The boys from Vocal Point likely feel the same way. Outside the building they stand under a tree, several of them holding long ropes. Vocal Point had been assured the auditorium would be equipped with wireless microphones. (It isn’t.) And so they work their set, tweaking the choreography, the ropes standing in for microphone wires.
Backstage, in the too-hot, too-small dressing room they’ve been assigned, Divisi once again comes back to the circle. There will be no revelations of drug abuse today. They are all business. They touch up their makeup. They refine their choreography. They sing the Full House theme song to calm their nerves. Six months of preperation come down to this moment.
The Marin County Veterans’ Memorial Auditorium is a massive space, and the back rows feel miles from the stage. Attendance is spotty—there were likely more fans at the quarterfinal round in Eugene, Oregon. But there are clumps of fans scattered throughout and the OSU contingency is easy to spot, what with their faces painted orange. Then there are the women in DIVISI MOM T-shirts.
The competition opens with Raagapella, a South Asian-focus a cappella group from Stanford. (Yes, Raagapella is a pun—a take-off on the famed a cappella group from the Folgers commercial, Rockapella.) The group’s debut album was called, fittingly, Raags to Riches. Though they’re proud of their South Asian heritage, they have a sense of humor about the culture. Their spring show featured the skit “Pimp My Bride” (a takeoff on MTV’s Pimp My Ride). How exactly the judges will compare Raagapella’s set— which includes "O Humdum Suniyo Re”—to the other groups’ isn’t clear. Not that it matters. The competition is very clearly a Brigham Young versus Oregon showdown.
For all the talk of Vocal Point’s polish, the Brigham Young set feels sloppy. The men step out in their French-blue dress shirts, khakis, and yellow ties. They sing Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” which has been in their repertoire for years—though it’s easy to understand why they’ve gone back to that hell. They stole the gloved one’s choreography, and it’s tough to argue with nine men pretending to be werewolves. The hour spent working with the ropes has paid off. Unfortunately, the music just isn’t there. The song sounds hollow in parts and the soloist’s voice cracks, Peter Brady-style. “I think they sacrificed the music for the choreography, ” says Julia Hoffman, one of the night’s judges and the administrator of the Contemporary A Cappella Recording Awards. “More than anything, this is a music competition.” However, they recover nicely with the spiritual “Nearer My God to Thee.”
Vocal Point’s biggest asset is their feel-great attitude: They are undeniably entertaining and loose. They’re clearly having fun up there. And they score the night’s only genuine laughs with “No, Not Much,” a barbershop tune from the fifties originally recorded by the Four Lads. Tonight, four lads from Vocal Point step out, put their hands in their pockets, and sway back and forth innocently as they sing, “I don’t want my arms around you”—then, wagging their fingers at the crowd and mugging wildly—“no, not much.” They are crowd favorites, clearly, but they’ve made the mistake of performing as if this were just another gig. They may win. But they’ve left the door open for a spoiler.
Divisi steps out onstage next, walking briskly to their spots for the opening of “Sunday Morning.” Doom doom doom—bop! Crisis averted. The group is in tune, sturdy. Keeley McCowan is not a born performer. Her movements are wooden, and the white lights make her already pale skin seem translucent. But she uses her body language to her advantage, and the song suits her. “Sunday Morning” is a jazz tune at its heart. And so she keeps her arms by her sides like an old-time supper club singer. “Got the flower in your hair,” she sings, tapping at her hair as if she had a bouffant. She sings: “Sunday morning rain is falling and I’m calling out for you,” putting her hand out as if to catch the drops. It helps to have Betsy Yates on the beatbox. It’s sort of perverse, really. If the audience is going to be distracted by someone pfing and spitting, that person may as well be one of the more attractive girls.
“Hide and Seek” is crisp, the dynamics strong, the choreography on point. The song is already something of a collegiate a cappella cliché. But after the show, one judge will say it’s easily the best she’s seen. And Divisi’s Robert Palmer look only completes the feeling of unity. By the time Andrea Welsh makes her way around the group, singing, “Hi-ide a-and seek,” more than one member of the audience is in tears. “There was something about the emotion up there,” Marissa Neitling says later. “I’ve never felt such a connection to the song.”
