For someone who is a chronic over-sharer there is one thing I’ve never written about and that is my time as a contestant on the wildly popular second series of Australian Idol. Idol is the reason I am sitting here writing this book, I am under no illusions about that. Idol also set me on the path to self-awareness and self-reflection, it forced me to look at the way I behaved and the short comings I had emotionally. It was simultaneously soul destroying and life changing. I know – you wouldn’t think a reality TV show capable of all of that, would you?
In 2004 I was living in Adelaide. Scott had been hired as a strength and conditioning coach at the Port Adelaide Football Club and I was at home looking after our then two-year-old Marchella. I was also studying interior design part-time at uni, hanging out with a couple of the WAGS and generally having a pretty swish life. During one of Port Adelaide’s games I was sitting in the bar at Alberton Oval with a few of the other wives. The TV was on in the background and an ad for Australian Idol auditions came on. For some reason it caught my eye. I had always fancied myself as a bit of a singer/performer. You recall my training at the Miss Sheila Fancypants School of Dance of course and the elaborate concerts I would put on for my family. I’d sung in public a couple of times, I’d won a singing competition at my high school when I was thirteen and performed in a Metallica cover band when I was fourteen – we only did one gig at the Year 9 social. I knew I could hold a tune and really nailed all the in-car power ballads I would belt out driving Marchella to and from daycare so I thought maybe, just maybe, I wanted to audition.
When Scott and I were driving home from the game I said to him, ‘Do you think I should audition for Australian Idol? They’re in town this weekend looking for contestants.’
To his credit he didn’t skip a beat. ‘Do you want to?’
‘I don’t know, maybe . . . I mean, I know I won’t make it but it would be good to test myself. But . . . Well . . . Nah, it’s okay. The last day is tomorrow, I’d have to get up at stupid o’clock and I’m tired.’
That was the last we spoke of it but I just couldn’t shake it. I lay awake for most of the night thinking about what I might sing and when the sun started coming up I woke Scott and asked, ‘Should I go to the auditions?’
He looked at me through very sleepy eyes, smiled and said, ‘Why not, you obviously want to, you’ve got nothing to lose, I say go for it.’
So I did.
On a brisk Sunday morning, I turned up to the Adelaide Showgrounds. When I got there I was surprised to see that there wasn’t that much of a line. I walked up to the table that said ‘Registrations’, showed them my ID, filled out the forms, was given a sticker with a number written on it and sat down to wait.
I wasn’t sitting for very long when a fabulous, short, ethnic gay man approached me. I later learned that he was Paul Riggio, the talent coordinator, and then much later learned that he’d made a very deliberate beeline for the Pink look-alike as soon as she’d walked in! He said he just knew that I had something to offer, that I set all his gay senses off and as we know the Gaytrix is a powerful force and rarely wrong.
Paul gently probed me and after a few key questions he realised he had hit the reality TV producer jackpot, AKA I had an impressive backstory.
Paul: ‘How old are you?’
Em: ‘Twenty-five.’
Paul: ‘Married? Kids?’
Em: ‘I have a daughter named Chella who is two and a partner, her dad, Scott.’
Paul: ‘Do you have family in Adelaide?’
Em: ‘No, I’m from Melbourne, they all live there.’
Paul: ‘Where do you sing around town?’
Em: ‘I don’t, I’ve never sung in public before. I was in a band in high school and sang at a school assembly when I was thirteen by myself, but that’s it.’
Paul: ‘Okaaaaaay . . . So you’re a young mum who has never sung in public and you’re living away from your family?’ (DING DING DING DING DING!)
Em: ‘Yes, I guess I am.’
Paul: ‘Can you please come with me. I’ll take you straight in to meet Stephen and Greg, our executive producers.’
