Now that I had some free time, I decide to do a little more exploring of the city. Halych fascinated me, truth be told, and I wanted to take in the atmosphere while I still had a chance. I roam from street to street, taking it all in-a city full of patches of grandeur and disrepair, a curious mix of prosperity and modesty. I soon find that my eyes end up catching a sign across the street, apparently leading to a singers’ lounge of some sort.

I walk across the street and find a flyer on the wall next to it-the flyer was a little worn, but not too old. I examine it closer, and find that a local cover band needed to find new replacement vocalists My thoughts drift towards my earlier time as a lounge singer; it was perhaps one of the few memories I had that wasn’t horribly tainted by strife. I decided to give it a chance, my eyes moving to the rehearsal time and date and hoping it wouldn’t be at an unreasonable time. Thankfully, it’s during daylight hours, and at a place called the Strauss Building, which if I didn’t know any better, was some sort of small-time performance theater. I check my phone, and it’s not too far; just a few blocks away.

I make my way across roads and sidewalks alike, passively taking in the city’s atmosphere. For a place haunted by something such as the Teneb, it did have its charm, and it didn’t show its scars easily.

I find the building with a small and half-full parking lot. I’m about half an hour early for the actual auditions proper, and I realized that I have no clue what kind of band this is. I just hoped desperately that this wasn’t some pop band looking for a pretty face as a figurehead, and stepped through the doors.

The lobby was empty, and double doors were open to what seemed to be a much larger room. I enter, and find a sea of padded chairs against a carpet floor, all surrounding a stage. There was some equipment being set up on stage, so far a drum kit and a set of speakers. The drum kit at least ruled out pure pop outfits, but it didn’t avail my worries entirely. This could still be a pop rock outfit, after all, and I couldn’t imagine that being a pleasant experience for me.

A young man in a hoodie and a baseball cap walks over, stepping down from the stage and moving to me. “So, you want in on the auditions?”

I nod. “Yeah. I heard you were looking for someone to fill the ranks.”

He takes a moment to look me over briefly. “Cool. We’ve got a few others coming in, and we have some setups backstage so you can get a preview of what your audition songs will look like.”

“Alright, show me the way.”

We went around to the backstage, where apparently I was the first contestant inside, and directed to a chair which had a laptop and a headset near it. There were other setups similar to it across one wall of the backstage. I walk closer, and notice the laptops have lists taped to them containing a few songs. “So we just look at recordings of the songs and get our bearings from there?”

“Yup, that’s the idea.”

“Very well...” I drop myself into the chair, and put on the headphones; they’re well worn, but the audio quality isn’t the worst I’ve heard. I look at the actual track list, and I put the first example in. Thankfully, it’s not some pop garbage. Instead, it seems that I’ve accidentally stumbled into a punk rock outfit, which was outside my experience, but more than tolerable enough-at least there would be some actual art here.

Just as I’m halfway through the first song, two other girls come through the door, and they don’t look like band members to me. One’s in a nice dress with curly hair, and the other’s got some jeans and a beanie on, going for more of a nerd or a hipster-ish aesthetic. Beanie seems awfully excited, as if this was some sort of dream for her. My mind drifts back for an instant, wishing I could still have some element of childlike wonder like she did- and then snapped back to the present.

As for the girl with the curly hair-she seemed amicable, almost like a socialite. If I were forced to guess, I’d have to assume she has some talent, but is clueless as to what exactly she’s getting into-though I could be easily proven wrong. I’m just having trouble finding another reason why she’d be wearing a dress to an audition like this.

The first song was okay, but the second one was more of a metal kind of song, very heavy, and at first kind of difficult for me to follow, but I couldn’t deny how it grew on me after a few rounds. It was energetic and somewhat refreshing in its own right.

As time goes on, I catch three more contestants roll in; another girl who looked to be of roughly high-school age, a young man in a t-shirt bearing a logo with a relatively casual attitude, and a middle-aged man with stubble and a slightly worn jacket.

Another half hour passes as I go through the three songs handed to us-the third was more punk-rock than metal, but the lyrics had a tumultuous and forlorn message to them, which was something I found almost intimately relatable. I actually found myself shocked at how much it spoke to me on a personal level, gently prodding at my own pains in life.

The guy with the baseball cap steps through the doorway leading to the stage again. “Yeah, so, we’re just going to have you run through the songs one at a time, with breaks in between each song so you have time to remember each one. Sorry I didn’t mention that earlier.”