The set closes with “You Had Me.” The song begins with Divisi in the power stance—legs shoulder-width apart, arms at their sides. They look angry, determined. But it’s not all sheer force. Michaela Cordova, the soloist, has learned to inject some subtlety into the verses, and the contrast makes the choruses all the more striking. There’s a soft vibrato on the early verses: “I don’t want no part in your next fix // Someone needs to tell you this is it.”
But it builds to a strong defiance. Michaela pulls at her tie, banging on her chest, singing: “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 crowd is roaring. That Michaela’s father is in the audience tonight makes the comeback that much sweeter.
After intermission, Divisi sits in the back of the auditorium, watching the second half of the competition, waiting for Noteworthy. Finally, the ladies from BYU step out in their gray slacks and black tops. Their green ties are tucked into their shirts (like restaurant waiters sometimes do). The women of Divisi shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “You could see it in their eyes,” Rachelle says. “They wanted it.”
Noteworthy opens with the Bulgarian tune “Ergen Deda.” And it is a feat of complex musicianship—perfect intonation, flawless phrasing. But it is also stunningly out of place, a move designed, it seems, to demonstrate the breadth of their talent as opposed to entertaining the crowd. To some, it just sounds like a lot of shrieking—as if they’re beating the judges into submission. (For the record, here’s what the shrieking was about. The lyrics of “Ergen Deda” translate to: The old man decides he wants to go to the dance, so he dresses up as a young man. But when he arrives, all the young girls run away, except for the littlest one, Angelina. Poor Angelina.)
Any lingering doubt Divisi may have had about dropping “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing” evaporates the minute Noteworthy begins their version. The choreography may feel tired (think Spider-Man on a surfboard) but it doesn’t matter. Courtney Jensen, the soloist, picks the mic up out of the stand and wails—full voice. Where Divisi was stiff, these girls have found the salsa beat in the original. Sarah Klein turns to Keeley: “So, we’ve got some competition.” A spiritual, “How Great Thou Art,” is equally stirring.
It’s not just the music—the whole package is polished. There are even quick costume changes. Noteworthy pulls the neckties out of their shirts for “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing.” By the time they get to “Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” Noteworthy have untucked their black dress shirts, pulling down on the T-shirts underneath to reveal the hint of a fuchsia accent.
Courtney Jensen isn’t Noteworthy’s only standout soloist. Kaitlyn McGuire—compact, with her hair pulled back—is a pint-size Kelly Clarkson. Noteworthy follows through on the promise to add in a hip-hop dance routine to “Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” which closes their set. One minute and thirty-five seconds into the song the girls remove their shoes, shouting “Remix!” The song ends with them hoisting a girl in the air like some high school cheerleading squad. Here I am, baby—huh!—signed, sealed, delivered, I’m yours.
Divisi bristles in the stands. “They were trying to pull off something like ‘Yeah,’” Rachelle Wofford says. “But it just wasn’t.”
Sitting together way up in the back row, nervously pulling at their
red ties, Divisi felt the heat. They’d performed their best tonight. “But we weren’t sure it was enough,” Betsy Yates said.
It was nearly an hour before the judges returned to the stage. A pro a cappella group, Hookslide, entertained in between. The wait was interminable. When, after thirty minutes, the judges still hadn’t returned, someone from the audience actually shouted, “Free Bird!” Finally, the groups were called back to the stage. And Divisi returned to their familiar onstage huddle, clawing one another. Divisi took home the award for best choreography. And they were feeling pretty good, until Noteworthy scored the best arrangement prize for “How Great Thou Art.”
Jen Levitz, the West Coast producer, spoke. “It was very, very, very tight,” she said. “Any of these groups could be going to New York. But only one will get to go.”
It happened quickly, a merciful end to Divisi’s storied comeback. “The second runner up,” Jen said, “with three hundred eighty-one points—Divisi!” Sarah Klein walked out to receive the award, and the girls clapped. But they were crushed. Vocal Point was named the first runner-up, with 394 points. Onstage, Haley Steinberger of Divisi turned to Rachelle. “Noteworthy just won,” she said under her breath. Rachelle whispered back, “You need to put your hands together and clap right now.” They were not the only ones disappointed. One of the Vocal Point members actually walked offstage, pulled out his cell phone, and made a call: “Noteworthy just beat us!” he could be heard barking offstage. So much for the Latter-day Saints.