I’m going to take a guess and say that on that short walk to see the powerful men who controlled everything, Paul prayed to every god he knew that I could actually hold a tune. He had already ascertained that I was sassy from our camp banter session after the initial interrogation, and I didn’t look like your average mother (shaved head, fauxhawk, tutu, combat boots, skull top, one earring . . . What can I say? I was going through my fairy punk phase) so he just had to get the final piece of the puzzle in place and he had perfect contestant Yahtzee! I was ushered into a small room where two men were sitting behind a table: Greg Burness and Stephen Tate. Immediately Greg started talking, he spoke fast and loose. Stephen was a little more measured and careful with his choice of words. They seemed a complementary team: slightly chatty cop/mysterious smiley cop, if you will. Greg had obviously been filled in by Paul about my backstory so he just started commanding that I sing songs. I’m not kidding, I became a human jukebox as Greg would bark popular songs at me with a huge grin on his face. I knew every one of them and as I dutifully sang them back to him, he started bouncing up and down on his seat and clapping. He looked at Stephen and said, ‘Let’s send her to the judges.’ Stephen slowly nodded and I was told to come back in the exact same clothes the very next day to sing in front of Marcia Hines, Ian ‘Dicko’ Dickson and Mark Holden. To say I was astonished would be an understatement of Herculean proportions – I still wasn’t convinced I was being sent to the judges because I had any genuine talent; a small part of me was worried that I was one of those deluded souls who butchered every song their voice touched and when told that would respond with variations of ‘But my mother told me I could sing.’ Needless to say, I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I also didn’t have a babysitter so Marchella and I lobbed up to the final audition together!
Walking in to see Marcia, Dicko and Mark was fairly terrifying. The whole room looked like NASA mission control, a multi-limbed beast of camera operators, sound people, producers, make-up artists and cue card writers. Yep, those zingers Dicko and Mark would fire off were not always their own work. Greg Burness would come up with a lot of them and have them written on huge bits of cardboard to feed to the judges.
I took my spot on the X in front of the Idol sign and was asked to sing a few different songs. I think the one that made the cut was Christina Aguilera’s ‘Fighter’ and that, ladies and gents, is when my story of ‘lonely single mother battler’ began. Even though I was not single, lonely or a battler that was the storyline I had been assigned and all editing was to be done with that in mind.
When Marcia spoke those words I couldn’t believe it, I ran out to my support crew, which consisted of my two-year-old, Steph Wanganeen and Beck Schofield. Both of their husbands were playing for Port Adelaide at the time; if you’re an AFL fan I don’t need to explain who said husbands were and if you’re not I’m guessing you don’t give a shit!
The day arrived for me to leave my baby for the first time in her life and travel to Sydney for the next round of auditions. I was a complete mess on the flight and then I made a complete mess. My body has a fun quirk: high stress and anxiety makes my period appear out of nowhere. Surprise! Menstruation! I’m not talking a delicate first-day panty-liner oh-I-could-still-water ski situation either. The painters were in with such force that not even The Block’s Scotty Cam could fix it. I could have been a one-woman blood bank for a village in need. Moses himself could not have parted that red sea. I’m sorry if a few of you are uncomfortable about this and there is that thing about female comics talking about their periods, but this was no mere period it was VAGINAGEDDON.
I knew exactly what was going on and I also knew I didn’t have any pads or tampons on me. I tried to assess the damage and by some miracle it hadn’t stained the seat, it had been caught by the blanket I had around me. I stuffed the blanket into my bag, tied my jumper around my waist and waited until every single person was off the plane until I made my exit. What I didn’t know was that there would be a lot of cameras there to document our arrival. Do you remember the scene where all the contestants run down the ramp at the airport because they are so excited to be in Sydney? Smiling, jumping, hands waving, full of hope and promise of what was to come?
If anyone has that footage, go back and look for the lone figure a hundred metres behind, crab walking her way down the ramp, hoping desperately not to be noticed. As soon as I saw the airport newsagency I dashed in to try to buy some pads and when I got to the register I realised that I had LEFT MY FUCKING WALLET IN ADELAIDE.
So let us recap, shall we?
I’m away from my child to do something I have never done before in front of TV cameras with a huge blood stain on the back of my pants in a different state with no money. Did I mention the fifty-seven cameras following my every move? Did I?
It was the clusterfuck to end all clusterfucks as I’m sure you can appreciate, so I did what I knew best and what I have done and continue to do every week of my life – I threw myself on the mercy of a gay man. I tracked down Paul Riggio and explained my situation. He lent me money from his own pocket and I was able to buy some fresh underwear and the appropriate maternity pads needed to stem the flow. My love for Paul still burns strong and true, he is one of the best humans alive. He is one of the reasons I made it through Idol with most of my sanity intact.
