Falling stars

They came. They sang. Most went home

Everyone's famous at 5 a.m.

Everyone's charming. Everyone's talented. Everyone's unique. At 5 a.m. on Sunday, the concourse at the Orleans Arena thrums with bodies, echoes with song--here a bit of Alicia Keys, there some buttery Aguilera, farther on some R. Kelly--and, for the next few hours anyway, each diva and balladeer has a shot at being the next American Idol.

How fitting to have "American Idol" auditions in Las Vegas. At 5 a.m. it embodies the same democratic spirit of possibility that marks gambling: Right now, anyone could be the winner. Despite the general lack of sleep among contestants, a sense of potential electrifies the air. Egos inflate slightly to fill the space. Friendships are formed, rivalries established, but the overall vibe is one of bleary-eyed camaraderie as soul singers and pop tarts alike hustle to seats, practice a few vocal lines or puzzle over paperwork.

That's what 20-year-old Vernon Burris is doing. Looking nightclub-fresh in his white Kangol hat and Steve Madden sneaks, Burris is hunched over some official form or another. Inside his head, however, unfolds his secret plan to wow the judges with some smooth throwback flavor.

"Without sounding boastful, I do believe I have what it takes to be the next American Idol," says Burris, who traveled from Edmond, Okla. "I think I have the voice, the stage presence and the look to be the next winner. My strategy? I'm just going to go up there and be who I am. A lot of people are trying to be up to date with their music, bringing in stuff like Usher and Timberlake. I'm more of an old-school singer--I'm into stuff like Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Gladys Knight."

His audition song: Stevie Wonder's "You Will Know." How about a sample? Burris declines. "I won't say it's exactly like sex, but singing isn't just something I just give away so anyone can have it."

Others are giving it up left and right upstairs in the concourse, but in other ways Burris is a common breed of contestant: one who's studied the show, worked his pipes daily and, with the care of a sculptor, crafted an image to suit his skills. Burris says he debated endlessly with his mom over what to wear to the audition, settling finally on a sort of '70s-lite look to play up his classic soul sensibility. "Here's the way I see it: Most singers who can sing don't have the confidence of the singers who can't sing." He's one of the chosen few, he thinks, who can belt 'em out and win over the crowd.

What if he doesn't win? Thinking in terms of specifics helps. "If I don't make it? I'm going to go back home and get some sleep."

Burris is one of about 6,000 contestants swarming the Orleans Arena this morning, where about a dozen judges--holding court in a row of what look like cubicles draped in mourning black--will winnow the hopefuls down to a mere 263. Those winners will be filtered through another layer of executive producers. Survivors of that gauntlet will face up to the Final Three--Randy, Paula and Simon, the Holy Trinity of the new 15 minutes of fame. With enough luck, talent or awful spectacle, those performers then just might have the honor of being lauded or laughed at on national television. But from the Orleans to that six-eyed, three-headed monster is a long journey. The odds are against them. For most wannabes, their 15 minutes will continue to be the afternoon smoke break by the delivery door at Applebee's. This is, after all, one of seven massive auditions held around the country for the 2005 season, from Washington, D.C., to San Francisco.

In the face of such daunting numbers, it can be hard for an entertainer to maintain belief in his individuality--after all, look at all these people who have exactly the same dream. A punchy metaphor for your voice helps. Twenty-one-year old Liwanika Banks calls hers a "suicide drink"--"You know, how you'd mix up all the different kinds of pop when you were a kid and drink it. Maybe it was a Chicago thing. We used to call them suicide drinks," says Banks, who's standing in a dark hallway leading to the arena, practicing Pink's "There You Go" with brassy definition. "You could say my voice is a unique cultural blend"--she giggles at the phrase--"a little bit of Aretha, a little Aguilera."

Isn't she daunted by the competition?

"My diversity sets me apart," says Banks. "A lot of people do one thing and stick to what they know. I love all kinds of music and I'm able to bring them together--from soulful to pop, maybe a little country, alternative, things like that. I'm very open-minded. Sometimes I'm singing and I don't even know it. It's part of who I am--but I don't want to sound arrogant or anything."

As a matter of fact, it was friends and family who urged Banks to try out. "Just last year, everyone kept saying, 'Go!' and I'm like, "Nuh-huh, you can't get to me go!' And then I heard Fantasia, and this time in my heart, it was like, 'You gotta try.' I don't want to wake up one day and say, 'You're too old now. You should have tried.'"

Angie King, meanwhile, references a singer not commonly considered a source of artistic inspiration: Debbie Gibson. "She's my all-time favorite," says King, 25, done up in an old New Wave chic thing with blazer, black and white heels, cuffed jeans. "I just love her songs, her voice. I don't think there's been a singer close to her ever since." Failure is not an option: "I'm just going to go up there and be who I am. This has always been my dream."

Neither is failure an option for Los Angelean Bryce Smith, 22, who typifies one of the weathered tropes of L.A.--that of the struggling actor with not one, but two jobs waiting tables, one at TGI Fridays, one at Islands in Beverly Hills. Smith--who chatters rapidly despite the early hour--realizes the cliche of it all, but insists on juggling the two jobs not just for their flexible schedules, but for the motivation they provide.

"The best advice that anyone ever gave me was that if you want to be an actor or a singer or a dancer or anything like that, it's too hard. If you have something to fall back on, you will fall back on it," says Smith, who hopes his bubbly demeanor and rendition of "Take Me or Leave Me" from Rent earns him a nod from the judges. "Working those waiting-tables jobs, those horrible jobs--dealing with rude people who boss you around like a slave--gives you the drive to actually want to succeed. I mean, going to auditions like this is just physically and emotionally draining--you're going to be told thousands of times 'no.' If I had a job that's paying me really good, I'm gonna just do that."