Noteworthy, with 426 points, was headed to the ICCA finals at Lincoln Center. While they performed their encore, Natasha Bedingfield’s “Unwritten,” Divisi returned to the too-small dressing room to collect their Aqua Net. Sarah Klein looked over the score sheets. One judge placed Divisi first, two placed them second, two slated them third. It could have gone either way. “Find more variety in your performance,” one wrote. Some loved “Hide and Seek.” One called it “pitchy.” The score sheets, however, should have been a comfort to Divisi. Choreography, style of dress—that’s subjective. But intonation isn’t: You’re either on pitch or you’re not. (Music is, more than anything, mathematics.) But the judges couldn’t even agree on that. Not to mention that the judging panel was rife with conflict of interest. Bill Hare, the well-known a cappella producer, was brought in as a last-minute judge—and he had mixed Divisi’s last album, Undivided. Deke Sharon was also judging (he ranked Divisi first)—and Divisi had bought professional a cappella arrangements from Deke’s side business, Total Vocal. Not to mention the fact that Sarah Klein had more than once e-mailed Deke for advice on her own arrangements. It was a bit incestuous.
Divisi could not see this—they were so blinded by their desire to win this competition. And their singular focus was disturbing.
The thing is, Divisi had come a long way—not just musically but as women. Surely this was more important. Plus, wasn’t a cappella supposed to be fun? Had they really gotten into this to learn three songs, perform them well, and then be sent home from San Francisco—without even seeing the Golden Gate Bridge, let alone much beside the courtyard at the Days Inn?
At the first rehearsal back on campus following their defeat at the semifinals, the girls are already discussing whether or not to compete the following year. There were mixed reactions. Andrea Welsh was thinking about going abroad. Others suggested touring instead. But they watched the clips on YouTube and the matter was decided. It wasn’t about the alumni this time. “We weren’t satisfied with our performance,” says Rachelle Wofford. The women of Divisi were looking forward to a new regime, and a new music director. “I love Sarah [Klein],” Rachelle says, which is what women always say before insulting a friend. “But she wasn’t a leader.” Sarah’s biggest weakness was opening the floor to discussion where she should have been decisive. “We’re fourteen girls,” Rachelle says. “Everyone has their own opinion.” Michaela Cordova didn’t say much that night. When she looks back on the competition at the Marin Center, singing “You Had Me,” she says, “That’s the last time I really felt like myself.” A few weeks later she will withdraw from school.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wherein we peek inside the nefarious world of the Contemporary A Cappella Society, a feud is born between two companies—Primarily A Cappella and Mainely A Cappella—and the NCCAs go international
At various points in its history, the Contemporary A Cappella Society would be run out of Deke Sharon’s dorm room, an apartment in the Bay Area, and finally a condo Deke and his wife bought on Polk Street in San Francisco. At its highest point, CASA had close to ten thousand paying members.
CASA was, and continues to be, a nonprofit entity whose mission is clear, and true: to promote harmony through harmony, and to support and disseminate a cappella music. When the music changed, and collegiate a cappella exploded, with new groups popping up at universities in the South and Midwest (schools that had never had a cappella before) CASA was there to help. “The biggest problem with starting a group,” Deke says, “is that they have nothing to sing. It was really a matter of these kids thinking they had to reinvent the wheel.” Deke and Anne Raugh took steps to change all that, compiling twelve songs—including standards like “In the Still of the Night”—into a book, Contemporary A Cappella Songbook. A second volume followed, as did a Christmas edition. Hal Leonard Publishing later offered to distribute the series. And Deke says they’ve sold over a hundred thousand copies, to high schools and collegiate a cappella groups. (Hal Leonard wouldn’t confirm the figure, saying: “They’re above average for choral music.”)