Most of the hopefuls were piled onto a bus but there were a handful of special people, AKA walking soundbites, that they put in Mazdas rigged up with cameras. Yes, naturally I was one of them. Feeling fresh and confident that I could sit without leaving a road-kill stain on the seat, I was able to relax a bit and take in the enormity of the situation. Here I was, a mother of one living in Adelaide just going about her normal business and then bang I’m going to be on the TV singing! Something I had only ever dreamed of! I had wanted to be a singer since the moment I could make noise from my mouth hole. However, Dad had been the musician and I went down the super sporty path. Did I know which way to hold a microphone? Did I know how to perform with a full band? Did I know how to arrange music? Did I know about pitch, tone and keys? Nope! Did that stop me or slow me down? Nope! As with most things in my life, I like to say yes first and shit my pants later, so when we arrived at the Seymour Centre the poo began to flow.
I am doing my best to give an accurate account of the events that unfolded during my time on Australian Idol, however please bear in mind it was twelve years ago now and I have blocked a lot of it out for psychological reasons. I believe, though, that what came after we had arrived at the Seymour Centre was the group rounds: we were given a list of songs to pick from and told to pick groups. I can’t remember who I was with, I know they were all very good and I was the only non-professional singer among them. That would be the theme for my entire time on that show – a couple of the other finalists resented me for it, too. We sang Stevie Wonder’s ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’ after having three hours’ sleep and no food or water. It’s almost like that’s what the producers of Australian Idol had wanted: a large group of nervous, hungry, competitive performers in a confined space – who knows what compelling content might end up captured on film! Everyone from my group made it through to the solo line singing, you know the one: everyone lines up, sings for a bit, says why they should be the next Australian Idol, and then gets told to either step forwards or back? Somehow I was told to step forwards and found myself in the last round of solo singing.
We were down to the final fifty and I couldn’t quite believe it. You need to appreciate how raw I was – I mean really, who did I think I was? My final audition was terrible, to say the least, my voice cracked on my last note, eliciting big laughs from my fellow competitors, and yet somehow I made it through to the final twenty-four and the live finals.
I suspect I was being carried by my big mouth and interesting backstory even then, and I remember feeling incredibly insecure about my spot in the show and feeling the resentment from the more seasoned singers around me that I was even there.
It was on that final day in Sydney that I made my first friend on the show, a person I still talk to now – the magnificent Ricki-Lee Coulter. Ricki had a big mouth, striped hair and her shoes matched her belt, scarf and eye shadow. She was a Gold Coast girl through and through and I loved her instantly, glad to have found a kindred spirit. Suddenly I didn’t feel quite so frightened. Ricki was clearly one of the strongest singers in the final twenty-four and she had chosen me to hang out with so surely I wasn’t all bad?
We had a head shot taken, oh my Christ can you even. Flick through to the photo section in the middle of the book . . .
What happened here? How did the gay mafia let this happen on their watch? I look like a recently electrocuted cat! You can tell I barely know where I am: look at the dazed and confused look in my eyes. The angle of my mouth also says ‘recently escaped from the insane asylum’. I just needed to dial everything back by a thousand.
We were all sworn to secrecy as to the identity of the top twenty-four before we were sent home and told to wait. I completely ignored the instructions and told anyone who happened to make eye contact with me that I had made the finals. I was to be in semifinal four, and Ricki-Lee was in that round too, thank goodness. So were future top twelve finalists Anthony Callea, Dan O’Connor, Marty Worrall and the eventual winner, Casey Donovan.
True to form I was terrible, I sang a song that didn’t suit me at all and I looked angry for most of it. Not surprisingly the public were not into it and I was not voted through to the top twelve. Yet, like the slightly unhinged feline that I resemble in my head shot, I was given another life and invited back to compete in the wildcard round.
This time I chose a song that I actually like and I felt this was a bit of a turning point for me in the competition too. The song was ‘If I Ain’t Got You’ by Alicia Keys and I sang it for Dad. Still the public weren’t sold on me and I did not get through then either. It was only because of Marcia Hines that I found myself in the top twelve of Australian Idol 2004. She put me through as a judge’s choice. God bless that powerful woman. So after surviving the Sydney rounds and then the live rounds with the multiple public rejections there I was, on national TV, doing what I had always dreamed of with no idea of how to do it!
So the Australian Idol Season 2 top twelve had been formed and we were a motley crew, let me tell you. Here is the team list, with a short description of each contestant to assist your memory, should you require it. I’ll do it in order of mass public rejection.
