So, here is my official List of People Not to Ever Put In Your Choir (Or Your Bathtub). 

The Nose Blower:        Found at every audition, this priceless human artifact honks, snorts, glugs and basically wallows in bodily fluids for the duration of everyone else’s audition.  The Nose Blower inevitably goes last and experiences a holy healing in which he, suddenly septically serene, soars through the ending of Manon with only one massive spray on the next to last note. He goes by the rule “If they remember me, no matter the cause- I’ll get the part all thanks to my schnozz”. 

The Over-Appreciator: This lovely critter lives and breathes appreciation for tout-le-monde.  She loves the hall, the floor, everyone who sings, your hair, your ears and most of all “music, and singing, and performing to show the world that I am a creature of luv”.  The result of all her abundant affection is that there is never a quiet moment.  Her hissed adoration creates a constant high end static that effectively makes anyone auditioning sound like they need Dolby B.  Make this woman leave if she shows up.  Can’t get her to leave?  Tell her there are under-appreciated children at the local youth center that need mentoring and guidance for their big talent show next week.  Lock the door after she’s gone.

The Café Mocha Prima Donna: My own personal favorite, since you can name-brand them into submission.  The CMPD struts in, comments on the fact that there is no decaf coffee, brings his own mug (with either Yanni or Kenny G. on it), brushes off the chair before he sits down, squirms in his seat a lot (and somehow seems to like doing so) and nods his head knowingly each time another singer mentions what they’re singing.  He sings show tunes and screams on the falsetto notes.  Not only does he announce what he will sing and who wrote it in a big booming voice, but he will also add the name of the person who first “immortalized”, “realized”, “brought to life”, “discovered” or “lovingly displayed” the song on Broadway.  No one ever sings in the CMPD’s world- they all “share their musical vision”.  Don’t let this man get your home phone or he’ll call you at odd hours and expect you to get him gigs singing the national anthem at sporting events.

Last Nerve Nellie:         She’ll get there late, she won’t have her music and if she does it will be in the wrong key.  Her throat will be sore, she’ll drop her coffee on your audition notes, her untied shoelace will catch under the piano leg and she’ll snap back mid-stride and whack her flailing arm against the pianist’s face.  She invariably will pick something in French and sing it with a Swedish accent.  Steel yourself against choosing her out of pity- no matter how desperate you are for another singer, there is no room for anyone in your choir destined to fall off the riser 3 out of every 4 performances.  Your only safety is in numbers- assign the Over-Appreciator the task of reassuring Last Nerve Nellie and take bets on which one of them will force their dripping neurosis onto the other first. 

The Petrified Puck:       This one fools me every time.  He’s suave, dare I say dapper, and usually wears an aviator’s scarf.  He breezes in and in a moment, everyone is twisting into rabid contortions to establish eye contact with him.  Women gush, men deepen their voices and say damn a lot and you actually pick up your pencil to write some real notes when he takes the stage.  As soon as he hits the boards the man freezes.  He stammers, hems, haws, and then breaks into an exquisite tenor for about 10 seconds.  His voice cracks, he turns beet red and asks to start over.  The pianist starts again and you get about 5 seconds of lyrical beauty before he pops into falsetto and, fire engine red, asks to start over.  The pianist no longer needs to glance at the music and, head tilted lower, starts again.  This time, no sound comes out of his mouth at all until, voice now crackling like a roaring inferno, he asks to start over.  The pianist is no longer really even playing.  He forgets the words, then he changes the key, and soon he is sobbing on stage and telling you that his mother used to pour pancake batter on him and send him to play with the dog. 

But enough!  No more of these traumatic memories.  Leave this bulletin, go outside, meet people, make friends and maybe some of them will be able to sing…