This seemed like a pretty important omission to make, as I can’t imagine most would be able to memorize three songs at once unless they were actually into the songs selected or had significant prior experience with this kind of test. Still, I could see about half the room visibly relax a little, corroborating my initial reaction to these news.

“Anyway, we’re going to be starting in half an hour or so. Sign this clipboard with your name so we know how to call you up.” He sets down a clipboard on a nearby table, setting a pen down next to it. A few got up immediately to sign it, but I decided to wait and gauge the reactions of others. For the most part, waiting to watch this didn’t give me much insight that I could actually use, but the lady in the dress was quick to move over and sign it, possibly marking her as a professional overachiever. The person in the beanie was much more relaxed and casual about it, taking a minute to finish a run of a song before signing it. I was last up, and signed with just my first name at the bottom of the list.

I decide that it would be better to not over-analyze the small movements the other contestants made and stick to listening to the song… and trying to recall the techniques that I hadn’t used in perhaps 6 months since I stopped going to that lounge to perform.

The first song’s up. The lady in the dress has a professional performance, with clear evidence of talent, but it’s also clear she’s not used or exceptionally well suited to this type of music by way of her overall conduct, seeming to be more of an opera kind of singer, which would make sense given her dress code.

The other contestants all have problems; the high-schooler girl had trouble with tonal shifts and pitch, the boy had gone off-key repeatedly, and the middle-aged man had run short of breath multiple times.

The girl in the beanie, though, she’s clearly into this. What she does lack, strictly speaking, is training, going slightly off-key at certain points and struggling to keep enough breath in to say the lines, which isn’t strictly her fault. Some of these songs can be very demanding.

Lastly, it was my turn. An inhale, an exhale. I walk to the front of the stage, just as I felt the music kick in. I grip the mic, and recall a shard of my past as I’m able to near-seamlessly throw my voice to better contour the song’s needs, and deliver a performance I thought was at least respectable, if not especially energetic. Even still, I couldn’t help but feel I wasn’t going to win this. The two notables either outgunned me in talent or spirit, and I couldn’t help but feel I was mediocre in comparison.

We return to the backstage, and I couldn’t help but notice the beanie girl and the lady in the dress talking briefly. While I’m sure they would’ve liked me to join in, I just wasn’t in the mood at all.

I go over the second song again, just to make sure I’ve got every last inflection and timing down right.

The second round comes. Half of the contestants seem to completely run out of breath halfway through, with the beanie girl audibly sucking in air at one point-though she never dropped a line. She seemed most visually impressive in overall performance, clearly well inside her element. The lady in the dress still did well, but I could notice the way her body stiffened up and how her tone wavered at a few of the most intense points in the song; she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the material she was working with. I’m not sure she’d be a good fit for this outfit long-term, I could honestly see her dropping out after a few months if they didn’t majorly adjust their track list.

When my time came, I let the music come to me naturally, and let myself operate off of instinct a little more freely than before. Even still, something felt awkward to me. I let myself get carried away, and I wasn’t paying too much attention to my actual performance. When I was done, the way everyone else was looking at me, I either did very well or fucked up horribly. I was leaning towards door number two.

I step back into the room, beelining for my chair and pulling up the third song, looking over it again, not paying much attention to the others. I let the song’s lyrics and the tempo sink in, immersing myself in the overall atmosphere of the song. Maybe it was my hopelessness forcing a departure of my usual analytical nature, but it was at that moment I realized how songs can truly connect with people’s lives and personal experiences.

Out the corner of my eye, I catch the two notables talking briefly, with one of them glancing at me briefly. They didn’t look like they were laughing, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t pity that they were expressing instead. I found the third song to be grimly ironic given my current circumstances, and let out a soft, wry chuckle-though I still felt the pain in my heart.

The final round was here. Both of the notables do well in their own ways, now feeling far less pressure from an exertion standpoint, with the rest of the group doing no worse than they normally did. I’m called up, as I finally walk along to the mic, my footsteps slow and steady as I about-face to the front of the stage. I take a breath and sing, fully recalling my old days at a singers’ lounge, where behind a mask I poured so much of my emotions into a performance while walking the tightrope between that and exercising proper technique with great precision. I gave my heart to the performance, and once it was done, I simply slink back into the backstage, catching the band members looking among themselves as I walk by.

I drop myself back into my seat unceremoniously, as the band members take their time in deciding our fates, probably like a jury of some sort. Meanwhile, I can catch the main notables talking again and studied the others. The middle-aged man looked sullen, while the younger two just looked nervous. A familiar figure in a baseball cap and a hoodie walks back into the room, looking over the list and scribbling on it. He then looks up at us. “Elise, Mary, and… June. You have been selected as our potential backups. Everyone else, you have not made the cut. You’re dismissed.”

