Admit it. You can’t think of any better place to spend a mild summer weekend than at…the Meadowlands? Surrounded by 10,000 people belting out off-key renditions of Alicia Keys? Sounds like a nightmare.

Photo from AP

That was my first thought when my brother, Gerald, jazzed up from deejaying, barged into my place at 3:30 a.m.: that I was dreaming.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Oh, and you’re driving.”

The keys hit my comforter. No, this was not a dream, I was wide-awake.

It is a well-known fact amongst my friends and family that I wake up very early most days.

But 3:30 a.m. is obscene. Ungodly. In New York City, the night is young. 3:30 a.m. is just a natural continuation of the evening. It’s unnatural to be rising then.

Even the coffee machine seemed surprised that I was up.

There was a chill in the air and dew on the car windshield. We tossed blankets in the trunk and began our trek.

Gerald asked if I wouldn’t mind stopping at a gas station. “Coffee and cigarettes,” he said, by way of explanation.

“Don’t smoke cigarettes in my car,” I said.

“I think, technically, this is my car.”

“Whatever. And I made coffee.”

“I don’t like it,” he said.

Yesterday’s phone conversation with Gerald flashed through my mind.

“Hey, it’s me,” he began. “Would you mind picking up a copy of the New York Post? It’s got an American Idol article in it. Oh, and some snacks from Trader Joe’s would be good. And listen, we’re going to be leaving pretty early, so you might as well load up the car with gas tonight.”

That evening, as I stood there pumping gas into the car that technically belongs to my brother, I realized I was at the famed Fairfield gas station that John Mayer had worked at during his unknown years. I prayed that some good luck would flow into the gas tank so that Gerald could become a professional musician and get a personal assistant.

Now, at 3:30 a.m., I was feeling less hopeful, so I might have shot Gerald a look but he wouldn’t see it because it was so dark out. I told him I would stop for cigarettes as we neared the Meadowlands. His eyes were shut. Feeling heavy-lidded myself, I sang along to the radio. I probably sounded like an Idol out take, not quite William Hung, but no Kelly Clarkson either. Gerald slept through the whole thing.

We arrived at the Meadowlands at 6:05 a.m.; only a few minutes off schedule, but the line of spastic singers already snaked around the outside of the arena.

We took our spot in line and set up camp, complete with beach chairs, blankets, and snacks.

A girl standing behind us began talking to us. She wasn’t really clear on where she was from, because “Brooklyn”, “Long Island”, and “Connecticut” flew from her mouth in the same sentence. She used the word “underground” a lot. As in, “I’m into underground hip hop”, and, “I only go to underground clubs”, and, “I wonder if there’s another line of people underground” – not really, but I wouldn’t have been shocked. When Gerald asked her where she sings, she said, “I don’t sing. I work at a bookstore.”

Another girl to my right joined in the conversation. She had a leg up on everyone, she said, because her last name happens to be Simpson.

Any relation to Joe, Jessica, or Ashlee?

No.

Just then a girl in front of us began shrieking Alicia Keys. Some people booed; others followed her lead, and began singing their versions of Alicia, Mariah, or Whitney.

This would happen every ten minutes, like bells ringing in a schoolyard.

My brother whispered to me that people at the San Francisco audition were a little friendlier.

A stage mom standing nearby butted in and asked if we were from San Francisco. Her family had lived in San Francisco for a few years, you see, where her daughter had received a voice scholarship.

Her daughter has a lovely voice, I’m sure, but she was a bit mortified so she didn’t really speak.

“We took touchy-feely classes,” Stage Mom continued. “All these wonderful therapy classes…people tend to put up walls, you know. That’s what I tell my daughter. When you get up there…don’t put up a wall, honey.”

Gerald and I nodded.

“You kids teenagers?” she asked us.

Gerald and I shook our heads.

“Where you from?”

We told her.

“Why were you talking about San Francisco, then?”

“I auditioned there,” Gerald said, clearing his throat.

A small group formed around him.

“Really?”

“What was it like?”

“Were there this many people?”

“How many rounds did you get through?”

“You auditioned before?”

“How many times have you done this?”

“What did they tell you when they cut you?”

“Were you on television?”

“You weren’t on television? That sucks.”

“Well, you definitely have a good look.”

“What kind of music are you into?”

“Oh…a little bit of this and that,” Gerald said.

I spoke up. “He plays piano. He’s been a lead singer in a local rock band for years. And he’s releasing a solo album.”

A few people lowered their eyes and shuffled away, and I had a feeling they had shower curtain singing careers, like me.

Every so often a couple producers swung by the line with a hand-held camera and a boom mic, and the crowd went wild. But there were no signs of Paula, Simon, or Randy, and I had a feeling we wouldn’t be seeing any on-air talent that day. I also didn’t see as many outlandish outfits as expected.

Finally we approached the front of the line, where a man who looked like he’d just walked off the set of Sopranos threatened to toss anyone who was cutting the line.

“’magine that,” he said, and I envisioned him chomping on a cigar. “Waiting all this time, only to go to the backada line.”

I looked at my watch. We had been standing in a New Jersey parking lot for five hours. I had to pee like a kid on a long car ride and Gerald looked like he was fading from being up all night.

We waited a little longer.

Fortunately, Gerald didn’t have to sing. He simply picked up a ticket and was told to come back first thing Monday morning.

“Doors open at ten,” the producer said. “But I would get here early.”

“Okay,” Gerald said. “So, like, what time?”

“Five a.m.,” she said, without missing a beat, and smiled at him.

I received a wristband to accompany him back to the Meadowlands on Monday, but I have to work, and anyway, I don’t know if I could take another day of American Idling.

Maybe I’m partial, but I have faith that Gerald will do okay.  Let’s hope the power of music flows into the gas tank.
If you’d like to hear Gerald’s music, check out www.myspace.com/geraldgoode.