There is a difference between singing well and performing well. But the Bubs are so preoccupied with their past—so awed by their own name and legacy—that they are afraid to make mistakes, even in front of one another. This may be the one thing Savini hates about the Bubs. It happens all the time—especially when a guy is auditioning for a solo. Savini will hear someone practicing in the hallway and he’ll nail it. Then, when it comes time to sing in front of the group, the kid tanks. “It happened with Lucas and ‘Love It When You Call,’” Savini says. (Though Lucas eventually got that solo, it could have gone either way.) Savini encourages the Bubs to take risks in their performances— but the Bubs are sick of hearing it from him. They call him “Baby Savini” when he acts up. The name-calling is understandable, however. It’s a reaction to his ego. Savini has the best solo voice in the Bubs. (Just ask him.) The fact that he has also now lost a hundred pounds only complicates matters. Without Ben Appel, there is no one to put Savini in his place.
Andrew Savini had always been one of the most recognizable Bubs on campus; a rotund Hawaiian in a sea of New England white, he was literally hard to miss. More than his size, however, was that voice. Freshman year he’d walk into a party and the girls would shout, “Pony!” This wasn’t a fat joke; Savini’s big solo at the time was Ginuwine’s “Pony.” (The Bubs haven’t sung the song in two years, but the catcalls persist—at shows, in the cafeteria, wherever the kid goes.) How Savini lost the weight is a matter of some speculation. More than one member of the Bubs had spotted him with a bottle of TrimSpa. Savini, however, has vehemently denied snacking from Anna Nicole Smith’s candy jar. “I finished one week of TrimSpa,” he says, laying rest to the rumors that have dogged his remarkable extreme makeover. “But I didn’t have the discipline. You have to take those pills an hour before every meal!” He lost the weight the old-fashioned way— eating less, exercising more—inspired by an old photo of himself. “I never realized this loud personality was coming out of such an obese unattractive person,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t smell. But I had a mustache. I was gross.” That Savini has the strongest voice—and is suddenly the best-looking too—strikes some within the organization as impossibly unfair. Savini, for his part, is enjoying his new body, and the confidence that comes with it. “Everything in college is about aesthetics,” he says. “And sexual drive.”
It’s with that spirit in mind that the Beelzebubs find themselves backstage at UNC’s Hamilton Hall in October of 2007, preparing for the showdown. It’s a peculiar scene. Every a cappella group has their own set of warm-ups. The Bubs stand in a circle, slap themselves in the face repeatedly, and shout, “Ooooh oooh EEEK EEEK EEEK.” They beat their chests. They drag their hands behind them. This exercise, designed to get the blood flowing, is affectionately known as “gorillas.” If this appears to be outside the norm, who are we to judge? Divisi has a warm-up that involves singing “Chicken of the sea // chicken of the sea // chicken of the sea // chicken of the sea // chicken chicken chicken of the sea.”
The Hullabahoos, just down the hall at UNC tonight, have their own way of getting their heads in the game. The ritual is a song—Curtis Mayfield’s “People Get Ready,” which the B’hoos first learned for a performance at the 2004 Republican National Convention. Though no one remembers exactly how, it has recently become a preshow must. It’s doubtful any of these students (all born in the eighties) are aware of the song’s legacy—that it was written in the wake of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech—but the lyrics translate. Backstage tonight Patrick Lundquist sings: “People get ready // There’s a train a comin’ // You don’t need no baggage // You just get on board.” It wasn’t just the song that got them jazzed for the show. The Hullabahoos had something else working in their favor tonight. Earlier in the day they had presented their five new members with their robes—an emotional, pride-pumping exchange. Before showtime, Joe Whitney clutched his new robe—the one with the cartoon dogs on it—smiling wide, repeating, “Feels good, feels good.”
Truth be told, with the Bubs and the Hullabahoos on the card, it’s as if the Backstreet Boys and ’N Sync had met in some deranged battle of the boy bands. Four hundred fans crowd into Hamilton Auditorium for Fall Jam 2006—hosted by the all-female Loreleis. Hamilton is really more of a classroom than anything else, which may explain why there’s a competitive spirit in the air. It was nothing short of a clash of the a cappella titans in a Mason-Dixon throwdown: the Bubs from the North (the birthplace of collegiate a cappella) and the Hullabahoos from the upstart South.
