The Glitter Welly Boots
The Glitter Welly Boots
Auditions are strange. They're similar to job interviews, but with unwritten rules and a lot of subjectivity, making them hard to predict. You can prepare everything down to the smallest detail—your performance, your appearance, the handshake at the start, even the "right" clothing—but in the end, it all comes down to taste. The only thing you can truly control is being yourself, hoping that your taste aligns with those who are judging you.
There was a particular ensemble I had been eager to work with for a long time. Naturally, I did what any motivated singer would do: I stalked them on the internet. Hmmm... no "jobs" or "casting" link anywhere. When that happens, my brain starts coming up with creative ways I can audition without actually auditioning (the ultimate singer’s dream). Maybe I could go to one of their concerts, and the soprano will magically fall ill—very last minute and very irresponsible—leaving them without a replacement. Desperate, they’ll make an announcement asking if there’s a soprano in the audience, and I’ll heroically step in, saving the day. The crowd will go wild.
Imagine that.
But back in reality, I realised there had to be a better way. And in my case, there was. I'll admit, it took a long time (we're talking a couple of years here), and I'm not even sure if it was better than my superhero fantasy—except for the fact that nobody was sick in the real version.
So, what do you do when there’s no open call to audition? In my experience, you talk to people. Now, before you judge (or before I start judging myself), let me clarify: I hope I never come across like a bloodthirsty vampire soprano, out to drain every bit of information and contacts from anyone who gives me the time of day. An absolute pet hate of mine is meeting other singers who do nothing but talk about work. Aye mate, well done and all that, but that's what boring bios are for.
Anyway, I try to pick my moments and first ask musicians I’m close to. Maybe someone can put in a good word. Even today, I think social media is an incredible tool for singers to showcase themselves, but word of mouth and recommendations are, in my case, very much king.
So after showing my fangs to many friends, the missing piece was found, and I received a golden ticket to audition. Nothing was going to stop me from being there. Not even insane weather conditions.
With all flights and trains cancelled due to gale-force winds, my chances of getting from Bavaria to the Netherlands were looking pretty slim. But when you’ve worked on something for so long, cancelling isn’t even an option. I mean, if I had to walk, I would (Scottish people are very well known for walking everywhere)! Luckily, I’m not too much of a dramatic soprano, so I hopped in my compact Suzuki Alto (even in my car choice, I’m manifesting the next conductor I want to work with…) and set off on a nine-hour drive—with a carefully curated karaoke playlist of Bach and *NSYNC for company.
I arrived a day early because when you’ve invested this much, you want to set yourself up for success. And to ensure I was fully prepared, I laid out my clothes neatly the night before, organised to perfection. Very unlike me. Normally, I’m the person throwing clothes into a suitcase an hour before I have to leave for the airport. But this time, I was prepared.
Except for one thing—I forgot my shoes. Not just any shoes, but the concert shoes I’ve had since my student days in Edinburgh. Fifteen years old, they’ve seen better days, but they’re my good luck charm, my safety blanket. And I left them. Right on the table where I’d so beautifully laid out my clothes. Crap. This is what I get for trying to be organised!
So there I was, in the middle of nowhere, mentally spiralling. What were my options?
Cancel the audition.
Sing without shoes.
Wake up early and drive 40 minutes to a random shoe shop.
Wear the boots I brought with me.
Option 1 was already out. I’d gotten this far and couldn’t give up over a pair of shoes. Option 2 could maybe work, but it might set off a weird vibe right from the start, and I prefer to save my weirdness for after I’ve landed the gig. Option 4 would normally be my go-to, but the boots in question were silver glitter Chelsea wellies I’ve had since I was 17 (I’m starting to think I have a shoe fixation that needs therapy). They’re fabulous but probably not the best choice for an audition. So, option 3 it was. And if all else failed, I could always hope someone on the panel had a foot fetish and go barefoot.
Cue the stress. I ran around this tiny Dutch village searching for a simple pair of black shoes. Thankfully, I found some—albeit the most generic black heels possible. I bought them anyway. As long as I could walk and sing in them, they’d do. For me, comfortable shoes are essential when performing. Everything else is secondary.
I made it to the audition with my new shoes in hand. I kept my glitter wellies on until I got to the warm-up room, then made the old switch-a-roo. It was stressful, but at least now I could focus on the singing. The audition went well, and everyone on the panel was welcoming. I got that good vibe we all desperately seek in an audition, though you’re rarely told on the spot if you’ve been accepted.
Relieved, I walked out, lost in my thoughts, swapped my shoes back to my boots, and headed for the door. That’s when I realised I’d forgotten my music. Classic. So, I turned back into the audition room, and as I walked in, the director looked down at my boots, then back at me, and said:
"Wow, cool boots. You should’ve worn them to the audition."
Crap.