Home of the brave – The heat and humility of national anthem tryouts

Lanie Marcantel has been on a big stage before, but even competing in the Scripps National Spelling Bee last year did not trigger the anxiety avalanche she has felt already on this sunny Saturday morning.

With her mother Melanie, a friend and two cousins in tow, Marcantel, a sophomore at Catholic High School of New Iberia, was the first to arrive at LSU’s School of Music for the annual national anthem tryouts that will see a chosen few invited to perform at a variety of LSU sporting events this year.

But with mere minutes to go before auditions begin, Marcantel has edged her way back a few places in the long, curving line of contestants.

Marcantel has performed for her high school’s football games, and she admits to blasting “The Star-Spangled Banner” repeatedly along the 90-minute early morning drive to Baton Rouge, but she still would like to have a few more minutes to prepare.

“I’m fine,” she says. “I just don’t want to go first.”

While we light up fireworks and grill burgers this July 4th, many in Baton Rouge put themselves and their voices on the line to pay tribute to our country.

Behind Marcantel, an eclectic crowd of hopefuls is gallantly streaming into the building.

With a quiet confidence, Nick DeCastro, a senior at Runnels and one of the few young men auditioning today, says he welcomes the pressure.

Others check their watches, repetitively practicing breathing techniques and pitch.

“The wide range of the song is its greatest difficulty,” says Patricia O’Neill, a voice professor at LSU and one of four judges today. “It extends an octave and a fifth. Another issue is long phrases that [challenge] even a seasoned singer, so the singer resorts to breathing in places that obscure the text.”

Indeed, searching for videos on YouTube tagged “National Anthem Fail” nets 1,550 results. If Christina Aguilera can’t get this song right, the wave of underlying tension lapping against this motley batch of hopefuls is more than justified.

One by one, O’Neill and the other judges hear a parade of sounds—fluttering opera vocals, feathery whispers, crystalline choir voices and jazzy powerhouse pipes.

One young girl sings in French.

Apparently, no tune brings out a singer’s individuality like this one.

Off stage right, a whole different drama is unfolding in the darkened wings of the performance hall. Parents and friends wait with anxieties hushed and hands held as young loved ones stand alone and vulnerable and bursting with song at a reverberant distance that—for those nurturing novel interests and guarding tender hearts—feels so far away.

Kirby Hebert’s hands rest on the slim shoulders of his son Marco. The bright 9-year-old has been singing since he was 3. Often, Kirby takes Marco nearby to the campus’s Greek Amphitheatre to practice.

“We’re engineers,” Kirby Hebert says, referring to himself and his wife. “We don’t know where his talent came from. We’re just doing what we can to help it grow.”

Under the golden glow of the stage lights, 17-year-old Jade Waldron sings while her mother, DaJuana Moore, paces back and forth mouthing the lyrics as they pour like silk from her daughter’s tongue.

“I’m more nervous than she is,” Moore admits.

As Waldron’s pacing gains speed, her mother shakes her fists triumphantly on her daughter’s final peak—”land of the free!”

That line elicits roars from crowds, but here, only silence. The cheers are treasure buried in Moore’s chest and behind the smile of pride on her face. The room may be quiet today, but Jade Waldron, like the rest of these contestants, could soon realize her mother’s silent roar is the one that matters most.

A few weeks later, the LSU Athletics Department makes its decisions.

A record 122 singers auditioned, and among the chosen few were Marcantel and Waldron.

“It’s a tremendous honor and a huge privilege,” Marcantel says when asked about her selection. “The only thing I’m worried about is being nervous before I sing. But once I actually start the song, I think I’ll be all right.”