So you’re sitting at home, watching the latest rerun of American Bandstand and marveling at that ageless wonder, Dick Clark, when the phone rings. It’s your best buddy, and he’s given your name to the famous and highly respected musician “Joe Flow” (insert your idol of choice here). Mr. Flow just happens to be going on tour very soon, your pal tells you, and he’ll be needing a bassist. The next thing you know, you’re talking to Joe Flow’s manager, and she’s getting your address so she can send you a tape of “Joe Flow’s Greatest Hits.” But then, after she’s done telling you which of Mr. Flow’s favorites to learn, she utters the following five words: “Good luck at the ... audition.” And all of a sudden you can’t move your fingers (let alone your arms), and you’re wondering if you’re good enough even to hang out with Joe Flow’s second cousin, never mind embarrassing yourself by actually playing with him.

Okay, that may have been a little melodramatic, but you get the idea. Maybe the call you get won’t be for Joe Flow, but instead for some local cover band that rakes in a thousand bucks a night. Or maybe for an original project just getting off the ground, with management and major-label interest. It could even be a huge, nationally known act. Each of these scenarios would likely lead to some sort of audition, and unfortunately, there’s something about the concept of the word “audition” that turns many well-adjusted, mature musicians into quivering mounds of Spam. This terrible phenomenon must be stopped.

I’ve been there. I’ve won some auditions, and I’ve lost some as well. But all the while, I’ve been lucky enough to obtain a certain amount of knowledge and experience about the audition process, and I certainly don’t mind sharing it with you. So, without further ado, here they are: Bryan Beller’s Official Audition Tips and Tricks. (Insert sound of very faint, sparse clapping here.)

Be Prepared

It turns out those Boy Scouts were onto something after all. The preparation factor is the one thing over which you have control, and it will make you feel more confident than anything else. When I say “be prepared,” I’m referring to the material on the audition tape--the stuff on “Joe Flow’s Greatest Hits.” There’s nothing like walking into an audition and thinking you probably know the material better than the artist himself (or herself). Here’s how I get there:

If you already know the songs on the tape (maybe because you own all of your prospective employer’s albums), you’re ahead of the game. But most likely you won’t. Now, think about this for a second … wouldn’t it be easier if you were as familiar with the audition tunes as you were with your favorite Led Zeppelin or Metallica songs? Of course. Would you care to guess how many times you’ve listened to your favorite record? Over 200, maybe? The least you can do is listen to the whole audition tape five times before even trying to learn a note of it. I usually give it six or seven listens--time permitting, of course. (Three listens back-to-back will get you through quite nicely if you have only one day to learn a bunch of stuff.) I’ve found that listening to music in the car helps me to focus, and it also helps me to resist picking up my bass before I’ve completed the getting-to-know-you ritual of Becoming One With The Tape. I guarantee that if you listen to it a few times you’ll pick up the material much faster than if you start trying to learn it the second you get the tape.

Another part of being prepared is knowing the artist. Chances are, if you listen closely to a few of Joe Flow’s songs, you’ll hear patterns that repeat in his songwriting, melody, rhythm … even bass lines. Get it? A good way to learn about the artist is to listen to some of his previously recorded work, which may not necessarily be included in the audition. Of course, this is relevant only if the artist in question actually has previously recorded work--but assuming that’s true, learning one or two extra songs could only help your cause. It shows you’re committed to his music, and it helps you to understand his mindset. You’ll also learn about the person whom he thought was good enough to record for him in the first place.

Here’s a case in point: When I was referred for an audition with Dweezil and Ahmet Zappa’s band, Z, I was sent a tape containing an entire album’s worth of material. (The album was later released on the Barking Pumpkin label as Shampoohorn.) The person who sent it told me not all of the tracks would be part of the live set, and he hinted to me which tunes I might be able to skip over, one of them being the title track. I found it strange that the title track wouldn’t be included in the set for a tour promoting an album of the same name, so I gave it a listen. Quickly I understood why: it was a five-and-a-half-minute instrumental quagmire, with lick after difficult lick and barely any repeating sections. But I figured, What the hell--I had two whole weeks, so I might as well just go ahead and learn it, as well as the rest of the album. And I did. The song “Shampoohorn” took me almost six hours to learn--but in the process, I was able to detect patterns Dweezil used in writing some of his more complex material, and these patterns enabled me to learn other tracks faster than I would have otherwise. More important, it helped me to get inside the head of Scott Thunes, Frank Zappa’s bass player during the 1980s and the only bassist Dweezil had ever recorded with. [Ed. Note: Thunes was featured in March ’97.] In the process I began to understand why Scott held the gig for so long. (The reach and depth of his musical genius is far too huge a topic even to consider discussing here.)

