“(Her)…singing was something between that of a rat drowning, a lavatory flushing and a hyena devouring her after-birth in the Appalachian Mountains under a full moon.” (Auberon Waugh)
My first ever agent was quite extraordinary. He lived in Charing Cross with his partner, and their cat, Maude. This cat was probably the biggest cat I have ever seen. It was enormously fat, but I adored cats, and won favour with this agent in my interview as apparently, Maude liked me, and that was pretty rare. I cannot remember much about that interview except him saying that I should send in a demo tape of me singing, get some new photos and we’d get me auditions for some big West End shows. Fabulous – this was all going very well. I left on a high, thinking I had overcome one of the first hurdles of the theatre world and I had secured myself an agent within a few months of starting out in the industry. The following day I sent in – admittedly a slightly poor quality, but nonetheless passable – demo tape of me doing a variety of opera, operetta, musical theatre and jazz. A few days later, I phoned up my new agent for his verdict:
“Shit. You can’t sing,” my agent stated.
Ah, well, that could be a bit of a problem, as that was really what I was pinning my hopes on in terms of getting work.
“No,” he said. “You’re never going to work as a singer. Your voice is dreadful.”
I put the phone down – a little shell-shocked to say the least. Maybe I was kidding myself – maybe my friends and family were being X-Factor blind, and actually I couldn’t hold a tune. I thought about it over the weekend and decided I should be brave and phone him back and see why he didn’t like it. I dialled in trepidation:
“Hello”, I squeaked.
“Who’s this?”
“Um…it’s Jess Plumridge (my maiden name).”
“Who?”
“(Losing confidence rapidly) Jess Plumridge. I’m one of your clients.”
“Fuck off, it’s Monday.”
Right, well that probably wasn’t what I would call a resounding success. Any self-respecting individual would have walked away at that point, but the terrier (read: desperado) in me wanted to try once more. I left it a few days and then dialled again, trying to sound like I wasn’t terrified out of my wits.
“Hello. It’s Jess Plumridge calling. I sent you my demo last week”, I said, trying to sound mature and like the sort of person who should be hired for leading roles in The Bill.
“Ah yes. Plumridge, Plumridge. Yes. Got your demo. Brilliant. Love it. I’ve put you up for Cats.”
“Oh right. Um…I can’t really dance.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
From what I’d heard from people who have auditioned for Cats, it bloody well did matter.
“Er…right…ok. But I mean I’m really not a dancer.”
“I’ve put you up for the singing role.”
“But that’s a mezzo soprano role.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’m a soprano.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
“But you have to belt an E.” (For non-musicals fans, this is the big note in the song Memory and was way out of my comfort/nice to listen to zone)
“Yes?”
“Well, I can’t.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh right. OK. Thanks.”
As it happened, it didn’t matter. Cats never saw me. In fact, no audition I was ever put up for through him ever saw me. I later heard from a casting director that as soon as anything came from my agent in the post, it would be thrown in the bin immediately. To be honest, that was probably a better option than me actually ever having to attend an audition for Cats.
My first ever agent was quite extraordinary. He lived in Charing Cross with his partner, and their cat, Maude. This cat was probably the biggest cat I have ever seen. It was enormously fat, but I adored cats, and won favour with this agent in my interview as apparently, Maude liked me, and that was pretty rare. I cannot remember much about that interview except him saying that I should send in a demo tape of me singing, get some new photos and we’d get me auditions for some big West End shows. Fabulous – this was all going very well. I left on a high, thinking I had overcome one of the first hurdles of the theatre world and I had secured myself an agent within a few months of starting out in the industry. The following day I sent in – admittedly a slightly poor quality, but nonetheless passable – demo tape of me doing a variety of opera, operetta, musical theatre and jazz. A few days later, I phoned up my new agent for his verdict:
“Shit. You can’t sing,” my agent stated.
Ah, well, that could be a bit of a problem, as that was really what I was pinning my hopes on in terms of getting work.
“No,” he said. “You’re never going to work as a singer. Your voice is dreadful.”
I put the phone down – a little shell-shocked to say the least. Maybe I was kidding myself – maybe my friends and family were being X-Factor blind, and actually I couldn’t hold a tune. I thought about it over the weekend and decided I should be brave and phone him back and see why he didn’t like it. I dialled in trepidation:
“Hello”, I squeaked.
“Who’s this?”
“Um…it’s Jess Plumridge (my maiden name).”
“Who?”
“(Losing confidence rapidly) Jess Plumridge. I’m one of your clients.”
“Fuck off, it’s Monday.”
Right, well that probably wasn’t what I would call a resounding success. Any self-respecting individual would have walked away at that point, but the terrier (read: desperado) in me wanted to try once more. I left it a few days and then dialled again, trying to sound like I wasn’t terrified out of my wits.
“Hello. It’s Jess Plumridge calling. I sent you my demo last week”, I said, trying to sound mature and like the sort of person who should be hired for leading roles in The Bill.
“Ah yes. Plumridge, Plumridge. Yes. Got your demo. Brilliant. Love it. I’ve put you up for Cats.”
“Oh right. Um…I can’t really dance.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
From what I’d heard from people who have auditioned for Cats, it bloody well did matter.
“Er…right…ok. But I mean I’m really not a dancer.”
“I’ve put you up for the singing role.”
“But that’s a mezzo soprano role.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’m a soprano.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
“But you have to belt an E.” (For non-musicals fans, this is the big note in the song Memory and was way out of my comfort/nice to listen to zone)
“Yes?”
“Well, I can’t.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh right. OK. Thanks.”
As it happened, it didn’t matter. Cats never saw me. In fact, no audition I was ever put up for through him ever saw me. I later heard from a casting director that as soon as anything came from my agent in the post, it would be thrown in the bin immediately. To be honest, that was probably a better option than me actually ever having to attend an audition for Cats.
