How to handle the entrance audition – old advice that still holds
There is something that makes your hands go clammy and your stomach tie itself in knots long before you have even touched a stick: the entrance audition. Weeks of brooding, nights of poor sleep, that one little phrase you just can't get to sit right. For many percussionists, this is the great threshold into music studies – and at the same time one of the least transparent things there is. What is it, really, that the people behind the jury verdict are looking for?
In an old issue of Slagverknytt, from the archive of Norsk Slagverk Klubb, the percussionist and educator Kjell Samkopf sat down and wrote about precisely this. The background was practical: Norges musikkhøgskole and Østlandets Musikkonservatorium had just been merged, and few really knew what an entrance audition in classical percussion involved. But what makes the text worth reading to this day is not the organizational details – it is the mindset. And it is surprisingly warm.
First of all, Samkopf demystifies the whole thing. An entrance audition is not a trap. The jury has not planted hidden stumbling blocks in the sheet music sent out to catch you. On the contrary: the entire audition is designed so that you can show yourself at your best. The point of the obligatory material – short pieces with both technical and musical challenges – is quite simply that the jury should be able to compare how different applicants solve the same task. Nothing more mysterious than that.
What makes the strongest impression is what the jury actually listens for. Samkopf points to three things. Technical soundness: that the craft is in place, that the stroke produces a good tone, whether you play traditional or matched grip. Musical understanding: that a waltz does not sound like a march, that there is a sense of style and phrasing, that the music has flow and direction. And finally – perhaps most importantly – personality. Do you have something on your mind? Do you want to say something? That is a liberating thought in an age where many believe that flawlessness is everything: it is just as much about the will to communicate as about hitting every single note.
And mistakes? They are not the catastrophe you fear. "En feil note er en feil note og ingen katastrofe" ("A wrong note is a wrong note and no catastrophe"), Samkopf writes. The catastrophe only arises if you fail to let go of it, and instead let your thoughts circle around that one slip for the rest of the audition. That is advice that applies far beyond the audition room.
The advice on preparation is just as useful now as it was then. Start in good time, preferably a year ahead. Aural skills cannot be forced out in a few intensive weeks the way theory can be crammed – they must grow over time. Practice sight-reading regularly, set aside fifteen minutes in each session. Have the self-chosen program fully learned a month in advance. And most importantly: play it for someone. Family, neighbours, a house concert – anything at all. The confidence that comes from having played the material in front of an audience cannot be acquired in the practice room alone. Feel free to record yourself on audio and video to hear and see how you actually come across.
When the nerves make themselves known, the message is disarmingly honest: the jury sees that you are nervous anyway, so don't waste energy trying to hide it. If you get a blackout, then stop, breathe, gather yourself, try again. You are allowed to ask for a couple of minutes to calm down.
The fine thing about this old text is that it treats the audition as a human situation, not an examination in flawlessness. If you want to read the whole line of reasoning – with the statistics on applicants and the complete walkthrough of the audition's three days – we recommend a deep dive into the original in the Slagverknytt archive.