know they were trying out any girls. But, I mean, good luck!”

I still smiled, and looked up again. “Thanks. Hey, I really like your playing. ‘Tiburón’ is hellagood.”

He smiled. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you in there.”

He lifted his left hand in a halfwave and turned and went into the men’s room. I stood there a second, almost maybe to wait and talk more when he came out, but that felt really stalky. He didn’t want to talk to me anyways.

It wasn’t until I started moving that I realized what Jordan said meant. He was it, he was their choice. They invited him, for fuck’s sake. So what was this all for? For show? Or were they still open to being blown away by someone? I doubted it, since everyone knew Jordan was a great bass player. Actually kind of shitty of them—for him, and for the rest of us—to even have other people and have him watch all day, in my opinion, though he didn’t seem to mind.

So shit. That was my answer. I mean, I knew I didn’t have a chance, but here it was, confirmed. The tears came, but I fought them off. I would not cry like a girl and give everyone the satisfaction. I would not. Fortunately, I was angry too. I thought about just leaving, I almost really did just go. But I took a breath, looking out at the parking lot. Of course it had started to rain. I really could have used some sunshine now. But I let my breath out, slowly, and rose into the magical realm of not giving a fuck. I didn’t want to prove myself. OK, I did. But I thought, I’m here. I’m going to play with The Very Famous Metal Band. I will play one song with them, with my idols whom I was starting to think of as assholes. I somehow thought about Cole, doing it for him too, for my real idol. Maybe he would be laughing at me—a girl—too. I’d like to think not. But anyways, fuck it.

There was a cooler of water bottles next to the table. I took one and pounded it, and sat down. The Bearded Dude was gone. The walls vibrated again.

I got out Red Sonja to warm up. She’s a red Fender Precision that I bought used off a punk dude in Ann Arbor for like a hundred and fifty bucks. Total score. She had served me well for years, in my band back in Michigan, and at Musicians Institute and all the minor bands in LA. I sometimes talked out loud to her, though not now. OK, amiga, this is it. We won’t get the gig, but we’re here, we made it to the auditions. All we can do is play our best and show The Very Important Metal Band what we got. Make them remember us.

I really wanted to exercise my right-hand fingers, loosen them up, which really meant just holding one note and picking a steady sixteenth-note rhythm. But that felt stupid. Or, I felt stupid doing that in front of the women, who weren’t really paying attention, though glancing over now and then. I felt like I should be running scales, showing off my chops. Which was stupid. So I did a combo, running scales then holding a rhythm for a while.

The music stopped and the woman in the middle got up and went through the doors. I put Sonja away in her case and stood. The woman came back in and smiled.

“OK, Kris, you’re up! Good luck!”

The woman on the left was smiling, but the one on the right had a scowl to scowl all scowls. Well, fuck that bitch.

I walked through into a huge hanger-like room. High ceiling, with amps and PA speakers and guitar cases all around the edges. I guess I’d expected some kind of stage, but the band was set up right in the middle. Everyone in the whole room, the band and the various roadies and onlookers, all did a double-take when I came in. I mean, they stared. I felt very very small and alone. The guys in the band were all at least five years older than me. This was a bad idea. Who the hell was I?

The two guitarists had their guitars off, standing in front of the drums. The drummer, Lucas, was standing, drinking a beer. I’d heard that this was in fact The Very Famous Alcoholic Metal Band. A really tall oily dude in cut-off Mötorhead t-shirt with reeking armpits came up to me and held out his hand.

“Kris? How’s it going? I didn’t know you were a girl! Come on over and I’ll get you set up.”

He led me over to the bass amp, an Ampeg, with the refrigerator-like speakers, to the right of the drums. The guys in the band stared at me. I forced a smile. “Hi. I’m Kris.”

