Pitch Perfect: The Quest for Collegiate A Cappella Glory

by Mickey Rapkin

  Still, rehearsals were tense. Divisi, so used to talking about every emotion and hurt feeling, had finally gone quiet. The elephant in the room was Betsy Yates.

  Betsy Yates grew up in Wilsonville, just outside Portland, not far from Bullwinkle’s Family Fun Center and the Fry’s Electronics store. That’s about all that goes on in Wilsonville. While most kids were working at the mall, Betsy was a singing waitress—a very pretty singing waitress at that, with thick chestnut hair that seemed to move as if it were starring in its own Pantene commercial— aboard a restaurant cruise ship that paddled up and down the Willamette River. As a senior in high school, Betsy won a statewide singing competition. These days, Betsy is easy to spot on campus. Though she is not proud of it, that’s her on the Razor scooter.

  Betsy was supposed to be in Costa Rica over Christmas break. But a few days before her family was to leave for the big deep-sea diving adventure trip, Betsy’s dad broke his foot. With Betsy’s schedule suddenly clear, she decided to have her tonsils removed—which her doctor had been advising for months now. She’d had chronic tonsillitis (stuffed nose, a sore throat) and the surgery would relieve all of that, the doctor said. Betsy was worried about her voice, though—she was the soloist on “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing,” which would open Divisi’s three-song competition set. Her doctor assured her she’d be in fine form for the ICCAs in January. If anything, he said, the surgery would help: “Without two golf balls in your throat, you’ll be able to resonate.” And so just before Christmas, Betsy went under the knife. For the next ten days she didn’t open her mouth to speak, let alone sing. On that tenth night she grew restless. She couldn’t sleep. She was worried about the quarterfinals, which were a few weeks away. Late in the night, tucked under the sheets of her childhood bedroom, she started humming quietly to herself. She couldn’t sing low. She couldn’t sing high. She was terrified.

  Previously, Betsy sang “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing” in full voice—big, loud, rich. But when it mattered, a week before the competition, she was still relying on her head voice, which was breathy, bordering on inaudible. The women of Divisi had their concerns, but no one dared discuss it with Betsy—not even Sarah Klein, the group’s music director. Ironically, it would be Sarah Klein’s mom who would broach the subject when, the night before the ICCAs, Mrs. Klein sat in on Divisi’s final rehearsal. “Betsy, I know that you just had surgery,” Sarah’s mom said. “But it’s hard to hear you.” The woman meant well. But coming on the heels of a difficult few weeks, the criticism threatened to upset the group’s delicate emotional balance leading into the ICCAs.

  Not that she was the only one.

  A few weeks earlier, Lisa Forkish had flown in from Boston to refine Divisi’s sound. It had been Keeley’s idea to invite some of the all-star alumni back, with Divisi picking up the tab. Finally, the girls had reason for hope. In that first rehearsal, Lisa Forkish tore them apart. Where Sarah Klein had no discernible leadership style, Lisa was blunt, firm, but still warm. When girls would talk out of turn she’d say, “I’m feeling really disrespected right now.” Some of the girls got off on the act. But for most of Divisi, this just did not flow with the lax vibe of the past six months. At least Lisa didn’t make them cry. That was Erica Barkett’s job.

  Erica Barkett—who’d graduated one year earlier—had boarded a plane from New York to Eugene and for the next six hours had choreographed “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing.” Lisa stepped aside and Erica worked the choreography in a separate rehearsal. The girls certainly couldn’t sing if they were still counting numbers under their breath. “Wait, I stomp on seven, but my shoulders move on six?” one member of Divisi asked. It was a lot of talk like that.

  The song actually opened with two couples doing the tango. “There was a lot of dancing on the beat while singing off the beat—left brain, right brain,” Keeley says. It was too complex, distracting even. But Erica kept at it. “You’re not even trying!” she shouted. “It’s never taken me so long to teach someone choreography. I flew out here because you asked me to come. You wanted me to help. Why am I even here? You’re never going to win.” Michaela Cordova was particularly upset by what was happening. She took it personally. She felt the alumni didn’t like her, perhaps put off by the piercings. Michaela left that rehearsal in tears. She was not the only one.

