Postscript: Despite what Lisa Estrada—the first director of the Los Angeles Laker Girls and the game entertainment coordinator—told the B’hoos, in the six years she’s been with the Lakers, no one has ever missed a performance of the national anthem. “Never,” she said. On the night the Hullabahoos were scheduled to perform, the organist subbed in. “At least he was happy,” she says.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DIVISI
Wherein Divisi comes face-to-face with some Noteworthy ladies in the semifinals of the ICCAs
In January, Divisi took first place at the ICCA regional quarterfinals in Eugene, Oregon. They’d also earned fourteen thousand dollars from hosting that show. They wouldn’t have to hold a single bake sale, let alone one demeaning car wash, to get to the regional semifinals in San Francisco. Still, if they stood any chance of winning once they got there, they would need to tweak their set. The girls pored over the judges’ scoring sheets from that first round. There were some positive comments. “Nice intonation,” one judge wrote. “Good ‘tude,” wrote another. But when it came to “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing,” the troubled Stevie Wonder song, one judge was refreshingly critical. “Don’t bury the soloist in the lower register,” he wrote. Translation: You just couldn’t hear Betsy Yates. It wasn’t the girl’s fault. And it certainly wasn’t the fact that she’d had her tonsils taken out a month before the ICCAs. One of the highlights of Divisi’s repertoire has always been the theme song to television’s Full House. And Betsy kills it every time, because she’s talented, and because the song falls comfortably in the sweet spot of her voice. But with “Don’t You Worry ‘Bout a Thing,” the solo lived in that awkward space between her head voice (what guys call falsetto) and her chest voice. In short: great soloist, wrong song.
The scores only confirmed what Sarah Klein and Peter Hollens (the group’s godfather, who was now engaged to Evynne Smith, one of the original Divisi Divas) already knew. If Divisi stood a chance of defeating the one-two Mormon punch of BYU’s Vocal Point (the reigning ICCA champions) and Noteworthy (“We’re wearing green ties and black shirts,” their director said) come March, they’d need to cut “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing” from their set.
Sarah didn’t waste much time, broaching this sensitive subject at one of the group’s first rehearsals in February. “I spoke to Peter,” she began gingerly. “He thinks—and we should discuss this—that it would be best to drop Stevie.” Betsy Yates had known this was coming. She’d heard the chatter. She tried to stay out of it. “I want you to do what you think is best for the group,” she allowed, and that’s pretty much all she said. It would be a tense two hours. There was very little eye contact; some girls never looked up from the floor. Andrea Welsh—the den mother—was adamant that Divisi keep the song. “We’ve worked so hard on the choreography,” she said. She blamed the tepid performance at the quarterfinals on nerves. It was like arguing in a vacuum. The girls hadn’t yet seen the video of the quarterfinals. And when they did, a week later, Andrea was relieved she’d lost that round. “It’s interesting to think you look and sound one way onstage,” she says. “Then you see the video and it’s like an entirely different group. We weren’t crisp. We weren’t sassy. I was totally off-base.”
The problem then became: What would replace the Stevie Wonder song? And this question blew open the tragic flaw in a cappella competitions, and Adam Farb’s biggest fear: Divisi had spent so much time perfecting those three songs that they hadn’t learned much else. They had, of course, a repertoire of ten or so songs, but those were standard fallback tunes and certainly not competition-worthy. “Every week we were singing the same songs at the EMU,” Emmalee Almroth said. There were just two songs on the table: “Sunday Morning” by Maroon 5 and a Guster tune, “Two Points for Honesty,” which this incarnation of Divisi sort of learned but never bothered perfecting, because the soloist, Marissa Neitling, had spent last semester in the school play.
“Sunday Morning” was a slow burn, and it would be a risk to open their set with something so quiet. Plus, Maroon 5 was fast becoming the new Coldplay of collegiate a cappella—everyone was covering their music. But at least Divisi had performed that song. They didn’t have time to start from scratch and so it was settled. There was something sweet about the decision. Keeley McCowan was the soloist on “Sunday Morning,” and she was one of just two girls who’d performed at Lincoln Center almost two years ago when Divisi was robbed of the ICCA title. It was fitting she’d get a chance to make things right.
