Bass player wanted for creative and emotional alt/rock band, with brilliant songs, gigs booked, demo waiting, contacts etc, must be absolutely committed. Email queen-bitch@……

Rock auditions can be a tissue of lies. I emailed Queen Bitch, imagining her to be a PVC clad dominatrix; she turned out to be a bloke called Noel. I said that I was 29, as admitting being over 30 could give the impression that I was keen on covering “Kum-Ba-Yah” and wearing Birkenstocks onstage. I hoped my haggard complexion and bulging waistline wouldn’t give the game away.

Noel and I spoke on the phone. “We’re a three-piece. We did have a manager, but he’s just left the industry after some problems with Sony,” I wondered if this meant that the guy had lost the instructions for his Discman. Noel was reluctant to categorise their sound, but after a long-winded description of mellow harmonies contrasting with more emotive, angry moments, he came clean. “Well, it’s a bit like the Smashing Pumpkins.” Now we were getting somewhere. His plan was to gig once a week and rehearse twice a week, with songwriting sessions in between. A successful audition could mean seeing Noel more frequently than my girlfriend.

The rehearsal room was one of about 15 decrepit shacks tucked under the M1 flyover at Mill Hill. Studio 2 was smelly, hot and damp, and by the time the rest of the band arrived, so was I. Simon the drummer was huge, bald and bare-chested, and asked me if I wanted a cup of tea. Noel followed behind. He was slim, good-looking, with ripped, flared jeans, and hair that paid tribute to the Kurt Cobain school of personal grooming. We shook hands. Few words were exchanged. There was no need. We were about to rock.

Noel sang me a song of his called “The Guard The World Forgot”. It sounded like Jeff Buckley meeting up with The Edge round at Michael Stipe’s old flat above Blockbuster on the Kilburn High Road. I played along as best I could, and as the song ended we all stood there looking at the floor, faintly embarrassed. 5 seconds passed while the amps hummed. Simon coughed. “Shall we try again?”. “Yeah, ok,” said Noel. This time I was just beginning to enjoy myself when I stepped backwards onto an ashtray, causing me to lurch dramatically to my right. I tried to pass it off as a part of my stage routine by repeating the move whilst curling my lip provocatively, but realised that neither of them were looking at me. I decided to keep still.

Before we had a go at another number I tried to get to know my potential band-mates a little, but they revealed about as much information as they would to a housing benefit officer. I managed to glean that they both earned a bit of money doing landscape gardening, and that Simon travels to rehearsals from the other side of Guildford. For him to come all that way showed a real faith in Noel’s songs to catapult him to fame and fortune, but I still needed some convincing.

“This one’s called Drama Queen,” said Noel. “In my last band the keyboard player made it sound like Doctor Who or something, but it should be like The Pixies crossed with The Prodigy.” I braced myself for the onslaught. It was barbed and ferocious, Noel hollering at the top of his voice and Simon breaking sweat as the cymbals fizzed. I found myself grinning. But after one more play through, my audition was over. Another potential recruit was on his way, and it’s bad form to bump into your competition, apparently.

Back at home I imagined performing “Drama Queen” at next year’s Glastonbury Festival in front of thousands of mud-spattered teens… and then shuddered at the thought of being forgotten by my friends and family as my free time became monopolised by a man who called himself Queen Bitch. I sent Noel an email, grandly informing him of my decision to leave a band that I’d not yet been invited to join. His reply showed that he was clearly devastated. “Cool. See you.”