  Inviting Lisa and Erica had been a mistake, Keeley admits. But in the end, it might turn out to be the thing to unite them. After that rehearsal, Keeley sat down and composed an e-mail to Divisi. She’d realized an essential truth about the group. She was tired of hearing these girls talk about the old Divisi. She’d perpetuated it herself, was possibly even the worst offender. But with the competition just days away, it was time to make a change.

  “This fighting isn’t getting us anywhere,” Keeley wrote. “No one can make you have pride in this group. You can’t love it for the reasons the alumni love it. You have to find your own way. We need to want the same thing. If we want to win, let’s do it together. If we just want to have fun, learn a whole bunch of music, relax, and have the Spring Show be our big thing for the year, that’s fine too. But whatever we do, let’s do it together.”

  And just like that, something clicked.

  Divisi gathered in their dressing room at the Hult Center an hour before the quarterfinals of the ICCAs was to begin. Eight collegiate groups would compete tonight, but Divisi had drawn the short straw. They would open the show, a notoriously bad position. “We’ll just have to set the standard,” Keeley told the girls, trying to put a positive spin on it.

  The heavy-red lipstick had been painted on; the fishnet stockings pulled high. The hair was pulled back, shellacked down with Aqua Net—they looked like the women in that Robert Palmer video. The women of Divisi were once again sitting in a circle, tense. The afternoon sound check had not been encouraging. Peter Hollens, the founder of On the Rocks and the producer who had recorded Divisi’s last album, offered some advice. “You can’t trust your ears onstage,” he said. “It can sound like you’re in a shoe box. Don’t worry about that.” Sarah Klein had expected the alums to call with good wishes, but few did. Lisa Forkish was in school and wouldn’t be there to cheer them on. Sarah would have to be the strong one.

  Downstairs in the dressing room, Sarah Klein spoke. “I know we’re all anxious,” she said. “But there’s no need to be. We’ve come so far. Let’s have a great time. It’s about giving the audience a good show. Don’t forget that.” Finally, six months into the job, she sounded like a leader.

  Divisi broke down their set. They liked to discuss each song—what the lyrics meant, what their motivation should be. Sarah began. “Our set is like a relationship,” she said, which made the girls smile. “‘Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing’—that’s our carefree song. It’s about love. Be flirtatious. Then ’Hide and Seek’ is the breakup. And ’You Had Me’ is about getting our confidence back.”

  The girls went around the circle, many echoing what Sarah had just said. Finally it was Michaela’s turn to speak. She started. She stopped abruptly, tightening up.

  “I’m not sure if I should tell this story,” Michaela said. She looked at Emmalee Almroth seated next to her. She looked down at the floor. She took a breath and then, encouraged by Emmalee, she spoke, slowly, deliberately, eloquently. “I have not been well,” Michaela said. “I’ve been a wreck.” She did not waste time. “Last year I had a problem with cocaine.” She’d quit, she said. She’d worked very hard. She’d been dating a guy, and she thought he was supportive. “But he was still using,” she says. The breakup tore a hole in her heart. She talked about “You Had Me,” about the song she’d sing tonight, about what the lyrics meant to her. No one knew quite what to say. A few of the girls wiped tears from their eyes. It was Keeley who broke the silence. “We’ll have to kill him,” she said.

  Sarah brought it all back, sounding very much like Lisa Forkish. “When you’re singing ‘You Had Me’ tonight,” she said, “think about Michaela
. Be her support.” And with that, Divisi moved the chairs aside to run through bits of their set. There were last-minute questions about choreography. Marissa Neitling reminded people where to put their hands during a bit of Stevie Wonder choreo. “Don’t cup the ovaries,” she said, “just put your hands over them.”

  Divisi took to the stage, confidently getting into formation for "Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing.” Andrea Welsh, up front, crouched down with attitude. And as the song began, she kicked up her heel, shouting, “Ee ee!”

