July 3, 2002 About three weeks ago my agency calls and says, "There's this show on Fox called
30 Seconds To Fame. They're looking for people who do weird stuff. Wanna audition?"
So I go downtown to this fancy hotel for the open call.
It's a Felliniesque circus scene -- an 800-pound woman in a tutu, a guy lighting his foot on fire, a 90-year-old tap dancer in nothing but boxer shorts and socks, etc. I'm in my crisp Banana Republic and French Connection, feeling either over- or under-dressed. At least I'm the only beatboxer.
But not for long. Behind me I hear two guys goin' at it with skillz. It's Carlos and Tommy from
Felonious. They turn out to be really nice guys. They do a little of their routine. They're good. They're more hip-hop than I am -- musically, sartorially, etc. Obviously the producers are going to opt for the genuine hip-hop act.
My name is called. I enter the audition room -- a large hotel ballroom -- and look for the microphone. There is none. This is bad news. Unmiked beatboxing can sound good in a small, resonant space, but in a carpeted ballroom it's like hitting a taiko drum with a Q-Tip.
I do a 30-second drum solo for the producers at the other end of the room. They are nonplussed. They ask if I have another piece. I don't have anything prepared, so I do 30 seconds of lame techno. They say thanks, I say thanks, and I go about my morning.
While I'm at Jazz Camp, my agent calls. I'm on!
So here's what I know so far. 25 acts each do a 30-second piece; the audience picks their three favorites. Those three acts do another 30 seconds; the audience votes again. The winner gets $25,000.
They're flying me down to LA later this month for the taping. The show will air about a month after that.
I hear the Guy Who Lights His Foot On Fire got on too. This should be interesting.