Still, there was a matter of choreography. Erica Barkett, the Divisi alum who’d made the girls cry a few weeks ago, somehow agreed to choreograph “Sunday Morning.” She couldn’t fly out to Eugene, though. Instead, she called Megan Schimmer and taught her the steps—over the phone. At rehearsal, when the girls wanted to know how a certain difficult dance move went, Megan threw up her hands and just said, “This is what it sounded like on the phone.”
The girls had four weeks to prepare for the next round of the competition. If they won the regional semifinals in California, they’d return to Lincoln Center. That Divisi could start from scratch, essentially, with a new squad and still be the best—that was the goal. That would confirm that the Divisi name meant something. And these were tense rehearsals. Jenna Tooley had recovered from mono (and had her braces taken off) but was still missing rehearsals, still mysteriously absent. Rachelle Wofford was one of the first to speak that night when Divisi—as a whole— confronted the girl. “If you don’t want to be here,” Rachelle said to Jenna, “I know a thousand girls who would take your spot.” There was a lot of back-and-forth. Some of the girls just felt like they needed to speak—it wasn’t that they had anything new to add to the conversation, they just wanted to air their resentment. Jenna pledged her allegiance to Divisi, and the matter was settled. Sort of. Jenna would remain in the group, provided she could handle the constant rolling of the eyes from the other girls every time she opened her mouth to speak.
Musically, Divisi was making progress. “Hide and Seek” had matured, as every swell, every note, every bit of the understated choreography was ironed out. On some deeper level, they’d connected with the music. “The group realized that every part of a song needs to go somewhere,” Keeley says. “Even if it’s a two-beat rest it’s important. Even if there’s no sound coming out, you need to keep that intensity.” It had finally sunk in. “There’s nothing in a piece of music that wasn’t deliberately put there. And that includes a rest.”
The week before leaving for San Rafael, California, Betsy Yates invited her new boyfriend to watch Divisi’s regular Friday-afternoon performance at the EMU. The girls call him “Underwear Guy,” and he showed up with Emmalee’s boyfriend, better known as “Short Hot Guy.” Divisi was happy for the support— even though the two men showed up drunk. When Betsy asked her boyfriend why he’d show up drunk to an a cappella show, Underwear Guy shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes we like to preparty before a concert,” he said.
Noteworthy—the Mormons who’d e-mailed Divisi about the dress code, throwing down the a cappella gauntlet—was heading into the West Coast semifinals with the highest point totals in the nation (an arbitrary number, which Divisi still obsessed over). But they were not resting on their laurels. In fact, as Divisi was working on “Sunday Morning,” Noteworthy was upgrading their own set.
They are a curious group, this Noteworthy. The girls from Brigham Young a cappella have a Web site—noteworthyladies .com. It’s a risqué domain name for an all-female Mormon a cappella group, sounding a bit like a porn site. “That actually never occurred to us,” says the group’s music director, Catherine Papworth. “The only reason it’s noteworthyladies.com is because noteworthy.com was taken.”
Noteworthy was started in 2004 by Esther Yoder with Dave Brown and Dan Dunn, members of the all-male BYU Vocal Point. Groups at Brigham Young have a history of membership retention struggles. “That’s what happens when people get married,” Catherine says. Notewort
hy first competed in the 2004-2005 ICCAs. They sang “Survivor” by Destiny’s Child and a Bulgarian standard designed to demonstrate their range, and while they made it to the semifinals, they were ultimately crushed by Divisi’s all-star team. The memory of that night is burned into Noteworthy’s collective identity.
“We weren’t as creative with our choreography as we should have been,” their music director says. “We hadn’t learned how to play it up, so that it went well with the mics. Some groups just bounce around. But Divisi”—she pauses—“they work together in this uniform effect with the music.” She remembers seeing Divisi a second time at a Stanford event, singing “Fever.” “Their hand movements,” she says. “They were simple, but...” She’s speechless.
When Divisi and Noteworthy first met in competition back in 2005, Catherine admits her girls had been intimidated. “I didn’t feel like we owned the stage,” she says. Part of it was their clothing. Shortly after that show, Noteworthy dropped the green teal striped shirts, black skirts, and dowdy vests that had made up their uniform. When they returned to competition next Noteworthy was sleek, in black shirts and green ties. “Divisi owns red-hot,” Catherine says. “But green is our color.”
