Few of them admit to being nervous beforehand. They say things like, "I was born ready." We ask Ryan "R.P." Parker, 28, what he'll say to the judges if he's turned down.
"I'm not planning to hear that," he says.
The auditions are broadcast on a monitor in the basement with the sound off. It's dramatic this way, like old, silent movies. Right now there's a blonde in a red top. First, she sings. Then, she seems to listen, then pivots on her heel to stalk from the room in a huff, then turns back, gestures wildly. Is she yelling? She shoves fingers into her hair. Turns again. Races out the door, sweeping past all the other contestants, her hair and her flouncy skirt bouncing, her body language saying it all:
Loser.
All of this is fodder for "American Idol." When people emerge from the audition room, producers lie in wait to film their reactions. Now, they race after the girl in red. Her face is streaked with tears.
"Why is the camera filming me?" she cries. She runs. The people with the camera run after her.
Maybe the sound of failure is a gentle ripping sound, the kind you hear in seventh-grade biology class when you're learning to perform dissections. You slice into the skin. Zzzzzzzztt. No creature has dignity when your fingers are in its entrails.
Now, a hefty girl with a dark pageboy is on the screen. She appears to be doing some sort of doo-wop. She gets the boot. She comes out of the audition room, faces a camera and says: "I'm not surprised. . . . See, I'm more Broadway."
She goes on: "I've got a book, anyway, coming out. Well, not coming out. I'm still typing it." She's asked what she's going to do now and she mentions something about a government agency. "That's classified," she says.
We've all got something better to do at such moments, don't we? Preferably something classified.
This feistiness, this blind pride is encouraged by the great minds behind "American Idol." Before auditions, Executive Producer Nigel Lythgoe talks to the contestants. He encourages them to stand up for themselves if the judges criticize them.
"Please, if they say you suck, tell them you don't," he says, explaining that a little back-and-forth makes for good television. Besides, Lythgoe adds, "We believe in you."
This is not entirely true. Some of the people in this room are horrendous singers, and the organizers have plucked them from the thousands for this very reason. "American Idol" is a television show first and a talent competition second, and much of the show's funniest material comes from outtakes of the worst auditions. Which brings us to William Hung, the infamous contestant from last season whose tone-deaf rendition of Ricky Martin's "She Bangs" -- coupled with his ignorance about his utter lack of talent -- made him famous and garnered him a record deal.
Every year, contestants who are plainly awful -- who are known to be awful by perhaps everyone but themselves -- are sent into the audition room like pigs trussed for slaughter. And every year, people with zero singing experience, who've tried out for the show on a lark, choose to believe they are unpolished diamonds rather than hapless schlubs being set up for the amusement of millions.