The Hullabahoos perform first, casually dressed beneath their robes, unfazed by the hollers and whistles that greet them. Myles Glancy (who bears a passing resemblance to Harry Potter) sings a new song by The Fray, “How to Save a Life.” When Myles sings, a hush falls over the largely female crowd. Which is precisely why the B’hoos chose this one. If nothing else, they know their audience. “The song is big from Grey’s Anatomy,” says Pete Seibert, their music director. “Girls like it.” (Not surprisingly one member of the B’hoos steps forward and draws a box behind Myles.) Ballads should be used sparingly in collegiate a cappella. Without instruments, a love song can feel like an interminable four minutes of ooohs and aaaaahs. But the percussion on “How to Save a Life” keeps it alive. The beatbox holds two microphones in his hands, one against his throat, the other at his mouth. These are AKG D12 mics—honest-to-God drum mics—the kind designed to pick up the low tones in a kick drum. Tonight, they’re picking up a mix of dim dim ch ch dim dim ch ch. It looks silly, but you can feel the bass in your stomach. Myles sells the solo, clenching his fists and waving them in the air like a crying baby on the chorus. “Yeah, Hogwarts!” someone yells. When Brian Duhon, a new guy, steps up to sing the harmony on the chorus, one can see the difference the robe makes; there’s a confidence, a sudden weight, to his step.
It will be U2’s “One,” however, that really connects. Pete blows the starting note and the song begins: “Ohhhhhhhh // SHA-DAAAAAA // Ooooooh // DOOO DOOO.” Patrick sings: “Is it getting better? // Or do you feel the same?” It’s a duet. And Brendon Mason comes in, deferentially at first, echoing Patrick. But it quickly devolves into a pissing contest—an excuse for each to test his vocal range in public. Pete’s arrangement (all block chords and vocal rhythms) is not subtle, but then again, neither is that U2/Mary J. Blige retread. And the Hullabahoos—not to mention the audience—is feeding off that vibe. Patrick is suddenly elongating notes that barely appear on the page; for better and often worse, he could make a rest fortissimo.
The Hullabahoos sing in unison, “Have you come here to play”—and then, as per the arrangement, they drop out entirely, letting Patrick and Brendon harmonize (loudly) on Jesus. The crowd is applauding, not even realizing why they’re doing it, just reacting to the sound.
The Beelzebubs are seated up in the back row. They’re set to perform after intermission, and if they’re rattled by the Hullabahoos, they won’t admit it. But it’s easy to see why the two groups might clash. Their styles couldn’t be more different.
The Bubs—dressed in coats and ties—don’t so much as walk out onstage as bound. One of the guys attempts a 360-degree midair spin. The stage looks like a mosh pit at the Gap. The Bubs settle into their standard U-shape, turning their attention toward Lucas Walker, who hits a little button on the electric pitch pipe in his right hand, which buzzes with the group’s starting pitch. He counts off one-two-one-two-three-four and in unison the Bubs sing: “Buuuum ba bum // buuuum ba bum // ahhhhhhh.” Matt Thomas, a bulky sophomore with a goatee, steps out, inviting the audience to: “Roll up, roll up to the Magical Mystery Tour! Step right this way!” The song slows down at the bridge—John and Paul’s ode to those hazed and confused days—and the Bubs break formation, stumbling around in all directions, staring into space even as they continue to sing. One kid is licking his own face. Matt Michelson wanders way left. Someone pretends to smoke a joint. And just as suddenly they’re back, hitting the mark,
as crisp and professional as legend has it. The tempo creeps back up on the march toward the end of the song and Chris Van Lenten (on vocal percussion) sways back and forth like a star child.
If the Bubs have a song to rival the Hullabahoos and “One” it’s “Smiley Faces,” a Gnarls Barkley bit that Andrew Savini owns. He is the group’s resident face guy, and he’s in fine form tonight. It’s not just his voice. His hips seem to be entirely disconnected from the rest of his body. The song will become the de rigueur set closer for the rest of the semester, and with good reason. The choreography—which includes three Bubs stepping out on the left for some Temptations-like intrigue—is stellar, providing much-needed humor but not distracting from the music.
