butseriously.com: Stomp!

Born to Stomp
by
Brian Malow

Destiny is a funny thing. It may be impossible for even Yoda to predict, and yet, when the credits roll, your life story seems to have unfolded in the only conceivable way. There is symmetry and closure and a vague sense that it was worth the seven dollars. Or, at least the matinee price.

Such lofty thoughts as these swirl in my brain as I gaze upon the ad in the San Francisco Bay Guardian. Stomp, the performance troupe that "takes the everyday sounds of pipes and brooms, lighters and garbage pail lids, and creates the extraordinary," is holding open auditions right here in my hometown.

I tremble with the certainty that my life is about to undergo a cataclysmic change. For all the world is a stage and I was born to stomp upon it!

I call the hotline for more information. A pre-recorded message says they're looking for "Drummers that move well or dancers with percussive skills." Sign-up is Monday morning, 10am, at the Alcazar Theater. They suggest wearing hard-soled shoes and loose, comfortable work clothes.

Call it Fate. Call it Divine Intervention. Call it an excuse to mock strangers who make a living wearing garbage cans on their feet. Call it what you will, but one thing is for certain: I know where I will be - where I have to be - Monday morning at 10am.

When I was ten years old, I began playing the drums. By my 11th birthday I had already given them up, but that is irrelevant. I've always been rhythmically inclined.

Furthermore, in our family, I was the one who always took the garbage out, loudly dropping and banging the cans and lids in order to register my protest with the whole neighborhood. I also have plenty of experience with brooms - which I have used not only for sweeping but for knocking down wasps' nests and pretending I'm a witch around Halloween. It's only a small step from there to using them as musical instruments.

You see, even before Stomp existed, I was on the path.

It's Thursday night and the audition is Monday. I realize I don't have time to implement a diet and exercise plan, and it's too late to sign-up for drum lessons, so I do the next best thing.

I rent Flashdance and Fame. Footloose is already checked out, but just to be on the safe side, I rent the only Kevin Bacon movie I can find, He Said, She Said. I figure that's close enough. Less than six degrees anyway.

I also pay a quick visit to the official Stomp website at www.stomponline.com, where I find a brief history of the troupe, performer bios, and some short video clips. Waiting for one to download, I fantasize that Monday they will add a clip of my audition to the site, as if to say, "See? That's how it's done."

Sunday I head down to Haight Street in search of the appropriate wardrobe. I find some Ben Davis overalls and a short-sleeved button-down shirt. Trying it on, I feel ridiculous, so I know I'm on the right track. Plus, I can return the stuff for store credit within five days, as long as I keep the receipt and don't remove the tags.

On the eve of the big day, I have trouble falling asleep. I don't know if it's the anticipation or my neighbor clomping around loudly upstairs. I finally drift off…

I dream that I am the fifth member of Queen. I've just written "We Will Rock You" and I present it to the rest of the band.

The drummer is the only one who gets it. The bass player keeps trying to funk it up. Freddie Mercury keeps trying to add piano flourishes and operatic vocals.

"No, no, no!!" I cry. "Just STOMP STOMP CLAP, STOMP STOMP CLAP, repeat to infinity. Okay?"

"How 'bout a ripping guitar solo at the end?" Brian May asks hopefully.

I sigh loudly and give in. "Fine. But that's it! Now, from the top…"

STOMP STOMP CLAP, STOMP STOMP CLAP…

Morning. I slip into my overalls and put on my Stomping-est black shoes. The laces won't stay tied for more than ten minutes, but I figure if one flies off during the audition, they won't forget me.

I get there about a quarter to ten. I don't want to be the first one there, and I'm not. I'm perhaps the 300th person there. And a couple hundred show up after me. The line is HUGE, wrapping around not just one corner, but two. I stroll along it slowly, inspecting the ranks, sizing up the competition. Some are on cell phones, some in flourescent colors. Two girls in a row have their hair piled up on top of their heads. One looks like Princess Leia, the other more like Mickey Mouse.

I start dismissing them left and right. Cigarette smokers - Ha! They won't have the stamina to compete. Scratch them off the list!

You, there! In the tight-fitting pants! Good luck, my friend. Soon you will understand the flexible importance of my baggy overalls designed for Maximum Stomping Mobility (MSM).

Some city workers re-paving the street actually look the part more than most of the people in line. What a story that would make: "I was discovered pouring tar outside the theater where they held the auditions."

A studious-looking girl is reading Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. Perhaps she has the mental discipline required, but does she have the physical discipline?

One guy is sporting a freshly-dyed hairdo, making me wonder if I truly did everything I could in the way of preparation. I'd hate to lose out for not investing six bucks in a bottle of platinum blonde hair dye.

