Radio Audition
Watching our students graduate this week and about to be released into the big wide world of the nine to five made me reminisce about my own past experiences trying to land a job.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
I was 20 years old and desperate. The glow around my job as a copywriting intern in a creative department full of men nearing their 30s who didn’t speak English (but somehow managed to prank me constantly) was waning. I wanted more thrills, more drama, and more opportunities to shine…
I was 20 okay? Give me a break.
A dramatic (and slightly corny) ad in the paper for a rock radio station caught my attention immediately, and I applied straight away. Exhilaratingly, they called me back for a second interview, so I decided to rush over on my lunch break, completely forgetting about the Spider-Man t-shirt I had on. These were the days before taxi apps and, well, smart phones, so I got a lift from my friend Nikki at work, an accounts executive and the only person I knew who had her own car. We left an hour early because traffic was heavy and she had a meeting the same time I had my appointment. Cruising down the road I completely missed the turning as I was too distracted (by a shiny object, probably). We drove further and further away from where I was supposed to be, and I finally realised something was amiss. I did the only thing I could in the pre Google Maps mobile app era — I called my mother.
She wearily informed me that I missed the turning. We panicked — it was now half past two (the interview was at three) and we were lost. After much to-ing and fro-ing, Nikki (now rather disgruntled [understatement]) dropped me off (threw me out of her car) at the right place (into a drain) and I was ready for the interview (bricking it).
Thankfully it was exactly three o’clock so I had made it by the skin of my teeth. A guy in a tie whom I had never met before sprang out from behind a door and cried, “Samantha! Follow me!” in the manner of a rather vocal will-o’-the-wisp leading me into a bog. I followed Willo into a tiny corridor, through a door with a guitar nailed to it (rock n roll!) and into a recording studio. There was a dude inside fiddling with buttons. “What’s your name?” quizzed Willo.
“Samantha,” I said stupidly.
“I meant your surname!”
“Oh! Weerawardane,” I cringed. It had happened. I had finally contracted foot in mouth.
“Okay,” he said. “Sit down. Which station did you want to present for?”
“Wuhh… um… well they didn’t really specify anything at the first meeting so I don’t really mind which,” I rambled, having no clue about the content either of their other stations played. It was slowly dawning on me how supremely unprepared I was for this entire venture.
“Do you want to ad-lib or write down what you’re going to say for the recording?”
“Write down.”
“Oh, okay…” Willo looked slightly disappointed. Strike one.“Just write down what you’re gonna say on this pad and we’ll see how you go.”
“How long should it be?”
“About two minutes.” Willo then left and I began writing a rather lame Pretend Radio Presenter Spiel which began with ‘hey, this is Samantha…’ and I realised I was going to bomb. Badly. And why the hell did I keep referring to myself as ‘Samantha’ in this building?
And then the idea struck me. There was this one radio show I used to listen to growing up back in Dubai on 92 FM. I remembered ‘Nanette’, the husky-voiced presenter on the alt rock and indie show I would listen to every Wednesday from 7–8pm just before dinner.
I could pretend to be her!
I can’t remember what I wrote but it flowed well and I was quite pleased with it. Unfortunately it was only 20 seconds long, because it’s only when you’re in a job like radio when you truly realise the length of two whole minutes.
“Are we ready then?” Willo was back.
I ferreted into the teeny weeny sound booth (clearly not designed by people familiar with claustrophobia) and did my thing. Then I ferreted out.
“You’re not from here are you?” Willo wazooed. His voice was quite high pitched. After the usual well-I-am-from-here-but-not-and-woo, he ended the meeting saying that he thought I did well.
I caught a three-wheeler back with a driver who thankfully didn’t try to swindle me, and I felt like luck was truly on my side.
When I snuck back into the office I was met with a distraught Nikki. “I only just got back!” she reeled in despair, pointing at her watch. It was half past three. “I ran out of gaaassss.” Ah well.