The other two notables-Elise and Mary, though I know not which is which- share a look briefly, clearly enthusiastic.

“Does that mean there’s gonna be a final showdown?” The lady in the dress spoke up.

“No. All three of you ultimately made the cut, though we found June’s performance to be most convincing. You’ll be backup singers in case she or Sard are unavailable. You’ll still have rehearsal days, too.”

I couldn’t believe it. I was the one who won, of the entire group? Granted, several of them were pretty weak performers, but I figured Mary and Elise were better than me in their own rights.

Beanie girl looks over briefly to me, and then the other notable girl. “I can’t believe it. Miss Icy bested both of us, Mary.” Miss Icy, huh? That’s a new one.

Mary looks back over to Elise. “So what? She’s just better suited to this than we are. She practically schooled us in the third round.” Hearing her say that lifted my spirits somewhat, especially since her own technique seemed quite competent.

Elise grumbles slightly, crossing her arms. The guy in the hoodie clears his throat. “You can leave your numbers with us and we’ll contact you once rehearsal comes up.”

Elise and Mary write down their numbers on the clipboard that the man in the hoodie had then left on the table. “Never thought I’d end up giving a guy my number like this...” Mary quipped. Elise seemed to chuckle in turn. They then left the room. Hoodie guy steps forward, towards me.

“So, June. My name is Teller, and our outfit is called Dirty Diamond.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, seeming genuinely satisfied with the name. I thought it was pretty stupid. I let out a short laugh, leaving Teller visibly confused.

“That’s the name of your outfit?”

Teller slowly blinked. “Yeah, what about it?”

“I know you’re a punk rock cover band, but that was a little cornier than I expected.”

Teller sighed. “I thought it was pretty nice when we got around to trying to figure out a name...”

Another band member in a T-shirt, cargo pants, and fingerless gloves with a sloppy black fauxhawk walked into the room. He had some serious muscle on him compared to Teller. The drummer, if I remember correctly. Teller about-faces to him. “That’s Nork.” Nork holds up a hand and I nod back in turn. He keeps walking to the opposite wall of us.

Another man, with a dress shirt and a fedora on, walks in. His hair is short, but he’s tall overall, taller than either of the other band members. “Name’s Felch,” he introduces himself as he walks three paces towards us. “Currently lead guitar. You did really well for yourself back there, are you trained?”

I nod. “Self-trained, for the most part.”

“Mmmh, interesting.” Felch bobbed his head back and forth, then smiling as he turned and walked over in the same direction as the drummer.

Socializing would be good for my prospects if I decided to join them, but that would be a case of getting ahead of myself. It was time to talk about the pay. “How much do we get paid for a gig?”

“A couple hundred plus tips, typically.” Nork, as he was called, leaned against the wall, ever casual.

I look past Teller, over to where Nork was. “And it’s an even split, yes?”

“Half goes to the band’s collective equipment and agent fund, other half is split between individual members. Usually the main vocalist, Sard, gets a slightly bigger cut, but even if you substitute as main vocalist it’s still an even cut.”

That math adds up to roughly $20 a gig, if that. I probably wouldn’t stick around for too long, but I figured I’d give them a chance first. “And what makes the real main vocalist so special?”

Sard steps in, sauntering with an admittedly stylish vest and a pair of gold-framed shades, arms wide acting like he’s a chieftain asserting his dominance. His hair was messy, but only to a stylish degree. “Because, I’m the real face of the band. I’m the personality, I’m the charisma here. People don’t just respect good music alone, although that certainly helps. I don’t think you’ve got what it takes to be a real frontman like me.” He runs a hand through his hair, almost dramatically. With his swagger, I bet he’d do decently well if he switched to professional ‘wrestling’ as his career. Though he does seem to have a force of personality about him, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was about me being a girl more than anything else.

I cross my arms, standing and turning to fully acknowledge Sard. “Guess I’m supposed to prove myself, then. It’ll all come in good time.” I held up a half-smile, and though I indirectly spoke of one day usurping him, I wasn’t really all that confident, even if I knew now that I could outdo the other secondary vocalists that showed up today. “Anyway, when’s our next practice and/or gig?”

“In a few days. We’ll send you the details later.” Sard looked to Teller. “You’ll be sure to text her, right?”

“Yeah, definitely, once I get her number.”

I walk over, hesitating slightly before I scrawled my number onto the clipboard. I then left the Strauss building.