Josh, the singer, had cut his hair since the last promo pic I’d seen of him, rocking a full-on blonde mullet. See, if I was in the band, I would have advised him not to do that. They needed me. But he was tall and skinny, they all were. Rugged. Angry-looking. But hell, his best friend had died two months ago. I would be too. He wore a black Primus t-shirt with the arms cut off, veins bulging in his wiry arms. He actually spoke to me: “What’s up?”

Lucas, with his round baby-fat face, raised his beer with a monster-thick arm and smirked and spoke in a slight Quebecois accent. “Hey, how ya doing?”

Alejandro, the lead guitarist, smiled, and at least said, “Hey, welcome!”

I wanted to talk to them, but Oily Roadie held out a chord. “Here, you can plug in with this. Adjust the amp how you want. Just don’t crank it at first, Josh doesn’t like that. Do you need any pedals or effects or anything?”

“I brought my own.”

He paused, surprised. “OK, cool. Nobody else has so far.”

I put the case down and got out my RAT distortion pedal. The song I was auditioning with, “I Die on This Hill,” was from the second album, and had Cole playing a distorted intro melody over the guitars, so I made sure the volume was boosted. I liked my RAT for doing bass breaks too—it added some grunge and sustain without losing any bottom. I plugged Oily Roadie’s chord into the pedal and he grabbed me another one to run to Sonja. The Ampeg EQ knobs were dialed to boost the real lows. Cole’s sound had always been to boost the mids, which I’d gotten from him. I asked Oily if that was the sound they wanted.

He shook his head fast. “No, ma’am, not necessarily. This was what the last guy set it for.”

I adjusted it, turning my volume up a little, just to get some sense of it, even if it would sound different when I cranked it.

I looked around. The band guys were all still talking, joking. There were more people, men, around the edges. More roadies, I guess, which made me realize how huge of an organization the band was. A business. Two men in suits sat over in one corner. Management? Movement over in one dark corner: Jordan, sitting and leaning back on some PA speakers. Staring at me. I nodded, but either he didn’t see it, or didn’t acknowledge it. OK, fine.

I walked over and stepped on the RAT. The low thumps from my strings became low buzzes, like hornets. The band guys all turned their heads. I wasn’t sure if Josh was annoyed or not—he seemed to have a perpetual frown.

I fiddled a bit, taking off the RAT and running my right-hand finger through some triplets. “I Die on This Hill” is actually one of their slower, doomier songs—nothing fast, but I wanted to be ready.

And there was Alejandro in front of me. “Hey!”

He fist-bumped me. “You about ready? Just let us know. Thanks for coming out! You from LA? What band are you in? You know what song we’re playing, right? You know the song? What was your name again?”

“Thank you, Alejandro. I’m Kris. I’m in Witchhunt.”

“Yeah! Thats right! I don’t remember any of the demo tapes! We must have liked you though! I gotta say, I didn’t know you were a girl! That’s cool though!”

“Um, thanks. I guess I’m ready. I don’t want to keep you guys.”

“Oh, no worries. Hey, Josh! She’s ready!”

Alejandro walked over and the both of them slipped on their guitars. Lucas sat down, twirling his sticks and looking at me. The guitarists turned up their volumes, and they were LOUD. OK. I turned up Sonja to about three-quarters, then the Ampeg master volume. If I was going out, I’d go out loud too. Oily Dude stood right by the amp, which I didn’t like, but fuck it, roll with it, Kris.

Josh walked over. “You know the song?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Hi, Josh. I mean, I know it. I know all your songs.”

His eyebrows went up. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Well, here we go.”

He walked over to his mic stand. I stepped on the RAT, which caused my amp to squeal. Then I remembered: “I Die on This Hill” actually comes in on the three, so was it going to be a four-count? Or a two-count? I raised my hand like a little schoolgirl. “Excuse me. Josh? Or, Lucas?”

They looked at me, annoyed. Josh said, “Yeah?”

“You guys do a two-count and come in on three? Or do a regular four count? Just, because—you know—the intro starts on three?

Josh stared at me blankly. Lucas chuckled. Alejandro spoke. “It’s a four-count! That actually happened earlier, someone came in early! So it’s actually a good question!”