The payoff came five days before the audition, when Dweezil informed me I would need to learn two more songs. The next day, I received the two-song tape and gave it a listen. To my intense horror, the song marked “Purple Guitar” on the label was a nine-minute instrumental nightmare, complete with seemingly impossible licks and a maze-like form, which I had to memorize in roughly 72 hours. So, after a short prayer and the requisite three back-to-back listens, I dove in. Then I noticed something: there were some striking similarities to “Shampoohorn,” in terms of both the structure and the bass line, and there were blessed moments when I actually could feel where the song was headed while I was learning it. Seven hours later I was dancing around my apartment in triumph, pumping my fist in the air like a big, happy, idiot jock. That’s how good being prepared can make you feel. “Shampoohorn” was never called during the audition, but “Purple Guitar” was--in fact, it was the centerpiece of the whole ordeal. I felt like a good little Boy Scout at that moment.

Just a few more words on being prepared: After you feel comfortable enough to play the songs all the way through, and the audition is only a few days away, start practicing as if it’s the real thing. How? First of all, don’t always play the songs in the same order. Maybe the temperamental Mr. Flow will feel like starting with the last song on your tape. If you’ve fallen into the habit of using the first tune as your “warm-up” song, being called upon to play a more difficult song first (combined with the anxiety of playing the first song of the audition) might well lead to the gorgeous sound of your right hand hitting all four strings at once. This we cannot have--so treat every song as if it might be called first. After all, to quote a deodorant commercial, you never get a second chance to make a first impression.

Now, when you get to the point where you know the material cold and it’s just a matter of execution, don’t stop if you screw up. If you should happen to make a stupid little mistake during the audition, you’re not going to be able to rewind the tape and play the section over again; you have to stay on the horse and keep riding. (More on the “reaction to a mistake” situation later.) Also, play the songs without long breaks in between--and, whatever order you choose, play all of the material back to back, as if someone were calling out tunes to you. If you aren’t satisfied with your performance at the audition, you won’t be able to play a certain song over again--so you’d better get used to that feeling. Finally, practice your last few run-throughs standing up. This is especially important for technically challenging gigs, since getting up and down the neck is easier when you’re sitting than when you’re standing. Remember, Joe Flow wants to see what it will be like to be onstage with you, and that means you can’t just stand there and gaze wide-eyed at your neck the whole time--you’ll have to move around a little and get into it. I’m not saying you need to jump around your room with your dick out (or the Courtney Love-style female equivalent). It’s just that if you’re playing Joe’s material standing up for the very first time at the audition, that’s just another variable we can do without.

I think we’re ready to head over to the rehearsal studio now . . . .

Don’t Be a Sound Nazi

Everyone’s had to endure the following hell: Your band is rehearsing, trying to get a set together, and there’s this one guy who just can’t quite get “his sound.” He won’t stop screwing around with his EQ, or his pedals, or his drums, and he’s making all of this horrifying noise in between songs. Now imagine you’re Joe Flow, and the first thing he sees out of you is the ten minutes it takes for you to get “your sound” happening. Get the picture? All rooms sound different, and your bass sound will differ accordingly. If your rig is acting weird in a way only you would ever notice, ignore it and get on with the audition. There are a lot of things about bass sound that only bassists notice--so don’t let that annoying 220Hz overtone destroy the momentum of the audition.

Of course, artists all have their own vision of what they want in a bass sound, and it may very well be different from what you think is the ultimate in low-end coolness. So Mr. Flow may want you to adjust your EQ, or roll off some low end (God forbid), or perhaps change your sound completely. If he says nothing, super--but if he asks for something different, I suggest you aim to please. Remember, you’re hoping to be paid to work for him. (When you write your own stuff and get a touring budget, that’s when you can force your every sonic whim onto your hired bandmates.) By this point you should have listened to the artist’s recordings and adjusted your sound to be at least in the same ballpark with them. It might not be wise to show up for a jazz-fusion audition with a beat-up P-Bass going through an SVT--nor would it be swift to try filling the open bass slot in Green Day by pounding out those neo-punk tunes on your fretless Warwick 5-string through a smooth-sounding Eden rig simply for the sake of retaining “your sound.” I think you know what I mean; be yourself, but tailor your sound for the situation at hand. Bring more than one bass if you need to. More of your signature sound comes straight from your hands than you realize, and a professional artist will be able to hear your sound and style no matter what gear you’re using.

