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 Makati Square, its walls decorated with tacky gold-framed mirrors, each reflecting rows of plastic chairs filled with young twenty-something women, some no older than me. We stood out in our high-necked blouses and sensible skirts, while others wore the only heels they probably owned and lipstick they’d likely borrowed from an older sister’s dresser. I remember wondering if any of them felt as naïve as I did, wide-eyed and jittery, clutching my karaoke lyrics like a lifeline. If anyone knew what they were getting into, they kept it to themselves.

After an hour of waiting, a man with slicked-back hair and a voice that could’ve sliced bread came to the front of the room. He introduced himself as Mr. Bree, a recruiter from an agency that “connected young Filipinas with opportunities abroad.” We all knew what that meant: Japan. For young women like us, that place seemed like an enchanted realm, bustling with flashing lights, strange customs, and, most importantly, jobs that paid in foreign currency. Many of us had seen relatives or friends return from Japan wearing leather jackets and bringing back stories, if not fat wallets. But something about Mr. Bree’s smile didn’t match his pitch; it was too sharp, too hungry.

One by one, we were called to the front to sing. 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 dingy 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, singing out the words of “Ikaw ang Bigay ng Maykapal...” feeling like I could carry the world on one melody.

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. “Pretty,” 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 music; it was about “projection.” The agency wanted us to be not just 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 mingling, entertaining, ensuring clients felt “appreciated.” His words hung in the air, each one landing a little heavier than the last. It was only then that the pieces started to click: we weren’t just going to be singers. We were bait.

Some girls nodded eagerly, but I felt something twist in my stomach. I turned to Roselle, but her eyes were fixed on Mr. Bree. She seemed spellbound, as if he were promising her a way out of every small-town frustration we’d grown up with. He could’ve been describing our key to another life, one beyond packed jeepneys and crowded wet markets.

After the songs, they gathered us in clusters for an “interview,” another kind of test. Mr. Bree’s assistant, a woman with too-pale lipstick and a clipboard, asked us questions like, “How comfortable are you talking to men?” and “Do you like karaoke?” I could see through the lines; this was a job for pretty faces, for girls who could blend karaoke nights into something slicker and shadier. It wasn’t lost on me that 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 coffee 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.”

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. I told her I wasn’t going to go back.

A week later, Roselle got a call that she was “in” if she wanted the gig, but she never went. The audition lingered in her voice for weeks, and I could hear that hollow echo in her words every time we talked. Eventually, she let the dream slip through her fingers, recognizing, I think, that what Mr. Bree had offered us was nothing but a dead-end in glitter.

Years later, I’d hear stories of girls who had taken that chance, ending up in bars they’d never heard of, singing on stages for strangers who didn’t care about their voices, just their faces and bodies. Some came home with the cash, others with stories too painful to tell. And each time, I’d think of that audition room and Mr. Bree's predatory smile.

In those brief minutes, he’d managed to make us feel small, almost transactional, like we were lucky just to have this supposed “opportunity.” That was how easy it was to get caught up in the dream—just a few words, a melody, and the vague hope of a better life. It didn’t matter if it was all smoke and mirrors; at the time, it seemed like a chance.

To this day, I think back to those girls and wonder if they were ever told the truth of what they’d signed up for. And I think of Roselle, of how close she’d come to stepping over that line, only to be pulled back by something we couldn’t quite name. (Rose Anne Militar)

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