Most of the auditioners look like night people. Bundled up on this cold San Francisco morning, they're sleepy-eyed and quiet, although here and there, improvisational jam sessions break out along the line: claps and stomps and grunts. A few stomp-eyed hopefuls brought drumsticks (Damn!), others slap their thighs and cheeks and snap brittle fingers. I sense their desperation. I'm saving my moves for the audition.

I get in line behind a fair-skinned kid, slight of build, wearing a green sweat-jacket and a gray ski cap. Ski caps are even more popular than overalls this morning. He's also wearing a backpack with a sleeping bag. He tells me he's a dancer from Salt Lake City. His tap shoes are in his backpack. "I spent all day yesterday on a Greyhound bus," he says.

"I took a bus here, too," I offer, "but it was only a 20-minute ride."

"I couldn't find a hostel," he continues, "So I ended up spending the night at this homeless shelter. It was pretty bad…"

Suddenly, I get the feeling he's going to ask if he can crash at my place, but it turns out he's leaving tonight. I guess he intends to just sweep the audition and return home triumphantly to get his stuff. This is what I'm up against.

Three hours have passed when I finally enter the lobby of the theater, only to be told by a bored brunette that today's slots are already booked up. What?? Cruel fate!

"You'll audition in groups of twenty," she drones as if for the hundredth time today. "You can have tomorrow at noon or Wednesday and Thursday there are a lot of openings."

Is this my destiny then? To spend the rest of my life auditioning for Stomp? I sign up for tomorrow at noon and fake a big smile. "I'll see you tomorrow." And they will see me.

Day 2: When we arrive we're asked to fill out an index card with contact information, previous experience, and availability. I write:

"I am ready to Stomp at a moment's notice!! I'll travel anywhere!! Let's Go!!"
(I use a lot of exclamation points to show that I have the proper attitude)

"Experience: Drummer, 10 years"
(That was my age)

"Was a founding member of the performance troupe Clash of Symbols, that mixed ambient sound, dance and comedy."
(a complete fabrication)

Inside the spacious theater, the twenty of us are directed to take the stage in a semi-circle by a couple thin guys in glasses that look like a Hollywood screenwriting team known for their quirky comedies. They collect our index cards.

A quick scan of our group reminds me of the cast of Fame. An eclectic mix: a Filipino guy with platinum blonde highlights in his slick black hair, a tiny blonde, a slightly overweight black guy with glasses and untucked shirt, a guy that looks like Jesus in a tank top, an Hispanic dude in a basketball jersey and ski cap, a misplaced frat rat, a few goaties, lots of piercings, ski cap, bandana.

I end up next to Theresa, a cute redhead who told me in the lobby that she's a retired classical ballet dancer with no particular percussion skills. "But music is a passion. I'm a quick learner, and dance is all about rhythm." She's wearing a sweatshirt, but leans over and whispers, "Should I show a little skin?" as she starts to tentatively remove it.

"Absolutely," I say. I don't know if it will improve her chances of a callback, but it will certainly make the audition more enjoyable for me. She pulls the sweatshirt over her head, and is left with a light sleeveless shirt, revealing her extremely muscular arms.

One of the guys collecting our index cards thanks us for coming and says, "We're gonna take you through an abbreviated workshop style of audition. Enjoy yourselves, be yourself, that's what we want. Have a great time. Frasier, Fiona and Mitch will be taking you through your paces." As Frasier takes center stage, these two then recede into the empty theater to become silent silhouettes sitting in judgment of us.

Frasier is dark-skinned with short black hair and a tight-fitting shirt. He looks like he might moonlight as an assassin. In a thick Scottish accent he says, "If you don't understand a word I'm saying, let me know." But that's the only thing he says that I do understand. "Don't be… something something…"

Fiona takes the lead. She's a black Scottish woman with a round face and short dreads, in green fatigues and a long-sleeve black turtle neck. She tells us, "We're just gonna show you this and then we'll break it down."

Mitch is a blonde guy in a white sleeveless t-shirt and new, baggy Ben Davis jeans with huge cuffs. He wears a striped ski cap that suggests Dr. Seuss, and he may be mute.

The three of them launch into an impressive display of stomping and clapping, a fast, complex four-part routine, perfectly synchronized.

When they finish, a half-hearted round of applause erupts from the group, but I feel like I've been dipped in liquid nitrogen. Before I can inquire as to where the exit is, Fiona is taking us through the first part:

Right, Left-Right-Clap
Right-Left, Right-Left
Clap-Right-Left

Do that three times. Then a variation on that. Then something else completely different.