That’s a good thing to remember if Joe Flow tells you, “Don’t worry about bringing your gear--we’ve got the killer [name of your least-favorite amplifier company here] rig all set up and ready to go.” Of course, what he means is he doesn’t want to have to wait for each candidate to set up and take down his own rig. At this point, you just have to pray you can at least hear yourself; consider anything else a bonus.

Trust Your Ability

You’ve been a good Boy Scout. You’ve listened to the songs over and over again. You’ve practiced them in different sequences, and even standing up. But Joe Flow doesn’t want to start with the first song on the tape, or even any song on the tape … instead, he just wants to jam for a bit. Whoa! You weren’t expecting this, and now your whole equilibrium is officially off-kilter. You’re silently berating Mr. Flow in your head: “How is this possible? Was it not enough that I broke up with my girlfriend and lost my job so I could spend all day and night learning these songs for you? Now you want to start with a jam? Why have you done this to me?”

I’ll tell you why: Because he wants to see how you think on your feet. He wants to hear how well you listen to him, and how well you can lock in with the drummer. He wants to hear you improvise. Most important, he wants to hear you and your musical voice--not just some guy simply going through the motions of muscle memory. Sure, he’ll get around to calling those tunes you sweated night and day over, and he’ll be impressed when he sees you know them better than he does--but first he wants to jam. This is when you have to trust yourself and be yourself. There’s a reason you’re at this audition: it’s because someone referred you, and it wouldn’t have happened if your friend didn’t think you could cut the gig. I don’t mean to make this sound like a pep talk, but at these moments, it’s very important to feel comfortable with simply playing what you feel. You don’t need to be overly impressive, or something you’re not just to fit what you might think is “the bill” … just trust your ability. Play your favorite grooves, your favorite licks, and get comfortable. That’s exactly what Joe Flow’s trying to do, too: to get comfortable with you.

You’re probably craving a real-life example after all of that touchy-feely crap. Well, I recently auditioned for guitarist Steve Vai, and the tape he sent was a bitch. Really tough stuff--the kind of music so challenging that, by the third listen, I was thinking about going to medical school just to save myself the embarrassment of screwing up in front of Steve Vai. But, many tough hours and hard calluses later, I had the stuff down cold. I’d practiced the audition set so many times it was as if a CD player were stuck on repeat in my brain, and the only way to stop the damn thing was finally to play the songs at the audition. And when he said he first wanted to jam, it took everything I had to calm down enough just to lay down a groove while he started to get “comfortable” with me. But before you knew it, the drummer and I (with whom I’d never played before) were locking in, grooving, making eye contact, and Steve was tearing the room in half. All of the nervous tension flew right out of my fingers as I leaned into the groove and trusted myself to play at the level I felt I was capable of. And that helped me to loosen up for the prepared material. Most important, I got to be myself. We eventually did play the tough stuff from the tape--but some of the best musical moments of the entire audition occurred during that first jam.

I realize this isn’t always easy. If it’s your first audition, you could be nervous, so you might tend to play it safe. That’s okay; in an unfamiliar musical setting, it’s better to be a bit conservative but solid than spectacular and dropping beats all over the place. But if you can get yourself to trust your instincts and abilities, the artist will notice, and that’s the biggest plus you can possibly have. Lots of musicians can be perfectly prepared (all the more reason for you to be just as prepared as they are), but no one else can have your musical voice. And your voice can’t shine through unless you can trust your ability.

Ears

You don’t need to be some perfect-pitch freak to win points with your ears. You just need to be able to listen. Almost always, certain sections of the songs you spent hours learning will be changed for “the live arrangement,” and the artist will usually say something like this: “You know that solo during the fade-out? Well, we’ll bring the dynamics way down at the beginning, we’ll extend it, and then we’ll end it like this . . . .” Extended solos and/or outros are a gift; they give you the opportunity to stretch out and react musically with the band over a groove you already know well. More important, you can use them to show the artist you can adapt, simply by listening. When you arrive at the “new live arrangement” section of the song, it won’t help your cause to have your eyes fixed firmly upon the neck of your bass. Feel the new section coming, look up, make eye contact, and let him know you can hear what the new section means--whether it’s a change in dynamics, an extended solo, a new ending, or whatever. In this case, using your ears doesn’t necessarily mean being able to pick up difficult licks faster than a speeding bullet. Instead, you can use them to demonstrate your ability to hear a song as a living, breathing musical entity, and to adapt to changes within that song without killing its vibe. (Did I just use the word “vibe”? Somebody please shoot me.)