  “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing” opens with the girls singing: “Don’t you // don’t you // don’t you // don’t you.” But tonight it sounded like don’t chew, don’t chew. Divisi had recently recorded the song in the studio with Peter Hollens. He’d wanted that massive diphthong—don’t chew. “It gives the track some sauce,” he’d said. But what works in the studio doesn’t always work onstage. The sound was abrasive. The audience was cold, and Divisi retreated, losing their cool. They suddently looked timid. And their fears about the choreography were confirmed— it was overkill. Distracting even. For Betsy, the slide from head voice to chest voice—as she sang “Don’t you worry ’bout a thing-eh -ing-eh-ee-ing-eh-eeing”—was rocky. Halfway through the song, her posture seemed to fall, betraying some sense of disappointment in herself.

  “Hide and Seek” was much stronger. The choreography was intricate and precise. It was a lot of hand motions, a lot of evocative head-turns. The girls sing: “Oily marks appear on walls // where pleasure moments hung before the takeover.” The word before is strung out, the group building to fortissimo. The girls put their hands in front of their faces, pushing out toward the audience. They clench their fists. For some, the song’s lyrics never made much sense. But the choreography somehow crystallized the message, delivering the emotional punch. The intonation was flawless. The dynamics—the swelling, the softening—were perfect. But the highlight on the set would be Michaela Cordova, who stepped to the microphone for “You Had Me” with a singular focus, as if there weren’t another person in the building, let alone seventeen hundred in the crowd. The lyrics—about an abusive boyfriend and his drug abuse—well, it’s as if the song were written for her.

  She sang: “Spitting in my eyes and I still see // Tried to keep me down I’m breaking free // I don’t want no part in your next fix // Someone needs to tell you // This is it.” Whether it was the revelation of her drug abuse, that raw exposed wound, or merely the relief that the ladies had gotten through the most difficult elements of their set is unclear. But the song took on an entirely different feeling tonight.

  “You Had Me” built to the bridge, and Michaela burned with intensity. She sang: “Vodka and a packet of cigarettes // that’s all it used to be // but now you’re sniffin’ on snow when you’re feeling low // suffocating dreams that could have // Maybe for a minute I’ll be down with that // but it didn’t take long for me to see the light.”

  The solo was so overpowering you almost forget the rest of Divisi was onstage—that’s how consuming Michaela is as a performer. But there, just as the bridge came to an end, Divisi marched forward until they were flush behind Michaela, supporting her just like Sarah had said. This is where the choreography delivers—it complements the song instead of competing with it. The song ended with Divisi chanting in unison: “Takin’ it back // I’m takin’ it back // Takin’ back my life.”

  Divisi’s performance that night took on a secondary meaning whether they intended it to or not, for anyone who knew the Divisi backstory—the disappointment at the ICCA finals in ’05, the near-entire group turnover—”You Had Me” read as a defiant statement of independence. They were not the old Divisi. They could never be that group. They would honor the memory of those girls, and the reputation they’d built from the ashes of a Beau Tie. But if this incarnation of Divisi was to succeed, these women would need to make it on their own terms.

  But was it enough? “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing” had left Divisi vulnerable. In the end, it was just plain luck that brought them victory in that quarterfinal round of the ICCAs. It happened like this. First, Dulcet, a mixed group from Southern Oregon University, had the misfortune of performing “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing” just ten minutes after Divisi. Though not anybody’s fault, it was no less embarrassing for Dulcet. Especially since the song was a hot mess. For an audience member, it was a bit like watching figure skating on television. You know that fourteen-year-old girl is going to end up on her ass. It’s just a matter of when.

  But more than that, it was On the Rocks who did Divisi the biggest favor of the night. OTR’s set opened with “Smile Like You Mean It,” by the Killers. While the choreography was impossibly cheesy—there was a lot of air guitar followed by the Michael Jackson lean—it worked for them. “We could never get away with that choreography,” Marissa Neitling says. But ultimately, it was a wardrobe malfunction that sealed the deal. Divisi’s brother group, On the Rocks, wears armbands and vests for a retro barbershop look. Tonight their music director Brenton made a tactical error when, midsong, he tore off his vest in a comic striptease, tossing it to the side of the stage. When it came time for OTR to sing their final song, a medley of Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and Alicia Keys’s “Karma,” Brenton looked confused. The group was staring at him, waiting for him to blow the pitch pipe. He tapped his trousers—both front and back. Doh! While the striptease had looked cool in the moment, Brenton’s pitch pipe had been in his vest pocket. He quickly ran offstage to retrieve it, as the men from OTR just stood there smiling awkwardly. The damage was done. Spooked, perhaps, their final song was disastrously flat.