Lucas raised his right hand, drumstick high. “Ready? One! Two! Three! Four!”

I watched him and thudded the G in lock with his floor toms for those first two beats, along with the guitars. Then on the one I hit the low E string and let it ring while the guitars did ringing power chords, and I slid up to play the chromatic melody starting on the twenty-second fret of the G string, the high D, while Lucas continued the war drums on the low toms.

The bass melody repeated while Lucas changed into a standard quarter-note beat. After a repeat, I punched off the RAT and began the low chromatic riff under the still ringing distorted E chords, trying to lock in with Lucas, who wouldn’t look at me. But I concentrated on his bass drum and hi-hat, getting into the groove.

Then—the best part of the song—the guitars joined in with me on the chromatic riff and that was it—I was jamming with The Very Famous Metal Band on one of their most famous riffs. I didn’t need to force myself to bang my head—it happened naturally. And I swear, Josh and Alejandro even banged—or at least nodded—their heads a little.

That intro was the hardest part of the song. As Josh came in with his vocals, I mostly just had to make sure I didn’t fuck up the chord changes, though there were a couple times when I got to go high again for some quick squirrely fills. Just like Cole.

On the album the song fades out, so I watched and waited for whatever they wanted, which ended up being a long chaos on the low E while Lucas did a long megafill on the high toms down to the low. I allowed myself a quick little pentatonic run up to the high E and back down before catching the last big slam on the low E.

I watched them. Josh gave an actual small nod and briefly smiled. Lucas still didn’t look at me, but he smiled at the other two. Alejandro gave me a thumbs up. They gathered by the drums. Oily was looking at them to see if he should signal to me. I went for it. “Hey, Josh?”

He looked over, surprised. Or annoyed.

Fuck it. I kept going. “Hey. I know you guys have been playing the same song all day. I know all your songs. I was wondering if it would be possible if we could do ‘Steppes of Tor’? It’s my favorite.”

He kind of processed that for a few seconds, then turned and tilted his head at the other guys. Alejandro was enthusiastic. “Yeah. man, let’s do it! Break things up!”

Lucas gave a shrug. Josh walked over to his mic and spoke into it. “OK. One more song.”

I didn’t have the nerve to ask how they started it, since the intro riff is in a very loose 3/4. But I just watched Lucas and he did a quick four-count and we were in. They played it faster than on the album, but I kept up, barely. The only thing I regret is not having a mic, so I couldn’t join in on the “Die! Die! Die!” chant in the halftime middle section. But you can believe I was yelling it anyway. Two of the roadies ran over and football-chorused into Alejandro’s mic, which was cool. And fun. I was having fun with The Very Famous Metal Band.

The song ended and Josh and Alejandro took off their guitars, handing them to roadies. Josh looked at me and said, “Good job, kid.” Then he yelled, “Lunch!”

He and Lucas walked off, laughing.

Alejandro came over and fist-bumped me again. “Thanks! Kris, right? Good job! I’m glad we could do another song! I think Josh liked you! Good jamming with you though! Maybe I’ll see you around!”

He walked off. Oily turned off the amp. All the men made their way to the back entrance. I stood a second, my head ringing, thinking, I nailed that. They should pick me.

They never even called. They took Jordan on a short tour of Japan, then offered him the job for reals. In a twist, Torre Oscuro ended up offering Travis the gig with them. No audition. I came back to my stuff all packed by the door, with a note from Mike saying we were over and I was out of the band. The fucker even had to keep the apartment. But I didn’t care. I was going to leave anyways. I’d done it. I’d done more than most. I’d earned respect, as much as I could get. And, lost respect for my heroes. I never bought another album by The Very Famous Metal Band, they got shittier and shitter, though I did listen to the first one with Jordan, Lock & Load. And you couldn’t even hear him—they buried the bass in the mix—everyone talked about that, and how badly the guys ended up treating him. Like, for years.

Me? I started my own damn band.