We’re not done with those Dumbo-sized appendages of yours yet. The artist might ask, “Can you change the feel of this section--like, make it more melodic, but not too busy?” Ugh. This is where the guesswork begins. Most likely, the first thing you come up with will earn you this sort of response: “Well, that’s kind of it, but ... not really. How about trying fewer notes, but with a stronger sense of rhythm?” Being able to decipher what an artist is looking for--even when he can’t totally articulate it himself--is the mark of a true pro. Who cares if Mr. Flow doesn’t like the first four musical options you present? Listen to the song, use your ears, be yourself, keep trying--and when you least expect it, you’ll hear, “That’s it! Play it just like that!” It might be the line you like the least, but who cares? You’ve just used your ears to satisfy the artist, and you want him to pay you. Remember, it’s his music, so play that weird-sounding melodic-yet-not-too-busy bass line and smile wide.

A few months ago I began playing with a singer/songwriter named Janet Robin, whose material is what you might call “eclectic pop.” The song structures on the tape were very simple, as were the bass lines; it was all about hearing “the song.” When I got together with her the first time, we didn’t even make it through the first tune before she asked, “Can you play a little less?” I didn’t think I was overplaying, but I smiled and attempted to be obedient. It still wasn’t enough. Less, she said. Against my instincts, and maybe just to prove a point, the next time I played nothing but quarter-note and half-note roots. And you know what? The song came to life. She knew what she wanted--it was just a matter of using my ears to hear the message and translate it onto the fretboard without letting my ego get in the way. Which reminds me, we need to talk about . . .

Attitude

A good attitude isn’t just about having a pleasant personality (although I wouldn’t exactly recommend calling Joe Flow an “ignorant prick” to his face). It’s about conveying a sense of confidence, and acting as if you actually belong on the same stage with Joe--even if you really think you deserve nothing better than to be the house bassist at Bob’s Chicken Ranch. If you think that way, you’ll play that way, and Mr. Flow will know. One of the least-discussed parts of the audition process is this: During much of the time you assume Joe is hanging on your every brilliantly played note, he may instead be thinking, How will I feel being onstage with this guy? Will he crack when the lights go down? Does he look confident? Do we look right together? If you’re just standing there, with cement blocks for feet, your neck all tensed up and your head looking like it might explode Scanners-style at any moment, chances are you won’t look right standing next to anybody except for the owner of Bob’s Chicken Ranch.

One time you cannot allow yourself to go into “Chicken Ranch” mode is just after you’ve made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes; only computers can play music “flawlessly,” and until they can manage to groove, the demand for human bassists will never cease--mistakes and all. You will make at least one mistake during your audition, and the artist will probably notice. You will want to scream, “I SUCK!” and crack your bass in half over your knee. But you won’t, because that would reveal a bad attitude. The best thing to do if you make a mistake is nothing. Just keep on going as if it never happened. That way, if the artist didn’t notice, then guess what? It never did happen. But if you spend all of the time in between songs talking about that mistake you made, and how you never made that mistake before, and you’re such an idiot because you played it perfectly in your room a million times, what conclusion do you think Mr. Flow will draw about your ability to handle pressure? That’s right--back to the Chicken Ranch you go.

Let’s get back to the Vai audition. I was halfway through the set and I was feeling confident, having already played some of the harder material and a couple of improvised jams, when Steve announced he wanted to solo over a groove in 13/16. Playing in 13 isn’t one of my strong suits, but I strapped on my ears, opened them as wide as I could, pointed them in the direction of the drummer, and off we went. Almost immediately, the drummer started messing around with the beat, turning it around every which way you can (I quickly learned there are a million different ways to phrase a bar of 13), and I knew I was in for it. For two whole minutes, I pretended to know where the one was, making the “I’m grooving” face, trying not to go “Chicken Ranch” on myself. Okay, I wasn’t totally lost, but I did lose the one more than once and wasn’t very musical overall. But after it was over, all I did was look at Steve and shrug, with a smirk on my face that read, “Yeah, that didn’t go too well ... next?” I certainly wasn’t thrilled with myself, but I wasn’t about to let a little thing like that destroy the whole atmosphere of the audition. That’s what I mean by attitude. Sometime or another, somewhere on tour, a mistake will happen onstage--and the artist wants to make sure you’ll still have a pulse afterwards.

