Toby the Tenor

The story of my worst audition goes like this: in 1995 I left the Guildhall School of Music and Drama and walked more-or-less straight into my first professional opera production with Welsh National Opera. 

It would be my first crack at the role of Idamante in Idomeneo, a good role and perhaps the character with the most pathos in Mozart’s early opera. In the cast were Anthony Rolfe Johnson and Rebecca Evans while Charles Mackerras was conductor. I knew how fortunate I was to be working at such a high level straight out of music college. 

After opening at WNO’s home opera house, the New Theatre in Cardiff, we embarked on a tour of cities within a hundred mile radius of Cardiff. Late in the run, we had a performance at the Mayflower Theatre in Southampton. Southampton was near enough to London, my home town, for me to travel down on the day of the performance and there was plenty of time to catch the train home after the final curtain. 

Except, on this occasion, for an unforeseeable reason, a handful of the cast – two chorus members, I think – were delayed in getting to the Mayflower and the curtain was held for 15 minutes, meaning the performance began at 7.45pm instead of 7.30pm. The 17 minute buffer at the end of the performance before the last train to London was suddenly reduced to 2 minutes. 

“Yikes!” I said to my dresser, “I could miss my train home.”

“You’ll have to stay here in Southampton. You might be able to get a room through the company at the place we’re all staying in.”

“I’ve got a plane to catch at 6.30am tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, that’s not ideal. Can you catch a later plane?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve got an audition in Amsterdam at 10am.”

“That’s very not ideal. You might get lucky if Sir Charles picks his feet up.” If there was certainty in anything it was Mackerras’s impeccable sense of tempo. It was very unlikely he would vary any of his studied speeds. 

“Can someone make him an extra strong coffee at the interval? Failing that, can I change out of my final costume on stage. And could you bring my stuff to the stage so I can bolt for the train?”

“What about the makeup? You’re covered in dragon’s blood in the last scene with those gashes and all.”

“Oh-oh. Forgot about that.” I usually had a long shower to get the layers of makeup and Vaseline smeared all over my face and torso after each performance. “I’ll have to do that once I get home. I’ve got to catch that train or I’m screwed.”

The last scenes of the opera seemed stubbornly slow as I willed the orchestra to accelerate. At the final curtain I snatched my clothes and in a whirlwind of movements changed, handed my costume to my dresser and headed for the exit. 

As I ran across the foot bridge connecting the theatre to the train platforms I saw my train depart for London. I had no plan B. 

I stood at the top of the steps that led down to the platform as the last carriage slipped past me below my feet. It was only now that I became aware of the rain that had started to fall. 

Still carrying my hard-bound score of Idomeneo in my hand, I placed it in my shoulder bag to protect it from the rain. What now? In 1995 I didn’t have a mobile phone to call and make alternative arrangements. A taxi wasn’t an option, I simply could not afford one all the way to London. 

As the rain began to fall harder and harder, I resolved to get a taxi to a motorway service station, outside Southampton, from where I would have more chance of catching a lift with someone travelling to London. By the time I arrived at the service station the rain was pelting down. Under the shelter of the petrol station canopy, I took out my Idomeneo score and, with a biro, scrawled into its back cover “LONDON PLEASE”. I then stepped out into the pouring rain and stood at the exit road holding my score out in the hope of flagging someone down. 

The time was now 11.15pm. Drenched and cold, I would say “Please please please please please” as every car drove past me. Eventually, I returned to the petrol station to get out of the rain and caught the headlines on the newspapers that had now arrived in bundles ready to be sold the following morning. 

“Rosemary West: Monster Is Guilty” read one. The rainy night on which I was trying to flag down a lift to London covered in dragon’s blood and looking like a drowned zombie had coincided with the day of the verdict in the trial of the accomplice of one of the most vile cases of serial murder of the C20th. Now I understood why everyone seemed to speed up as they saw me with my LONDON PLEASE sign. 

Eventually, a technician who worked for Chubb and who had been sent from London to Southampton to fix a faulty alarm system took pity on me. The time was now about 1am and I had five and a half hours until my flight to Amsterdam. 

The Chubb technician dropped me in Hounslow, where he lived. From there I got a taxi to my home in Highbury, arriving at 3.30am. I snatched forty minutes of sleep before rising again and catching a 4.30 taxi to Heathrow. I boarded my flight and slumped into my seat with a sense of relief that I was finally back on track. 

From this point, all was smooth until I walked into the artist’s entrance of the Netherlands Opera. I presented myself to the guard and a rustling of papers followed as he looked for my name on a list. The phone was lifted and a call made which concluded quickly. 

“There’s nothing here. You’re not on the list.” 

“But I have an audition with Ton Koopman.”

“Not here, you don’t.” The Dutch and their double negatives, I thought. I turned and looked for a public phone to call my agent in London.

“Hello Annette,” I said nonchalantly as she picked up the phone in the office.

“Hello dear. Everything alright?”

“Yes yes. Absolutely fine thanks.” I said, not wanting to let on about the string of cockups that was unfolding. “Can I check the venue for my audition with Ton Koopman?”

“Yes dear. Hold on.” A pause followed and then the sound of the receiver being picked up off the desktop. “It says here the Oude Kerk. Go to the side entrance and ring the bell.”

I found the church and circled it, looking for a vestry or something like a side entrance. My stress levels were high again when I eventually found the door. I pressed the bell and a voice crackled from a speaker. 

“Hello. Sorry I’m late. I’m Toby Spence. I’m here for an audition with Ton Koopman.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your audition is on Monday. Today is Friday, yes? Your audition is on Monday.” And with that the voice hung up. 

I stood there open-mouthed at my stupidity. On this one occasion I had opted to do all the organisation and travel planning myself, taking the burden off the agency. It was the last time I was to make that mistake. Shoulders sagging, I turned and trudged back to the Amsterdam Central Station, catching the train out to Schiphol to fly back to London with nothing to show for the exhaustion of the past 24 hours. 

I returned home and made light of my stupidity, booking another flight to Amsterdam for the Monday. 

By the time Monday arrived I had developed a cold, possibly from standing in the rain for hours on Thursday night. I walked into the audition room to meet Ton Koopman for the first time. I then howled the Bach aria he had specified for him, failing to show any élan, style or musicality with my now croaky voice. When I say howled, I mean yodelled; I had no control over my voice. It broke and cracked and seized and caught and sagged and I even ran out of breath in one long fast run of notes. I knew it had gone badly and that nothing would come of it. And, indeed, nothing did come of it. I remain a fan of Koopman’s Bach but my fandom never translated to working with him – a lifelong regret. 

I was furious with myself for days afterwards. I never told my agent about any of the chaos in the run-up to my bad audition but resolved to ask them to do my travel and scheduling until I had more experience.