  ICCA West Coast producer, Jen Levitz, appeared onstage, inviting the competing a cappella groups to join her onstage as she read the results. “Can I get a drumroll from the vocal percussionists, ” Jen said. Ha. Ha. Divisi won with a commanding lead. In sports (and a cappella is a sport) that’s called an ugly win. Still, Divisi was jumping up and down wildly, some of them crying through their encore.

  Later that night, Divisi retreated to Emmalee Almroth’s house for the postshow festivities. The members of On the Rocks, having changed out of their barbershop gear, were visibly crushed. Divisi’s Megan Schimmer was torn between celebrating with her girls and comforting her boyfriend—a tenor in On the Rocks. To make matters worse, On the Rocks had landed in third place, a mere two points behind the second-place finishers, Oregon State’s Outspoken.

  Peter Hollens was at the party. He congratulated the ladies of Divisi on the big win. What he didn’t say was that the next morning, when he’d be phoning Sarah Klein to recap the show, he would have to deliver some harsh news. “You can’t win at semifinals with Stevie Wonder,” he will say. “You need to cut Betsy’s song from the set.” But tonight, well, there’s drinking to be done. Andrea Welsh stands in the kitchen and pops open a bottle of her signature pink champagne.

  Divisi sold more than seventeen hundred tickets to the show and will pocket fourteen thousand dollars. They won’t have to fund-raise a dime to get to the semifinals, which are scheduled for March 10 outside San Francisco. Divisi books their hotel rooms. They have five weeks to prepare.

  What they don’t know is that a big ol’ Mormon torpedo is headed straight for them. Keeley comes home from class one day not long after the quarterfinals to find an e-mail from Catherine Papworth, the music director of Noteworthy, the all-female a cappella group from Brigham Young University. Like Divisi, the Mormon women had won their own regional quarterfinal. The a cappella message boards at RARB had lit up with talk of Noteworthy’s impressive showing—these girls had the highest point totals in the nation.

  The e-mail to Keeley went something like this: “We see that ‘Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing’ is in your repertoire. We just wanted to let you know that we’re going to sing that song at semifinals. Also, we know that you wear red ties and black shirts. We wanted you to know that we’ll be wearing green ties and black shirts. If you feel uncomfortable wit
h that, you might want to wear red shirts.”

  Keeley is dumbstruck by what she is reading. Considering these Noteworthy ladies are Mormon, she concedes that this e-mail affront may have been unintentional. Still, she is incensed, and quickly hits REPLY. “We’ve been wearing these outfits since 2001,” Keeley writes. “Why would we change our outfits? If you feel uncomfortable, feel free to change yours.”

  Marissa Neitling is particularly troubled by this note from Brigham Young’s Catherine Papworth. And it has nothing to do with Stevie Wonder or what color ties the girls will be wearing in competition. No, this is personal. Marissa Neitling’s ex-boyfriend, the one who was married just seven months after they broke up—he’s Catherine Papworth’s brother.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE BEELZEBUBS

  Wherein the Bubs descend on their founder’s lake house for ten days of recording in January while a true Hollywood a cappella story unfolds

  Shortly after New Year’s Day, the Beelzebubs descend upon a lake house in Moultonborough, New Hampshire, set deep back in the woods. It’s easily a twenty-minute drive to get milk, farther for anything more substantial. The refrigerator is stocked with dozens of eggs. The kitchen counter is lined with loaves of white bread and jars of peanut butter. Over the next ten days the Beelzebubs will complete most of the raw tracks for their new album. And surprisingly—or maybe not—there’s not a beer in sight. Alcohol would be a distraction. (By contrast, the Hullabahoos regularly show up at the recording studio hungover and carrying McDonald’s.) This seclusion—this a cappella monastery, if you will—is an ideal place to record; the lake house affords the inspirational quiet they found at the legendary Long View Farms but doesn’t cost fifteen hundred dollars a day. In fact, this house is free to use. This New Hampshire estate is owned by the sixty-something founder of the Beelzebubs, one Tim Vaill ’64.