THE AUDITION KIT

The Audition Kit

This isn’t guesswork about audition rooms. This is exactly how West End auditions actually work.

Long before you walk into the room and sing a note, most actors already have their own little ritual going on.

Their audition kit.

Mine was always pretty much the same no matter what period of my career it was.

Headache tablets.
Throat sweets.
Throat spray.
Water.
Mouthwash.
Hair products.
A snack in case I needed a sugar boost.
Dance shoes or trainers if movement was involved.
Spare clothes if I thought there was even the slightest chance they might suddenly ask for movement.

And then the most important thing of all.

The folder.

That bloody folder basically carried your working life around in it.

My music was always organised carefully.

At the front would be the songs I was happiest singing.
The ones I trusted.
The ones I knew I could deliver under pressure.

Then towards the back would be the less popular stuff or songs I wasn’t fully convinced by anymore.

Sometimes when the panel asked:
“What are you singing?”

the pianist had already had a nose through the folder.

I actually had one pianist say:
“He’s got so-and-so song in here…”

I wanted to throttle him.

Don’t do that.

Actors already have enough going on psychologically without the pianist announcing your backup material to the room.

I don’t think actors silently judged each other by their folders particularly, but everybody took care over presentation.

No one wants to look lazy or unprofessional.
That would be suicide.

Young actors especially panic about all this stuff though.

And I was exactly the same.

At the start of your career you’re worrying about everything.

Do I have enough songs?
Too many songs?
Do I need dance clothes?
Should I take trainers?
What if they suddenly ask for movement?
What if they hate my song choice?
What if they ask for another song and I don’t want to sing it?

So you end up packing for every possible scenario.

Then half the time you get home and realise you didn’t need half the stuff you took with you.

But psychologically it helps.

It’s a safety blanket.

I was in scouts after all.
Be prepared.

And honestly, preparation reduces panic.

Especially in auditions.

Stress makes people do stupid things.

I’ve checked sheet music a million times before leaving the house and still managed to put a page in back to front.

I also went through a phase where I thought taping all my sheet music together into one giant fold-out masterpiece was going to help page turns.

Didn’t work.

The bloody thing wouldn’t stay upright on the music ledge.

And there you are trying to look calm and professional while your music starts collapsing sideways in front of the pianist.

That’s auditions.

Tiny stupid disasters happening while you try to hold it together.

One of the biggest lessons I learned was properly marking your music.

If you don’t mark anything and don’t discuss it with the pianist, they are just going to play what’s written on the page.

Bog standard.

I learned that the hard way.

I did one audition where I hadn’t marked breaths, little rit. moments, rall. moments or anything where I wanted emotional space in the song.

Nothing.

So the pianist just went at it at a lick.

No room for emotion.
No room for feeling.
No room to act through the song.

And honestly, I couldn’t really blame him because it was my fault.

Lesson learned.

From then on I became meticulous.

Repeats.
Cuts.
Quick page turns.
Breaths.
Rits.
Ralls.

Anything that helped them understand where I was going emotionally with the song.

Because accompanists are not mind readers.

And every actor has their own weird little concoctions and rituals as well.

Water bottles mixed with God knows what.
Honey mixtures.
Throat remedies.
Steam inhalers.

Everybody searching for the magic formula before they sing.

I was probably somewhere in the middle.

But over the years my packing definitely became military precision.

At the start of my career it was more:
“Damn, forgot the throat sweets.”

Later on it became:
check everything ten times before leaving the house.

Because once you’ve travelled all the way into London stressed out of your brain, the last thing you want is realising your dance shoes are sitting back in Swansea.

And auditions love throwing surprises at you.

I’ve gone to auditions fully believing it was singing only, only to suddenly hear:
“Can you come back at three for movement?”

What?

I don’t have movement clothes.
I may not even have trainers with me.

And then you either blag your way through it or end up doing it barefoot if you have to.

That’s the reality.

People think auditions are glamorous.

Half the time you’re just dragging around an overstuffed bag full of survival items hoping nothing goes wrong before you get in the room.

Audition clothes are another thing altogether.

Some actors massively overdo it.
Others look like they’ve wandered in from Tesco.

Most professionals land somewhere in the middle eventually.

I used to have this pinstripe suit I absolutely loved auditioning in.

Smart.
Comfortable.
Held my posture well.
I felt good in it.

Possibly too good.

Because after one recall my agent rang me laughing and said:
“The casting director says tell Richard to stop wearing that awful suit.”

Honestly, I was gutted.

Not devastated…
but enough for that suit to disappear into the back of the wardrobe forever.

I wasn’t risking unemployment over a pinstripe suit.

I still got the job though.

And I think it was said lovingly.

Some actors also like giving a little nod to the character they’re auditioning for.

If I was auditioning for an aristocrat, I’d wear something that naturally held my posture differently.

Girls might do their hair or make-up slightly towards the period.

Nothing over the top.
Just enough to help place yourself physically into the world.

And that physicality matters more than younger actors realise.

Sometimes I’d even carry a recording of the role or something visual with me.

Not to copy somebody.

Just to hold the world of the show in my head while I sang.

Because it changes how you hold your body.
How you stand.
How you deliver the song.

You can also always spot greener actors.

Not because they’re untalented.

Nerves.

Sweaty.
Constantly checking the folder.
Back and forth to the toilet.
Not talking much.
Looking terrified every time somebody else sings.

We’ve all been that actor at some point.

Including me.

But eventually preparation becomes part of calming yourself down psychologically.

That’s really what the audition kit is.

Not just practical items.

Control.

Because auditions are unpredictable enough already.

Anything you can control before walking into that room is one less thing waiting to panic you later.

If this spoke to you, feel free to share it and leave a thought.