There is something undeniably endearing about the Bubs. Doug Terry is the theatrical one—his eyebrows have their own choreography. (It will come as a surprise to no one that, as an eleven-year-old child, Doug played Chip in the national touring company of Beauty and the Beast. Or that he’s thinking about waxing his chest.) Matt Kraft is a natural physical comedian. But their set list is off. The Bubs sing two ballads, “Gracie” by Ben Folds and “Ruby Falls” by Guster, which sucks energy from the room. And they don’t seem to exhibit much discernible personality. If anything, they’re overrehearsed. It’s like the Code Red complaint—that in ironing out the imperfections they’ve lost some human quality. They are a machine with one setting: On. The head fakes, the choreography—it doesn’t leave much room for spontaneity. It’s not that the Hullabahoos were technically better; they weren’t—by a long shot. Their arrangements weren’t nearly as complex (fewer parts, easier rhythms). But sitting in the audience, it feels as if the Hullabahoos are in on the joke. One gets the sense that Ben Appel might have loved to be a Hullabahoo.
Still, no one would have guessed that three hours later the showdown would come to this. Lib Curlee of the Loreleis searches for a word to describe what happened later that night. “It was an incident,” she says.
Andrew Savini, his face flush with alcohol, bathed in the glow of a streetlamp, comes face-to-face with the Hullabahoos. “We respected you!” Savini shouts. “And you crossed the line!” Outside the postshow party, the Beelzebubs are holding their man back. Patrick Lundquist approaches.
“It was a rookie move,” Patrick says. “Don’t hate the entity.”
It was a rookie move, and this is what happened: Just minutes earlier, while the Bubs and the Hullabahoos were inside the party—playing beer pong, likely—Jack Stump of the B’hoos stepped out for some air. That’s when he happened upon the Beelzebubs’ fifteen-passenger white van parked outside. Jack looked left. Jack looked right. He sidled up to the vehicle, unzipped his pants, and painted the thing yellow. It was out of character for Jack, the endearingly awkward Hullabahoo. And precisely because it was so out of character, he was dumb enough to get caught.
Patrick and Bobby Grasberger of the Hullabahoos, meanwhile, stumbled out of the party. Patrick had other plans—he’d hoped to spend the night with Lib Curlee of the Loreleis before he got sidetracked. But one of the Hullabahoos came running by, shouting: “Jack just pissed on the Beelzebubs’ van!”
The two sides quickly materialized. There was a lot of yelling. “This prick just pissed on our van,” Andrew Savini shouted.
Jack actually shouted back, as if this were some Aaron Burr- era duel, “That’s a lie!” In response, one of the Bubs yelled: “You have a small dick!”
For a second there it looked like the confrontation might end with fists—a full-on a cappella rumble. But, in a compromise that must make sense only under the influence of alcohol, one of the Bubs defused the situation by suggesting “intergroup public urination as a show of good faith.” Which is what they did. While one of the Loreleis looked on, Patrick Lundquist and Matt Kraft, side by side, unzipped their pants and pissed into a garbage can.
For the Bubs, the rest of the semester seemed pretty tame in comparison. There were more road trips—to UPenn, to New York City. And the group worked tirelessly on the music. Lucas Walker more than survived his surprise and sudden tenure at the helm. In January, Alexander Koutzoukis would take over as music director, proving his mettle when, on the Monday night before the group’s winter show, he came up with a Bubsian idea: arranging a medley of Justin Timberlake’s “Sexy Back” and the Pussycat Dolls’ “Buttons.” The Bubs learned the medley on a Tuesday night. On Thursday they came up with some choreography— a PG-13 striptease. And on Friday they performed the thing, flawlessly, at their concert (thanks to an up-all-night rehearsal). Maybe the Bubs were missing some of the artistry Ben Appel might have brought to the group, but they had more than stabilized, and the alums were relieved. In January the Bubs would meet in New Hampshire to record the majority of their next album. How exactly the sound would differ from the perfection of Code Red was still a mystery.
