Flash Memoir

When I Bailed Out of an Audition

Back in the ’90s, fresh out of high school, my cousin Roselle dragged me to a test audition for singers. She’d heard whispers of an agency recruiting talent for Japanese restaurants abroad, and while neither of us exactly dreamed of singing, the opportunity shimmered with the allure of quick cash and adventure. They were hiring singers, she said, no experience required. The phrasing held just enough hope to hook us.

The audition was held in an old function room in Cubao, its walls decorated with tacky gold-framed mirrors, each reflecting rows of plastic chairs filled with teens and twenty-something women. I stood out in my flat shoes, straight-A skirt, high-necked blouse and sleek-combed hair. Many girls wore heels, skinny jeans, tight blouses and lipstick. I remember wondering if any of them felt as naïve as I did, wide-eyed and jittery. But if anyone knew what they were getting into, they kept it to themselves.

After an hour of waiting, a man with curly hair and a voice that could’ve sliced bread came to the front of the room. He introduced himself as Mr. Bree. "Please do your best," he concluded after a short orientation about this agency that “connected young Filipinas with opportunities abroad.” I can hardly recall his exact words, but we're all focused on what that meant: Japan.

Roselle and I had imagined that enchanted place with strange customs, bursting flower parks, and most importantly, jobs that paid in hefty Yen. We knew of relatives or friends returning from Japan wearing leather jackets and bringing back exotic pasalubong, if not fat wallets. But something about Mr. Bree’s smile didn’t match our expectations; his pitch was too sharp, his voice, too hungry.

One by one, we were called to the front to sing. I clutched my karaoke lyrics like a lifeline. Mr. Bree barely looked up from his clipboard as girls poured their hearts into renditions of Whitney Houston, Celine Dion, and power ballads from the OPM classics. It was like karaoke night at some bar, except here, instead of friends cheering you on, there were cold, appraising eyes. When Roselle went up, her voice filled the room with warmth, and I could see some heads nodding. When it was my turn, I mustered everything I had, belting out “On the Wings of Love.”

Afterward, Mr. Bree finally raised his gaze. He peered at me for a moment, then looked me up and down in a way that made my skin crawl. “Ok,” he said, as if evaluating a fruit at the market. "But you know, singing isn’t enough." He stressed the word like it held weight I didn’t understand yet.

He went on to explain, in condescending tone, that this wasn’t just about singing. "This is about projection.” The agency is recruiting not merely performers, but “Guest Relations Officers”—GROs, for short. The term was spoken as if it were a golden ticket, not something slippery. He described it as a job that requires "mingling, entertaining, ensuring clients felt appreciated.” His words hung in the air, each one landing a little heavier than the last. The pieces started to click: we weren’t just going to be singers. We were supposed to act as bait.

Some girls nodded eagerly, but I felt something twist in my stomach. Roselle's eyes were fixed on Mr. Bree. She seemed spellbound, as if he were promising her a way out of every frustration we’d grown up with. He could’ve been describing our key to another life, one beyond tedious long lines to school, packed jeepneys and unsafe bangketas.

After the singing, they gathered us in clusters for an “interview.” Mr. Bree’s assistant, a woman with pale lipstick and a clipboard, asked us: “Are you comfortable talking to men?” “Do you like karaoke?” "Do you have allergies?" "Does your mother know you're here?" "Can you speak Japanese?" "How fast can you learn?" "Were you ever a party host?"

I could see through the lines; this was a job for girls who could blend karaoke nights into something slicker and shadier. This gig wasn’t about singing any more than it was about the supposed restaurants in Japan.

That night, Roselle and I debriefed in her kitchen, mulling over instant noodles and a feeling that the world had shifted under our feet. Roselle had stars in her eyes, already dreaming of neon-lit nights, but I felt more like a moth about to burn itself on one of those lights. “You’re not really considering it, are you?” I asked her, my voice low, as if the kitchen walls could carry secrets.

“Why not? Think about the money!” She gave a lopsided grin, but I could see a hint of doubt. “It’s a way out of here. And what’s so bad about singing and talking to guys? It’s just work. We can come back if it's not worth it, but let's save for College tuition first."

But something in me kept ringing with an instinct I couldn’t shake. This wasn’t the kind of stage we’d imagined, with appreciative applause and respect. This felt…cheap. Like we were being packaged as something else entirely, our songs mere background noise to something slick and sleazy.

A week later, we both got a call saying that we passed the audition. But we never went back. The audition lingered in our conversation for a week. I heard a hollow echo in her words every time we talked. Yet we both let the dream slip through, recognizing, that what Mr. Bree had offered us was nothing but fake glitter in some dead-end corner.

In a brief moment, Mr. Bree had managed to make us feel transactional, lucky just to have this supposed opportunity. It was easy to get caught up in our dream—even with those straightforward declarations of the real nature of the job, because of our deep desire for a more comfortable life. I think of of how close Roselle and I had come to stepping over that line. At the time, it seemed like a chance.

I heard stories about girls who had taken that chance, ending up in bars they’d never heard of, singing on stages for strangers who cared more about their faces and bodies, not their singing voices at all. Some probably came home with the cash, others with stories too painful to tell. (Rose Anne Militar)

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