12. Angie Narayan – Soul to her core, incredible voice, should have stayed much longer than she did.
11. Dan O’Connor – Tall, handsome, religious fellow.
10. Amali Ward – Young, smart, offensively attractive girl from Tasmania. Wore Ugg boots to her audition.
9. Emelia Rusciano – Mother of one who cried a lot and only wore one earring, looks like Pink.
8. Daniel Belle – Sneaker-wearing opera singer.
7. Ricki-Lee Coulter – Huge voice, big personality, Gold Coaster through and through. Ate a steak a day.
6. Marty Worrall – A bald head like Dr Evil but in possession of a heart of gold. Famously wore a white suit to sing ‘Power of Love’. He’s a good man, that Marty Worrall.
5. Chanel Cole – ‘Quirky’ and individual, sometimes compared to Björk.
4. Hayley Jensen – Golden-haired angel, a really sweet girl. I remember her being extremely driven and kind.
3. Courtney Murphy – The big boy ’fro! Court was easily the most musically gifted of our group. Wonderful singer and piano player.
2. Anthony Callea – Immaculate, compact, Italian boy with a big voice. At this point in time: straight.
1. Casey Donovan – Funny, brave and talented. Casey was only sixteen when she won.
We moved into the Idol mansion that sat on the banks of Sydney Harbour. Ricki-Lee, Amali and I had already formed a strong bond so we elected to room together. Casey chose to be by herself but was still just near the three of us in an alcove off our room. We had a man named Sam who cooked for us and acted as the mother hen of the idols. I still to this day wish I could have taken Sam home with me to run my life, he was one of the best things about the show.
To put it bluntly and to get it out of the way, our group didn’t get along. More specifically, a few of us didn’t get along and battle lines were drawn very early on. We were so dysfunctional a psychologist had to be called in to help us find our way. I now wonder if in fact that psychologist reported back to the producers on the tensions, as those of us who got along the worst kept finding ourselves in whacky situations together. A few of us took issue with a couple of the others, in hindsight, I now know those people were just ‘playing the game’ and crafting a public persona, but the raw, emotional loudmouths amongst us found it fake and it was infuriating. We were the same people off and on camera, others were more calculating about what they did and said.
The first week of the competition was upon us so of course, I got viral laryngitis. My voice box was empty, I had no sound coming out except for a strange guttural squeak. Seven days out from singing in public properly for the first time in my life in front of not just a few people, but millions and I had no voice to speak of. On top of all that I was already missing my daughter – I was aching for her. You must remember up until Idol we had never been separated for more than a few hours at a time. To make matters worse, she was in Adelaide and I was in Sydney, so I couldn’t just nip out to give her a much needed cuddle. I couldn’t even phone to speak to her. I honestly can’t remember a time where I have felt more distressed than that opening week of Idol. Friday rolled around before the taping on Sunday and there was still no sign of my voice, so I was taken to St Vincent’s Hospital to have a camera shoved down my throat to try to ascertain why my vocal chords had gone into revolt. I was given steroids and antibiotics and told to continue resting. I cried non stop. Luckily there were cameras at every turn, and a producer to ask things like ‘Do you miss your daughter?’ or ‘Are you nervous about being on stage with no voice?’ should my face accidentally find itself dry.
Our first live performance was upon us and I was yet to speak out loud. I was truly hoping for some kind of mouth miracle. Then, just before I walked out on stage, they played a video package, first up was my dad saying how proud he was of me (which is something I knew but had never really heard him say) and then my daughter appeared on screen. I hadn’t seen her in two weeks – her hair had grown – and she said, ‘Mummy!’ when they showed her a picture of me. Tears were stinging my heavily made-up eyes and I felt a lump rising in the back of my broken throat, then the doors opened and I was on. My voice appeared in some form, it was a subpar performance in no danger of a showdown, however I’d managed to stay upright and not cry.
Not surprisingly, I found myself in the bottom two that week, and how I was not sent packing still remains a mystery to me. Angie Narayan went home and I knew that wasn’t right. I had major survivor guilt and my insecurity at being in the competition went into overdrive.
