So You Want To Play for the DSSO? Here's what it takes to join the orchestra

At the end of every season our personnel manager Nathan Carlsgaard determines what openings we'll have—who's moving away, who's retiring, or who hit the lottery and proposed a decidedly unsanitary location for the job we were offering. During the summer Nathan advertises the openings, arranges the dates and place for the auditions, staffs the audition committees, and tries to get the music director to stop sipping mai tais long enough to confirm the audition repertoire.

Then it's on to weeks of fielding phone calls, sorting résumés, returning emails, all while preparing to hide under his desk at the first whiff of an aggrieved union rep. The auditionees receive a list of the audition requirements, which usually consist of a concerto of their choice and a number of “orchestral excerpts.” These are treacherous orchestral passages selected to demonstrate mastery of intonation, rhythm, sound, facility, articulations, and so on. Or, more accurately, they're selected to expose weaknesses.

The auditions take place shortly after Labor Day. First the judging committee of principal players gathers for the annual lecture/demonstration on the scoring system, the complexity of which would challenge many a senior IRS agent. At the same time, the auditionees are warming up in practice rooms. Having spent countless hours preparing for this moment, they are steeling themselves for the likely prospect that a single missed shift, rhythmic blip, or botched articulation could eliminate them from consideration. Pressure!

The festivities begin. Imagine the Spanish Inquisition meets America's Got Talent. Half of the front of the stage is covered by a large screen. On the audience side sit the committee members, bunched unnaturally in a corner so as not to see the auditionee. On the stage side behind the screen is a music stand, a chair, and a terrified musician. Nathan is seated on stage in view of the committee and the auditionee, who is forbidden to speak lest the committee recognize a voice (“Aha, that's Peterson; he gave me the evil eye once, so forget him.” Or…”Ooftah, that's that cute Olson, can't play worth a four-day-old walleye, but what a joy to look at.”).

“Please begin with your concerto.” Not good. In four seconds we all know there's no hope. But, since we're congenitally nice Minnesotans we listen on and on, until the player couldn't possibly be offended at being stopped. And then we soldier on through excerpt upon excerpt. Out come crossword puzzles, nail clippers, and the occasional flask. Finally the committee chair checks with each judge for an OK-to-cutoff signal: hand slicing throat, two-fingered nose pinch, fingers in ears, or, in extreme cases, pulling out of hair. Nathan informs the auditionee, and the ordeal is finally over. One down, and the first eight minutes is mercifully behind us.

Of course we hear fabulous players, too. Some are invited to a second round, and possibly a third, as we argue at length over their various attributes. It may be nearing midnight as we reach consensus on the final candidate and the (by that time) more pressing question of who gets the last slice of cold pizza. Nathan cleans up the scattered detritus, and the next morning calls the winner and the los… I mean the non-winners (we're congenitally nice Minnesotans). And if you run into Nathan—he's the slim gentleman who sits in the middle of our viola section—give him some love. He deserves it!

Markand Thakar is Charles A. & Carolyn M. Russell Music Director, Duluth Superior Symphony Orchestra; music director, Baltimore Chamber Orchestra; principal conductor, Duluth Festival Opera and co-director of the graduate conducting program, Peabody Conservatory.