The Hullabahoos, for their part, returned to campus, convinced they’d embarrassed the Bubs at UNC. And for the first time perhaps since their founding—when Halsted Sullivan had performed onstage draped in Christmas lights—the Hullabahoos put on a Yuletide show. The highlight: Blake Segal, Dane Blackburn, and Brian Tucker—the three tiniest Hullabahoos—stepping out from the group to sing the Chipmunks’ Christmas carol. (Blake Segal asked, “Does Santa come for Jewish children?” to deafening cheers.) The Christmas show was so well received that the B’hoos began work on a Christmas album. The music they’d learned for the show—“Silent Night,” Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas”—came in handy when, just after finals, the Hullabahoos landed a high-profile gig performing for the AOL corporate Christmas party at the new Air and Space Museum in D.C. out by Dulles Airport. Joe Cassara, the president of the Hullabahoos, booked the gig—and he’d negotiated masterfully: On top of a five-thousand-dollar fee, the Hullabahoos scored two hotel rooms plus airfare to fly in their music director, Pete Seibert, who’d gone home for winter break. Between sets that night the Hullabahoos abused the open bar. Such was their enjoyment of the festivities that the lot of them nearly missed the last shuttle bus back. Running for the jitney, Pete Seibert actually collided with Randy Falco, the newly installed CEO of AOL. “Sorry!” Pete shouted, both embarrassed and impressed with himself at the same time.
In a few weeks the Hullabahoos would fly to Los Angeles to sing the national anthem at the Lakers game. And for the first time in recent memory, the group was thinking ahead and planning for a future beyond the next gig, beyond the next free beer. At Morgan’s request, Howard Spector (head of Ashley Entertainment) had supplied the B’hoos with a letter of recommendation for gigs in L.A. Now Patrick Lundquist picked up where Morgan had left off, courting the man who’d booked the Hullabahoos for so many lucrative gigs in the past. It started with an e-mail. “In groups like this,” Patrick wrote, “it often takes just a little boost to turn fickle success into perennial success, and you’ve given the group several big boosts over the past several years, so I just wanted to say thanks.” The Hullabahoos wanted to return to the Republican National Convention in 2008, to get back in Howard’s good graces. But for now the Hullabahoos had more pressing concerns: namely, a highly anticipated stop in Los Angeles at, yes, the Playboy Mansion.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DIVISI
Wherein the original members of Divisi return (disastrously) to prepare these new girls for the quarterfinals of the 2007 International Championship of Collegiate A Cappella
Keeley McCowan had always assumed that when Divisi returned to campus after winter break, the girls would buckle down. First semester had come with its own set of problems. Divisi was essentially a brand-new group—with personality issues and inexperienced musicians—working from a standing start to do the impossible: win at the International Championship of Collegiate A Cappella. But surely, in the face of the fast-approaching regional quarterfinals, they would prioritize, Keeley thought. Or maybe not. Maybe these girls were right to slack off. They’d inherited this vendetta, after all. And it wasn’t necessarily t
heir war to fight.
But the problems began almost immediately. Jenna Tooley (a blond freshman with braces) took a leave from the group. “I thought it was strep throat,” she says. But this fatigue, this coughing, was something else. The doctor at the campus medical center diagnosed her with the one-two punch of tonsillitis and mono.
Keeley had her own problems. She was essentially mounting this ICCA quarterfinal concert herself. Though Varsity Vocals, the organization that sponsors the ICCAs, hires producers to run each event, the majority of the work is done in advance by the host groups. Keeley was responsible for securing the venue, selling tickets, and even finding housing for the visiting students. Sadly, Keeley was having trouble getting members of Divisi to volunteer for even the simplest tasks. She might have given up had the competition not been Divisi’s biggest source of revenue. If done correctly, the group would pocket ten thousand dollars in one night—money they’d desperately need if they hoped to travel to New York for the finals. (Varsity Vocals long ago stopped subsidizing travel for competitors.) Keeley decided to up the stakes (and potential profits) this year by holding the quarterfinal round at the Hult Center in downtown Eugene—a twenty-five-hundred -person venue that, to put it in perspective, had previously hosted the touring company of Wicked. Divisi would need to sell seven hundred and fifty tickets just to break even. In a stroke of marketing genius, Keeley used the posters to play up the intrastate rivalry between the competing a cappella groups from Oregon State and her own University of Oregon. The posters read: CIVIL WAR OF A CAPELLA. If a cappella was spelled incorrectly, so what. Keeley had other concerns.
Pitch Perfect: The Quest for Collegiate A Cappella Glory Page 11