With the advent of the Internet, CASA was able to do even more, launching the arrangement library, an online, easy-to-use archive of SATB (soprano-alto-tenor-bass) arrangements that a cappella groups could download for free. It was extensive—anything from “Blue Moon” to Maroon 5’s “She Will Be Loved.” While many undergraduates arranged music themselves, some groups just didn’t have that talent. After all, a cappella was becoming a bit like Major League Baseball. The increased number of franchises was diluting the talent. And for them, thankfully, there was CASA. For a while, anyway.
The problems, it seems, started in 2003 when Jonathan Minkoff, a lawyer and the recently installed president of Contemporary A Cappella Society of America, moved to shut down the arrangement library, an on-line archive of a cappella sheet music. He argued that the library was likely illegal. Deke Sharon (who had been the CASA president on and off for years) was livid. He felt the library was vital for new groups just getting off the ground. And so Deke consulted several copyright lawyers, who, he says, “made it clear that the library wasn’t clearly illegal. ” “Limited numbers, educational organization, fair use,” he says. “They also made it clear that no one in the industry would come after us even if they had a legal case.” There just wasn’t enough money in a cappella. But Minkoff forced the issue, using what Deke calls scare tactics to pressure a majority of the CASA board into shutting the thing down. Minkoff implied that individual members of the board could be sued by music conglomerates.
Unfortunately, just as the library was coming down, the CASA Web site was undergoing a much-needed overhaul. A few readers e-mailed, wondering if CASA had been permanently shut down. “These were tough years,” Deke admits. “The stripping away of programs and stripping down to the foundations happened before the rebuilding.” Paid membership, once in the thousands, dropped to the low hundreds. Some say it actually dropped to almost zero.
Without the arrangement library, it became unclear what CASA was for—except to stroke the egos of its board members, all collegiate a capella alums. “We have this conversation all the time,” says Mike Mendyke, CASA’s treasurer. While CASA is a nonprofit organization, everyone on the board has his or her own for-profit a cappella side ventures. And everyone is pushing his or her own agenda. In early 2006, Don Gooding—the proprietor of a-cappella.com, an alum of the Yale Whiffenpoofs, and the owner of the ICCAs—made a decision: "I was going to resign from the CAS
A board. I was tired of people talking and not doing.”
The CASA board had become a parody of itself, a soap opera of onetime collegiate a cappella singers. It was like some Best in Show spoof—but hyperreal. Jonathan Minkoff, the president, was in no way above the fray. He runs the annual East Coast A Cappella Summit—a three-day weekend of performances and master classes. “It used to be an event,” Mike Mendyke says. He talks about the landmark 1997 summit, where the Blenders, the Persuasions, the House Jacks, and Acoustix all performed at the Boston Conservatory. “It was a watershed moment,” Mendyke says. But in recent years attendance has dropped—some say, because Minkoff continues to hire his own group, Blue Jupiter, to headline.
“A cappella isn’t so much about money,” says Julia Hoffman, who runs the Contemporary A Cappella Recording Awards. “It’s about bragging rights.” The East Coast Summit, some say, had become Minkoff’s masturbatory, narcissistic parade writ largeish.
As collegiate a cappella exploded, and its alumni spread forth like spores, a number of businesses popped up targeting the burgeoning market. In some ways, it was like Motown all over again. And somehow all roads led back to the indomitable Don Gooding.
Herein, the infighting, presented as a (dark) comedy in three acts.
I. Don Gooding versus John Neal
Don Gooding, an alum of the Whiffenpoofs, graduated from Yale in 1981 and went on to have a successful career as a venture capitalist, working for Accel Partners in Princeton, New Jersey. However, he felt unfulfilled. In 1991, he and his first wife were visiting her folks in Maine. They drove by the L. L. Bean headquarters (birthplace of the popular catalog), which gave Don an idea for his own business. In January of 1992, Don incorporated the Primarily A Cappella catalog. The first edition offered some one hundred and fifty CDs plus sheet music, and Don hired a friend to run the operation out of a spare bedroom in his Princeton home. It’s worth noting that Don’s tax returns for the side project actually read UNITED SINGERS INTERNATIONAL. “I had grandiose plans,” Don says. “But I was losing money hand over fist.” He needed a business partner. This is where things get interesting.
Pitch Perfect: The Quest for Collegiate A Cappella Glory Page 17