Noteworthyladies.com proclaims the group’s mission: to uplift people and spread joy through the power of music. After the quarterfinals in 2007, Noteworthy’s Kaitlyn Maguire gave an interview to the BYU NewsNet. “I felt like a tool in God’s hands,” she said of the show. “I could see the faces of some of the people in the crowd, smiling and nodding.”
Though Divisi chose their competition set in early September, Noteworthy didn’t finalize their own song choices until January, just before the quarterfinals. They hadn’t even prepared very hard for that first round—despite their big showing. It was a weaker region, and they felt confident they’d be in the top two groups, which was all they’d need to advance to the semifinals. Their tight, four-song set consisted of “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing,” the spiritual “How Great Thou Art,” a Bulgarian song, “Ergen Deda,” and Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.” But since that first round of the ICCAs, Noteworthy had added a costume change to their set—plus a full-on hip-hop dance routine.
Divisi had seen Noteworthy’s quarterfinals set on YouTube. Though it was a solid showing, certainly, they felt the girls had gotten lucky. Going into the semifinals Divisi suspected Brigham Young’s all-male Vocal Point would be their main competition, and with good reason. Vocal Point were the reigning ICCA champions. And people were still talking about their performance at the 2006 finals, which went a little something like this:
The nine men of BYU’s Vocal Point stood onstage at Lincoln Center, huddled close in their signature blue shirts, khakis, and yellow ties. Few had ever performed for a crowd this size, and certainly not in a venue with such a rich history. But if they were intimidated, they hid it well. As the lights came down, Jimmy Dunn stepped up to the microphone, which he put, more or less, in his mouth. What happened next was like a small earthquake, this rumble that came up from the bottom of the floor through your seat. There were no fancy digital effects at work there. It was all Jimmy, or rather what he was doing with his mouth and the microphone. (It’s called a lip buzz.) The khaki-clad boys behind him joined in with a whooo building to an angelic aaaah. This whoooooaaahhh lasted all of seven seconds, but the audience was applauding wildly. Then it dawned on you. You had heard this thing before. They were imitating the THX sound effect, that instantly recognizable roar that plays in front of movies to let you know THIS THEATER IS EQUIPPED WITH THX SPEAKERS. Whooooooaaaaaaahhhhhhh. Then something even more magical happened. That aaaah chord rang out two octaves above, an echo seemingly floating above Avery Fisher Hall. Musical scholars call this an overtone, and while surely there was a scientific explanation for its sudden appearance—something about a sinusoidal wave, acoustics, and angles—maybe it was divine intervention. What’s more impressive is that they were just nine guys—yet their arrangements were complex, meaning each guy might have been singing his own part. (The bigger a group, the more distinct parts one can throw into an arrangement.)
Vocal Point had earned a berth in the finals twice before, but on both occasions the competition fell on a Sunday. And the BYU boys wouldn’t compete on their Sabbath. They’d long felt they were the best group in the nation, and in 2006—their fifteenth anniversary year—they finally had a chance to prove it. When second place was awarded to the group from Oxford, Out of the Blue, the boys from BYU started to sweat. Had the Rutgers University ShockWave, an all-female group, won? Having formed just eight months earlier, Rutgers was the underdog. A win for them would have been the equivalent of Tatum O’Neal snagging an Oscar at age ten. And who could resist an underdog story? In the end, they needn’t have worried—Vocal Point was awarded the 2006 ICCA title. And the crowd was stomping their feet in approval.
While it’s customary to take the year off after winning the ICCA title, there’s nothing customary about Vocal Point. They’re the rare collegiate a cappella group whose music director is an alum. (James Stevens, who oversaw the 2006 win, is again in charge.) All of their members are over the age of twenty-one and have completed year-long missions for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. But there was reason to believe they were still hungry for the trophy in 2007. Much like Divisi, they’d weathered extensive turnover. And while they wouldn’t admit it, all the attention being paid to their sister group, Noteworthy, was likely starting to grate on them.