Then I discovered a little thing called the fan forums. Holy shit, those places are where human decency and morals go to die. A cesspit of hatred and anger. I read the worst things I have ever thought about myself in my darkest moment on those forums. Thank God the internet was still only really in its infancy. There was no social media (OH MY GOD, THANK GOD TIMES INFINITY) only chat rooms where the depraved and horrible could gather to shit on those of us singing each week. No one was safe from the ‘fan forums’, so we all naturally developed a morbid curiosity with reading what was being written about us. Needless to say, several of us were sent into the depths of despair. So much so that it was decided to remove all computers from the house. I think the worst thing I read about myself was ‘Emelia looks like a Barbie Doll that got her head caught in a blender, she should have her child taken away from her because she is so ugly.’ I mean, that doesn’t even make sense; one’s appearance hardly seems like a valid reason to lose custody of one’s child!
I knew I had to pull something truly magical out of my rear end to stay in the competition. It was then that I discovered that the fan forums weren’t only frequented by those devoid of souls but were also home to some very kind people raving about the contestants they loved and voted for. I found one particular online group called ‘The Lesbian Lounge’ and quickly realised that they loved me best! You must understand that no one loved me best because I was the worst, but these ladies totally did! They had decided that I looked a lot like Pink (d’uh) and spent a great deal of time going into the songs they felt I should sing and the way I should style myself.
Needless to say I took copious amounts of notes and set about doing exactly as they suggested. As luck would have it the next week was ‘Pop’ week, so I picked Pink’s song ‘Family Portrait’, had my hair cut a little shorter and wore the same dress she’d had on at an awards ceremony weeks earlier. I must admit I bloody nailed it that week – the song, the emotion behind it, the look – and it paid off. I received nothing but praise from the judges and the public got on board as well. For the first time in the competition I felt as though I had perhaps earned my spot in the top twelve.
I somehow managed to survive until week four, the now infamous Pauline Hanson week. The theme was disco and if I had been put on this earth to take part in one theme, disco was it. I went hard on the costuming, allowing the hair and make-up team to curl my short auburn (at the time) hair into an eighties feather mullet. I sang ‘Turn the Beat Around’ and then it happened. Dicko said I resembled Pauline Hanson on a night out at the bingo. I answered in the only way I knew how: I asked Dicko to ‘Please explain.’
What I will add was that I had been at the AFL Grand Final the day before in Melbourne as Port Power (the team my husband worked for) had played and won. The next day was the Monday elimination show, and I felt sick all day. I had an inkling that I was going to go – I just knew. Sure enough I was sent packing that evening.
I vividly recall saying goodbye to everyone and sitting in the minibus waiting to be taken back to the house. I held my mobile phone in my hand, waiting for my husband to call. I waited and waited . . . nothing. The entire country knew of my rejection and every family member available had phoned me except the one person I actually wanted to speak to. Where was he? Turns out he was very busy celebrating with the Port Power players! The 456 missed calls on his phone from every single person we knew didn’t cause him any concern either!
I had exactly three hours sleep that night, then Stella and Jane, our publicists (who I also loved and adored) came to the house at 5am and I began my tour of the Australian media. I did every radio show in the country; I spoke for four hours straight. I was also flown to Melbourne to be on Rove, which I had been looking forward to since I found out I had made the top twelve, however when I arrived at the studios things were a tad awkward. I got the sense that Rove felt pressured into having the Idol rejects each week and may have resented that a little. He wasn’t very friendly towards me, which was upsetting at the time as I had long admired his presenting style and comedy. However, now having hosted my own shows and had people forced upon me due to network obligations, I totally understand his stand-offish reaction to me. I have since co-hosted his radio show with him and found him to be warm and delightful, which did take away the sting from two years ago and yes I am the pettiest person on the face of the planet.
Finally, finally it was time for me to head home to Adelaide to be reunited with my daughter and to get Scott’s explanation as to why he had missed my elimination. The thing about reality TV is that once you’ve been sent packing, the country well and truly moves on. One minute you’re being loved and adored by millions and the next you’re back home in the suburbs of South Australia, soaking nappies and cleaning toilets. I must tell you, I was A-OK with that. I was just so pleased to be home, finally the ball of anxiety that had taken up residence in my stomach dissipated a little and I was able to eat solid food again. I had lost ten kilos in eight weeks and was a physical and emotional wreck.
I had only been home for forty-eight hours when my first job offer came in. Craig Bruce, who was the head of content at Southern Cross Austereo, had heard me interviewed on five different shows and thought I was a natural for radio. Radio? He first offered me fill-in spots on SAFM with the plan to move to something much bigger. Was that something I was interested in? Sure, why not! So I went into development with the biggest producer of radio in the country. If I thought Idol was a head fuck just wait until I got myself involved in breakfast radio!