It's a world view made up of equal parts hope and veteran attitude. And it'll serve Smith well. Because by the end of the afternoon, he'll still have his pride, but he won't have the orange paper that means he'll be going to the next round.--Andrew Kiraly

Rising stars,

falling stars

Some day, Ramon Penney may look back and realize that losing his job at Woody's Smoke Shop in San Diego was the greatest thing that ever happened to him. Besides, as Penney tells it, the job was nothing to brag about. It only paid $20 a day, and he was supplementing his income with the kind of unsavory activities that tend to rouse the ire of regional authorities. Still, the unexpected layoff left the 27-year-old Southern Californian in a lurch--that is, until a friend called with news of the "American Idol" audition in Las Vegas.

Call it luck. Call it fate. Call it an unemployed stoner stuffing his face with Funyuns and desperately waiting for his mom's phone to ring. Whatever it was, Penney wasn't going to let the opportunity slip through his fleshy fingers. "I heard about the contest, hung up on the person I was talking to, called my friend and said, `Rent a car. We're going to Vegas.'"

Three hundred miles and no less than six cases of the munchies later, Penney was clutching the orange paper that signified his ascension to the second round of the Las Vegas auditions. For his initial performance, he sang Warren G's "21 Questions"--"first as Warren G and then as inspired by [New Edition lead singer] Ralph Tresvant"--but he knew he'd have to ramp up his act if he were to survive the heartless gaze of the show's producers. "I'll probably start out with some smooth, pimped-out R&B, and then I'll break into Led Zeppelin's `Whole Lotta Love' to show my range and pitch. And to show my true power, I'll sing `Enema' by Tool."

Huffing on a Marlboro menthol and sporting a nappy shag of brown curls, Penney, who once fronted a Doors cover band, seems the polar opposite of the squeaky-clean mama's boy embodied by past Idol finalists such as Clay Aiken, Justin Guarini and Ruben Studdard. And according to some disenchanted participants crowded outside the Orleans Arena exits, this is the exact reason he earned a pass into the next round.

"The judges suck," says 17-year-old Chris Everett of San Marcos, Calif. "They're cutting all the real talent and keeping the weirdos and the jokes."

Marcos, who sang Usher's "Burn," says his performance earned lauds from fellow singers and even praise from one of the judges, but he was ultimately informed that he isn't what the show's producers are looking for this season. "This was a complete waste of my time," he adds, claiming he would have been better off if he would have pulled a William Hung and shown up "in a striped shirt, some high-water pants and mismatched tube socks."

Marcos' grouse proved to be a familiar refrain among many of the rejected contestants--even some of their parents. Josephine Mesa, mother to 17-year-old Ruth Rios, circled the building several times in hopes of finding an "American Idol" representative with whom she could file an official protest. "It's not right at all," Mesa says. "The judges said she's not at the level of a professional singer. But she has her own CD. Five songs. I don't care what anyone says. That is professional."

Las Vegans Kevin Timmons, 24, and Brent Roberts, 26, were more diplomatic about their dismissals. Although they left the building shouting "I hate `American Idol!'" the pair admits to being outclassed by many of the other performers.

"I was very surprised by how many different people in there could sing," says Timmons, who sang Edwin McCain's "I'll Be." "Then I was annoyed by how many people thought they should sing constantly throughout the entire day. Every Whitney Houston song, every Christina Aguilera song--it went on for, like, 11 hours straight. And these girls were no Kelly Clarkson, I can tell you that."

For some aspiring Idols, rejection was not such an easy pill to swallow. In from Dallas with her mother, 26-year-old April Drake sang the Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams" but failed to wow the judges with her charisma. Afterward, she sat on a curb in the parking lot and wept away months of anticipation. "I expected to make it at least out of the first round," she says. "Apparently, I didn't have any stage presence."

At first glance, one might think the same would be true of 19-year-old Daniel Moff from Hesperia, Calif. Decked out in black sunglasses, black nail polish and black Converse All-Stars, Moff looked like he might suddenly collapse in a fit of existential angst, but he won over the judges with his classic rendition of "Blue Moon"--a song he performs with his barbershop quartet, Harmonic Element. Unfortunately, Harmonic Element's bass, Shane Cottrell, didn't have as much luck. A Richie Cunningham look-alike with Barry White's voice, Cottrell sang "Put Your Head on My Shoulder," but his rumbling timbre didn't quite carry the day.

Nevertheless, both lamented what they perceived as an unfair judging bias. "If you put on a good show, you basically got in," Cottrell says. "One lady came out in a wig and a gospel robe, and she ripped them off when she sang. I couldn't hear her voice, but she got passed on to the next round. I mean, she might have been good, but I know there were good people who didn't do that and didn't make it in."

Overall, less than 5 percent of the Las Vegas Idol hopefuls made it out of the first round, and many more will be weeded out before the start of the 2005 series. Of course, it remains to be seen whether Moff or Penney will ever bask in the frosty glare of Simon Cowell's disdain, but at least one of them is certain of future success.

"Rest assured, I'm going all the way," Penney says. "It's one of those, like, '80s movies--you know, dream come true and all that. Except in those movies, people get excited and try to help you. I had to yell at my family to get the fuck out of bed and wire me money."--Newt Briggs