In March of 2007, Vocal Point, Noteworthy, and Divisi—each with something to prove—headed to the West Coast semifinals of the ICCAs. Only one group would leave with an invitation to Lincoln Center.
Marin County is just north of San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge. Most nights it’s a sleepy nook. But as Divisi takes over the Days Inn, it’s anything but. The boys from Oregon State (who placed second in Divisi’s quarterfinal round) are staying here too. The words BEAT THAT BOX K-LOWE are written across the window of OSU’s big white van, which is parked in the motel lot. It is the night before these ICCA regional semifinals and Divisi—most wearing Divisi T-shirts, black with a pair of red lips on the shoulder—gather in Sarah Klein’s room, overtaking the two double beds and any available floor space. Jenna Tooley sits down next to what may be the world’s largest wicker basket—an endless cornucopia of grapes, beef jerky, apples, and more. The basket was a gift to Divisi from Jenna’s parents. (They also donated five hundred dollars.) It’s unclear whether the girl’s parents know how tenuous Jenna’s position in the group has been. And if the couple wasn’t so genuinely sweet, so obviously proud of Divisi’s accomplishments, the fresh produce might have read as a calculated peace offering on their daughter’s behalf.
“Here’s some tea for you!” Jenna says, handing a box of Throat Coat brand tea to Andrea Welsh.
“Thanks,” Andrea said. “How did your parents know this was my favorite?”
Andrea and Rachelle Wofford sit on one of the double beds listening to "Hide and Seek” on an iPod. "We’ve been having a problem singing the word here,” Andrea says. The girls correct each other. It should be he-ere. Not he-are.
The girls run through parts of their set. Megan Schimmer stands on the bed, supervising the choreography. She says something about the importance of forty-five-degree angles. Marissa Neitling goes over the hand movements for “Hide and Seek.” The lyric is, “You don’t care a bit, you don’t care a bit.” The move calls for small figure-eights over their mouths.
They run the beginning of “Sunday Morning.” It’s the set opener, which may be a problem. The song begins with the altos, alone, singing doom doom doom—before the sopranos come in on bop. If the sopranos bop on the wrong note, the rest of the group will sing in the wrong key. “I’m hella nervous,” Meghan Bell says.
But at ten-thirty the rehearsal ends. “The things we’ve been picking apart,” Emmalee Almroth says, “it’s like, one word of one song. Where our head hits in th
e choreography on one word. Think about how far we’ve come.”
Sarah Klein steps in. “People have been asking me,” she says, “can we win this? There’s some stiff competition. We need to work hard tomorrow. But we’ve done the work. We’re prepared. We’re focused. We didn’t spend an hour the other night talking about what the songs meant so that we could get up there and forget the dynamics. We need to bring the audience to tears. We need to make them joyful and scared.” The girls are nodding their heads. It’s getting late. “Just remember to bring it,” she says.
The following afternoon, at the Marin Center, the groups gather in the hulking auditorium to draw straws to determine the show order. Well, everyone except Noteworthy. While one wants to give the Noteworthy ladies the benefit of the doubt, they pull a second stunt—showing up thirty minutes late. The seven other groups sit waiting. There is minimal interaction. For these students from different schools, it’s not about getting to know each other. It’s not uncommon for two students, mindlessly beatboxing to themselves, to pass each other in the hallway and barely acknowledge each other. And Jen Levitz, the ICCA West Coast producer, inadvertently makes an already tense situation worse. When the women from BYU finally do arrive, filing into the auditorium Jen announces, “There they are! With the highest point totals in the country, Noteworthy!”
Divisi draws—they’ll perform fourth. Noteworthy, meanwhile, will close the show. This is not a good sign. When it seems like it can’t get any worse, on the way out, Marissa Neitling finally comes face-to-face with her ex-boyfriend’s sisters, Catherine Papworth and her sister, Kristin, both of Noteworthy. Marissa has been dreading this confrontation, and she hopes her face doesn’t betray her. It’s awkward at first. Marissa smiles at them. She asks about their family. And then, without warning, the girls hug Marissa. “They told me they loved me,” Marissa later tells Andrea Welsh. Still, Marissa would be lying if she said she didn’t want to bury Noteworthy.
Pitch Perfect: The Quest for Collegiate A Cappella Glory Page 16