It's happening so fast. Within minutes we're supposed to know this sequence with several different parts.

I can't take my eyes off Fiona's feet, which are a blur. I can't make any sense of their movements. I have no ability to absorb this form of information. All my research and preparation has left me unprepared for this moment.

But judging by the stomping sounds filling the theater, a lot of my peers seem to be getting it. Two dreamers down, the tall, young blonde guy is really gung-ho. In ripped jean shorts and sleeveless shirt, he adjusts his red bandana and boy can he STOMP! He lifts his heavy black shoes high into the air and easily hits each beat, smiling like a punk rock Gene Kelly.

My own feet are refusing to comply. I'm swamped with self-doubt. I think I preferred my destiny when it was safely off in the distance, not right in my face, glaring at me, pulling me forward by the nape of the neck.

I feel a little guilty that my lack of rhythm might affect my neighboring competitors. But then I realize I'm probably helping them shine by comparison. You can thank me later, guys.

From the moment the audition starts, it doesn't let up. Now comes the real test.

"So, what's gonna happen is, that six-bar pattern," Fiona instructs, "We're gonna do that once, and then the four bars of the first rhythm and then a four-bar gap. And, in that four-bar gap, you're gonna do your solos."

Solos?

"You're gonna come out and show us a bit of yourself."

Mitch and Fiona demonstrate with the first solos: moving to the focal point of our semi-circle, and exploding into a crackling display of syncopated claps and dance steps.

As we cycle through the pattern again, the first auditioner dances out to center stage. Curly-haired, possibly Israeli, he did a little tap routine in soft-soled shoes. Not a single clap, either, but he had a nice casual way of drifting back into the line, as if he were oblivious to the pressure.

Next up is the gung-ho bandana kid. He stomps out there and does a rhythmic but unimpressive display of slaps and claps. Back in the line, clown!

I hardly notice the kid in the skate t-shirt and long, baggy jeans because I know in about 15 seconds I'm going to be the center of attention.

Fiona is behind me now, gesturing for me to scoot out there. I do so, reluctantly and arhythmically, and when the dancing of the chorus line ceases, I find myself spinning and stomping one foot in a display that instantly sets me apart from the previous soloists. But my (relatively) strong opening degrades into some weak slapping of my thighs and chest and some unrelated dance steps. Panicking, I launch into another spin, pausing halfway through, resuming and then sputtering to an end.

Hey, it's not like this was a prepared routine, you know.

The solo lasts maybe ten seconds. Back in the line, I gradually relax, remembering that they cannot judge my dance skills because I don't have any. Ah, the truth shall set you free.

And then… a minor miracle occurs. I notice that I'm not the only one who sucks. This is what enlightenment is all about. My spirit soars as I watch each soloist flounder in his or her own unique way.

One guy ends with a breakdance move: a spinning hand-stand that was impressive until he came crashing down clumsily on his back.

A plump, cheery brunette slaps every part of her body, finding her large soft breasts fail to produce much sound.

A couple people do entirely silent dance numbers, apparently forgetting the thing is called STOMP!

Next, we move on to the drum portion of the audition. Actually, they're a set of big, blue, plastic barrels or garbage cans. We're supposed to jump up, shout out our name and grab the two thick drum sticks. Tap out a tempo in four beats, and play a couple bars accompanied by Mitch, who's banging on a metal garbage can which he wears like an electric guitar. Then Mitch stops and you get a couple bars for your solo.

The first few people do really well at calling out their names, but their drumming leaves much to be desired. More than a third of them have NO RHYTHM AT ALL. Like the random bursting of popcorn popping, there's no telling when the next beat will fall. Most of the girls are afraid to strike the drums with any force, delicately tapping out Morse Code.

Now, I have all the confidence that I lacked before. I'm still not that good, but at least I'm LOUD!! And I can keep a beat (almost). Quite unexpectedly, hope has returned.

After the drums, we get another crack at the Stomping. This time, I'm really silly. I find myself spinning with my arm stretched out as if in a Nazi salute. Now I'm snapping my fingers. Now I'm gliding backwards and pointing, pointing… and my fellow contenders are cheering me on…

And suddenly it's all over. What a whirlwind.

"If ya'all could just hang out for a little bit longer, we're gonna talk about you but pretend we're not doing that. Talk amongst yourselves, but stay in this order for us so we can identify you. Thanks."

Our instructors huddle to decide who will get a callback. The kid in the red bandana? The guy copping the Tom Waits look? The former ballet dancer? The guy that looks like Jesus in a tank top?

They call out five or six names, and mine isn't one of them. But it doesn't even matter because the only thing on my mind is something I just overheard.

In two weeks, they're holding auditions for Cats…