Seeking magic for the fourth chair

A black canvas screen separates the musician from the judges, standard procedure to preserve anonymity at an orchestra audition. It’s about what you hear, not about what you see. “It’s the ultimate equal opportunity,” offers Andrea Laguni, general manager of the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra.

Still, though they can’t see the 17 hopefuls, each of whom will get about 10 minutes to demonstrate his or her skill in a preliminary round, the six orchestra members of the audition committee frequently close their eyes to tune out distractions. They bow their heads, as if in prayer, as they sit around a table littered with notes, coffee cups and broken doughnuts, concentrating on the brief performances that, by the end of the day, will lead to the selection of a new orchestra cellist.

After the first round, the judges -- cellist Douglas Davis, clarinetist Gary Gray, oboist Allan Vogel, violist Victoria Miskolczy, bassoonist Rose Corrigan and bass player Oscar Hidalgo -- will select a handful of players to move on to a final audition: performing with a string quartet, this time in front of the screen. Fang Fang Xu, a cellist who made the finals but did not get the job at the previous similar audition, has been invited back to the finals without having to suffer the prelims.

Such is the atmosphere as the 40-member L.A. ensemble holds one of its rare auditions for a new player. The committee isn’t required to choose anybody. Nobody wants to repeat this grueling process, but they will if they don’t hear the magic combination of technical skill and musicality they’re after. “At the end of the day, we don’t have to say, ‘This is as good as it’s going to get,’ ” Davis says.

The job open is fourth-chair cellist, the lowest position among the four cellos in the orchestra. A larger orchestra may have three times as many (the 104-member Los Angeles Philharmonic, for example, has 11 full-time cellists). But because of the smaller number, this position is considered more important to the whole. “In this orchestra, there’s no place to hide,” Davis says.

The orchestra is expected to give about 25 regular performances in a year and, between rehearsal and performance fees, the job will pay between $10,000 and $15,000 annually. The post is considered part-time; Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra musicians often play with other orchestras or do studio work to supplement their income. Of the 38 players who signed up for the audition, only 18 show -- indicating that some candidates may have taken jobs elsewhere for the day that they couldn’t afford to turn down. Of course, some committee members say, others routinely back out because of last-minute cases of nerves.

For this job, the pool is local, rather than the international crowd at a major orchestra audition, usually by invitation only. “The L.A. Phil has an opening in May, and I would expect hundreds of applicants, easily,” says auditioner Martin Gueorguiev, 25, a master’s degree candidate at USC chatting in the hall with Gal Faganel, 24, also of USC; this is Faganel’s first audition. “But this is a great orchestra; it’s a great job.” In fact, the orchestra generally fills only a couple of positions a year.

After her preliminary audition Erin Breene, 24, a Wisconsin native and Juilliard graduate who relocated to Los Angeles a month ago, waits for the verdict with Martha Lippi, 33, schooled at USC. They agree that waiting is the worst part. They note that at such a local audition, half the candidates know one another. They are hopeful but not feeling competitive. “I think it’s the nature of our instrument -- we’re in the background,” observes Breene. “I don’t know too many cutthroat cellists. That’s the flute players and the violinists -- more the soloist types.”

At the auditions, held at the Colburn School of Performing Arts’ Mayman Hall, the selection committee remains sequestered from the cellists vying for the position -- so much so that the two sides even take separate bathroom breaks, with the job candidates herded into rehearsal rooms while judges wait for a signal that the coast is clear.

Still, though judges and auditioners are separated physically, there is palpable tension on both sides of the screen as the cellists move, with varying degrees of ease, from melodic Bach suites and Haydn concertos to sharp-edged Bartok or Schoenberg, all at the gentle command of personnel manager Steven Scharf, who occupies a seat in the empty theater visible to the candidates. “We’ve all been there ourselves,” observes bassoonist Corrigan. “At the beginning, I’m rooting for every single one.”

Scharf is the only one allowed to speak to the candidates. Auditioners are not allowed to speak at all -- but their stress level may be gauged by the occasional sigh or gasp more appropriate to the end of a 10K marathon than to the completion of a bar of Tchaikovsky. One candidate reveals her gender by squeaking out an apologetic “Sorry!” when she takes an unscheduled pause. (Although it was not done at this audition, many orchestras lay carpet to make sure judges can’t guess a candidate’s sex by the weight of a step or the tap of a high heel.)

Musicians may be asked to stop and start, repeat or skip to another selection with maddening randomness. Being asked to stop or skip could mean you’re so terrific that the committee doesn’t need to hear more. It could also mean that one of the judges is rolling his eyes and slashing a finger across his throat, signaling the personnel manager to stop the show. But every auditioner is given at least a few minutes to ease into the process, rather than being written off too soon.

With a break after every four performances, the preliminaries last from 9:30 a.m. until almost 2 p.m. The committee members’ criticisms include describing one player’s style as “woolly and dark” and another’s as “bathtubby” -- presumably sloppy as lukewarm suds. Though the members often disagree on specifics, the consensus holds that the worst thing a cellist can be is correct but dull. “All of them are just very polite players, and an artist is not polite,” frets Davis after a particularly frustrating group of four.

Although many players have strong points, it is not until the last, No. 17, that the judges hear that special something that makes the entire crew break into weary smiles. Still, they prefer to keep their options open, choosing to hold what they term a “second preliminary” -- to hear several players again before moving on to the finals.

After a lunch break, cellists Ying Ying Zhang, Giovanna Braga, first-time auditioner Faganel and L.A. newcomer Breene are asked to solo again -- this time before the original judges as well as concertmaster Margaret Batjer, violinist Richard Altenbach, bass player Sue Ranney, executive director Ruth Eliel and music director Jeffrey Kahane, who will make the final decision. Of this promising group, No. 17 -- Braga -- once again rises to the top.

Judges decide they want to hear only two cellists play with the quartet: Braga and former finalist Xu. As both women anxiously wait in the entryway outside Mayman Hall, the excited listeners decide they can forgive Braga’s performance for what one listener calls “a little youthful roughness” to embrace her “spunky” individualism. Though the call is unanimous, Eliel insists the group follow protocol. She distributes slips of paper. “The concept is, you write down everyone it’s acceptable for Jeff [Kahane] to choose,” she says. Everyone writes only one name: “Giovanna.”

Braga, 26, reacts with a whoop of joy when Eliel comes out to give her the news. Born in Mexico, Braga moved to California with her family in 1984. She is completing a diversity fellowship with the Chicago Symphony; now she will juggle that schedule with her new duties in Los Angeles.

“It’s the musicality, that’s what everybody has told me,” she says of her winning audition strategy. “They’re not looking for technique. They’re looking for a musician.”

Xu simply smiles and walks away, her cello slung across her back. Her second audition was hardly a waste; she will now be the first one called when the orchestra needs a substitute cellist. “That’s our informal tradition when we need subs,” Eliel says. “It’s appropriate to use people who’ve gone through this torture. You’re baring your soul, really.”