Sometimes you’re being auditioned when you don’t even know it. Huh? Maybe you’ve gotten this type of call before: “Hi, we got your name from (so-and-so), and we really need a bassist for a gig this weekend. Our regular guy can’t make it … it’s really cool material … can you do it?” These people don’t have time to audition you formally. They’re willing to trust the person who referred you and start rehearsing with you right away. But that doesn’t mean they won’t be checking you out, seeing if they feel comfortable with you, wondering if you might be able to fill in again, or maybe even become their permanent bassist. In this case, the first couple of rehearsals and the first gig are all one big audition, and there’s no reason you can’t approach it the very same way. Be prepared. Trust your ability. Maybe--just maybe--their regular bassist will end up going on the road with the New Kids On The Block, and you’ll dazzle them and become their regular bassist, and at one of their gigs some big-shot producer will see you and just have to use you on an album he’s doing for Mariah Carey. Stranger things have happened in this business. If you only knew how I met the guy who got me my first gig in L.A. . . . .

I wouldn’t dare sully the pages of this respectable magazine with that story--but I will tell you this: I was subbing in Mike Keneally’s band for several gigs before I knew he was “auditioning” me. Talk about being prepared--I’d already learned his entire live set before he even asked me to play with him. But I’d learned the songs only off the record; when he finally asked me to play a gig with him, and we had our one and only rehearsal, I felt like a little baby deer in the headlights of a Mack truck. Straight back to the Chicken Ranch! All of the “live arrangements” were totally different. There were huge sections of the show that were completely improvised, right down to the key and the time signature. I went into “safe mode,” playing conservatively and trying mostly not to trip up. My attitude sucked. My musical voice was totally suffocated. It wasn’t until the third time I filled in that I finally opened up my ears, soaked in what was going on around me, leapt into the breach, and trusted the ability of my voice to be heard--no matter how weird it might sound in the context of Keneally’s experimental music. A couple of days after that gig, Mike took me aside and mentioned he was interested in making me his full-time bass player. Only then did I realize he’d been auditioning me the entire time.

So if you’re prepared, you’re not a sound nazi, you use your ears, and you have the right attitude, then you can trust your ability and there’s nothing you can’t do, right? Well, not always. Up until now, we’ve talked about the things you have control over. Unfortunately, you can’t control every variable of an audition. There are these annoying little things called intangibles--and they can have a significant impact, either for you or against you. What are intangibles? The first one I’ll mention is the most important: politics. You know how the old saying goes: it’s not what you know, it’s who you bl … er, I mean, who you know. If you’re just as good as another bassist who just happens to be best friends with the guitar player, well, you know what might happen. Maybe you’re best friends with the drummer who’s already got the gig; it can work both ways. Another hateful intangible is image. It’s entirely possible for you either to gain or to lose a gig simply because somebody’s twerp-like manager decided long ago the bassist for his beloved star-to-be will just have to have pink, spiked hair, or a kilt around his or her waist, or big pectoral muscles. Or, maybe Joe Flow has heard your musical voice loud and clear, and he’s decided that although you’re perfectly capable of cutting the gig, your particular musical personality is not what he had in mind for his music.

You can control absolutely none of these factors, so don’t even think about them until after the audition is over. All you can do is prepare as thoroughly as possible, make it clear to Mr. Flow that you’re up to the job by playing your ass off at the audition, and leave the decision in his hands. Even if a meager, nit-picking intangible is what keeps you from getting a particular gig, you’ve still shown Joe you can flat-out play, and that you’re a pro who’s ready for work. From then on, he’ll have your name--and when someone calls him looking for a bassist, maybe he’ll refer you to his buddy, Jimmy Flew, at which point the whole process starts all over again. And if an intangible contributes to you actually getting a gig, more power to you. Either way, intangibles don’t matter if you aren’t prepared for the job in the first place.

The Big Phone Call

Nothing can compare to the exhilarating feeling of receiving that magic phone call--the one where you find out your musical voice has been heard and embraced by your new employer. Conversely, few things suck harder than that other kind of phone call.

I hope some of the things that have helped me in the past will help you in that most difficult of endeavors: a career in music. That’s assuming you truly want to make a living by going on tour, and you look forward to the prospect of being holed up in some hotel room in God knows where, where the only thing the 1950s-era Zenith TV can receive is a rerun of American Bandstand. I personally wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. It sure beats the hell out of Bob’s Chicken Ranch.

So until next time: so long, be well, and … good luck at the audition.

By Bryan Beller, copyright 1997 United Entertainment Media. Reprinted from the April, 1997 issue of BASS PLAYER. Reprinted with permission from BASS PLAYER. For subscription information, please call (850) 682-7644 or visit www.bassplayer.com