American Idol's Chicago auditions
Scott Heisel
Hopefully no one sang, "I Walk The Line"
While I don't consider myself an American Idol superfan, I do watch each season with a decent level of interest. With the amount of pure dreck masquerading as reality television, it's nice to see a show that—even with all the glitz, flashiness, and celebrity guests—comes down to one thing: talent (and maybe whether you're in the closet). There's no “backstage” element, nor any The Real World-esque footage of the contestants living together. You tune in, you watch a bunch of people sing, and then you vote for who you think performed the best. End of story.
So when season nine's audition cities were announced, and Chicago's tryouts happened to be the same weekend that I would be visiting for a wedding, I decided to throw my name in the ring. This wasn't done ironically; I legitimately felt like I had at least somewhat of a shot of advancing, as I'd sang in various choirs growing up, attended college on a vocal-performance scholarship, and even won my college's version of American Idol my senior year. (I still have the oversized check to prove it.) Considering the audition age cap is 28 and I'm 27, I was running out of chances to try to “live the dream,” as it were, so I gave it my best shot—along with 12,000 others. Here's how it played out.
SATURDAY, JUNE 20
8 a.m.: My girlfriend and I arrive at the United Center, and are met with roughly 3,000 other people who have already lined up in the parking lot to secure a wristband and ticket to Monday's audition. (I'm singing; she's my moral support.) Today and tomorrow is the registration process for anyone who wants to compete; all you need to do in order to qualify is be between 16 and 28 and have two forms of photo ID.
8:26 a.m.: I spot a Juggalo. He also spots me. 
Scott Heisel
8:45 a.m.: Hundreds more people show up behind me; various news crews roam the parking lot, looking for people with actual talent or, more commonly, wackjobs in nutty costumes. And seriously, who wears a nutty costume to registration?
8:50 a.m.: Volunteers begin passing out cute little aluminum bottles of Coca-Cola to people in line, just in time for American Idol cameras to show up and film B-roll. What a coincidence.
9 a.m.: The line slowly starts to move. Groups are let in a few hundred at a time to get their wristband and ticket.
10:15 a.m.: I finally get inside and receive my wristband. It's made out of the same flimsy paper material your local rock-club-of-choice uses if you're 21 or over. The attendant applying it to my wrist tells me not to get it wet, as if I damage it before Monday morning, I won't be allowed back in. The next two days include awkward showers with plastic wrap secured around my wrist with painter's tape. You'd think a show as huge as this could at least afford plastic. I guess the recession hurts us all.
Scott Heisel
10:43 p.m.: I look at the prohibited items list show runners handed out earlier in the day. Among things not allowed: “chairs that do not fold up,” followed shortly by “folding chairs.” Also on the list: “hibachi grills,” “chaise lounges,” and, my personal favorite, “weapons of any kind (including all swords, forged or carved, from any of the middle ages).”
MONDAY, JUNE 22
4:55 a.m.: We arrive back at the United Center parking lot to a crowd of thousands already impatiently waiting—and an ominously black sky. We'd been told to be there by 5 a.m.
5 a.m.: Nothing happens.
5:07 a.m.: It starts raining. People are not stoked.
6:32 a.m.: The rain slows, and the sun begins to poke out. Bagpipe players from the Chicago Police Department march up and down a few rows of people over, playing the same snippet of a traditional song for Idol cameras.
7:25 a.m.: Some unoriginal douche shows up in a Heath Ledger-era Joker costume. People inexplicably flock to get their pictures taken with him. One less competitor to worry about.
8 a.m.: Doors open, and the immense line goes inside in spurts. Each person's ticket has a seat assignment—so waiting in line since 5 a.m. or earlier proves pointless, as it doesn't guarantee you an earlier audition spot.
8:27 a.m.: We're handed mini bottles of Vitamin Water as we proceed to the entrance. No less than five yards away, we're forced to throw them away because of a no-outside-food-or drink policy the venue is enforcing. Chicago's bums will drink like well-hydrated kings tonight.
8:30 a.m.: We find our seats and take in the view of about 12,000 other people inside the arena, all taking instructions from some unenthusiastic producers. It mostly involves a portion of the crowd yelling some phrase, and then having everyone scream wildly and wave their arms in the air. No Simon, Randy, or Paula is present; we don't even get a Ryan Seacrest welcome video or anything. Hell, I would've settled for a Brian Dunkleman cameo. The most famous person here is the piano player from the show's rehearsal clips. He gets polite applause.
8:56 a.m.: One producer, a tall, black man with what looks like dreadlocks (couldn't tell because it's tough to see from this high up), instructs the crowd to yell, “I'm Chicago's finest!” for the camera. I yell back, “I'm not a hot dog!” I hope I'm too far away to be spotted. 
Scott Heisel
9:03 a.m.: The same producer tries to get the crowd to yell, “Welcome to The Chill!” Why “The Chill,” you ask? His explanation: “See, Chicago's abbreviation is CHI, and Illinois' is Ill., so, you know, The Chill!” Thousands of people boo him in unison and begin chanting, “Chi-town, Chi-town,” instead. He relents. Democracy works!
9:15 a.m.: We're forced to sing Katy Perry's “Hot N Cold” repeatedly for the camera.
9:30 a.m.: Auditions start. Twelve booths are set up on the floor with two or three producers at each. Contestants are brought up by section and broken into groups of four. We're told not to say our name or what we're singing—just to step up and begin our song until a judge cuts us off. The average time each contestant gets starts off hovering around 30 seconds. The crowd erupts in cheers any time someone is sent through with a golden ticket. This rarely happens.
9:57 a.m.: I retire to the outside corridor to begin rehearsing my potential song selections. I'm torn between The Platters' “In The Still Of The Night” (my strongest, but not the most difficult vocal melody), Alkaline Trio's “Enjoy Your Day” (gorgeous and unusual vocal melody, but will I lose points for obscurity?) and The Beatles' “Hey Jude” (a classic, but I'm sure someone will have sung it before I make it down to the floor).
11:07 a.m.: “In The Still Of The Night” it is.
2:13 p.m.: Our section is called. I'm happy to leave behind the hundreds of talentless hacks roaming the halls, warbling through Journey covers.
2:48 p.m.: We make our way onto the floor. Before being allowed down, we have to turn in a very intimidating release form, as well as our tickets (so much for souvenirs). My stomach does backflips.
2:54 p.m.: My quartet is put in line for booth four. One of booth four's judges? The tall, black, and dreadlocked producer. Fuck.
2:55 p.m.: I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
2:56 p.m.: I begin singing. I hit my opening note successfully (always tough a cappella), fall into my melody comfortably, make solid eye contact, smile, and do a little hand gesture, too. I'm feeling good.
2:56:15 p.m.: I'm cut off.
2:57 p.m.: The remainder of my group finishes singing. We're all called forward. It's the moment of truth.
2:58 p.m.: As Simon Cowell would say, it's a no for all four of us. I'm legitimately shocked. We're quickly ushered out through the “non-winners” exit, as the producers call it, and our wristbands are cut off of us (to prevent us from selling them to a late arrival outside, we're told). I'm left with literally zero physical proof that I auditioned for American Idol; perhaps that's the way they want it. At least I didn't have to say, “Welcome to The Chill,” on national television.
