The first time I listened to college a capella was during an episode of Gilmore Girls, one of my guilty pleasures when in high school. On more than one occasion, Lorelei’s dad would jaunt over to a circle of freshly-shaven, polo-shirt-clad Yaleies standing with their arms around each other and tooth-paste-ad-smiles plastered over their faces. They’d pump their chests out proudly, and sway with theatrical conviction to the rhythm of some arcane, school fight song. Dweebs, I thought (and Lorelei’s incredulous face agreed with me.) Every last one of ‘em.

Several months later, while lounging around my friend’s dorm in Berkeley, my friend excitedly ran over to her computer to share with me one of her favorite songs at the moment. Knowing her taste for widely-unknown and eclectic music, I prepared myself for an obscure blues gem, or a zany, 10 minute-long trip-hop number. But instead, a swelling, dramatic harmony unfurled through her laptop speakers, supported by full-bodied, kaleidoscopic currents of melismata and staccatos. The sound of the music was so rich, so textured, so commanding—at moments, it even attainted a lurking, chant-like intensity—that I didn’t even realize what song the group was singing until a minute into the tune. Not some stiff-ridged school anthem, it turned out. No, it was one of Cal’s a capella troups singing Brittany Spear’s “Toxic.” And I loved it.

My friend spent the next half-hour dribbling through stories about the cut-throat arena of collegiate a capella: how groups regularly tour across the country to duke it out in head-to-head singing competitions; how thousands of people fill amphitheatres to see these performances, and to find out which winning group will walk home with 5-figure checks; how fierce—to the point of lawless delinquency and physical brawls—some of the school rivalries get. My friend’s boyfriend at the time sang in his school’s a capella troup, which is how my friend knew all about these groups’ escapades (and how she had gotten hold of more albums by college a capella collectives than I had by Ani Difranco who has released one album almost every year since 1989). Knowing someone in the community was one of the only ways you could get inside information on their intense, kooky subculture. One of the only ways until now, that is.

Two weeks ago, Mickey Rapkin published Pitch Perfect: The Quest for Collegiate A Capella Glory, a behind-the-scenes account of six of the country’s most accomplished college a capella groups.  A lot of press for the book name-drops the most prominent figures who make cameos in Rapkin’s book: Ed Helms, John Legend, Jessica Biel, George W. Bush, Osama Bin Laden (no joke—he recorded songs a capella with a group of others about jihad, which to him at the time referred to the internal struggle to improve oneself rather than a holy war, and then distributed the tapes to his friends). After all, what would a book written by a senior editor at GQ be without hardy, satisfying portions of quick-witted narratives flavored with pop-culture trivia?

But beyond those stories which center on people who have already acquired some degree of fame (or infamy) are the more tender, more compelling tales of young musicians in the process of grasping for this fame. Or some version of fame, at least. Winning a collegiate a capella tournament is, after all, probably on par winning a speech and debate tournament—except for your teammates, parents, significant other, and a capella alumni, most people don’t really give an a capella hoot about the competitions. Not only is it an activity that few people know about; it’s also decidedly uncool. And neither Rapkin nor the singers he profiles will deny it. That’s part of what makes the subculture so intriguing.

Not long ago, KCRW, a Los Angeles-based radio station known for embracing and popularizing off-mainstream music, featured a tune by UCLA’s Awaken A Capella in their song-of-the-day podcast. It was Imogen Heap’s “Hide and Seek.” I was still going to UCLA at the time, but despite my growing love for the musical style, I had never seen the group perform or even listened to much of their music. But there they were, ringing out from the airwaves of a nationally-recognized radio station, transforming a mediocre pop song into something that felt more honest, more raw—into a song that could absolutely slay you. Not long after, I found myself cheering alongside thousands of bestirred fans as the group took the stage for a free on-campus performance (one for which I ended up standing in line for near 30 minutes only to nab a couple of rather shoddy seats in the back of the auditorium). Their performance alone floored me–it was an hour of vapid pop music that, through the group’s dramatic arrangements and poised delivery, took on a fresh, fun, and even poignant quality.

Beyond being impressed by their music, a giddy nervousness built up within me when I realized that one of Awaken’s altos actually sat behind me in my Russian Lit class. I had no idea until that night, three-fourths of the way through the term, that the girl who once proofread my paper on Crime & Punishment sang in one of the more accomplished a capella groups in the nation. It was as if I had realized I was sitting in front of Kevin Love all quarter long. At least it was to me, a shameless and devoted fan of collegiate a capella, and really of any unique and noteworthy musical pursuits (read: a music dweeb). And yet neither the singer nor I made any mention of the performance the next time we went to class, or anytime later in the quarter for that matter, not because either of us were embarrassed for our interests in a capella. It was more like we were part of a secretive, members-only activity open only to those who dare take the art form as seriously as these singers do. A capella groups know they’re a bit ridiculous; but you have to fall in love with the lunacy before you’re given access to the fodder to mock it.

Rapkin straddles that loving self-deprecation with empathy and eloquence in his book, detailing a capella’s grueling, demanding, and prestigious (at least in a capella circles) element of the activity which demands complete devotion from its participants, just as college sports do from athletes. There is sacrifice, drama, tears, triumph, and the occasional run-in with the law (after all, what would a book about college students be without a bit of debauchery?) As Adam Baer wrote in his post for HuffPo yesterday, it can be easy to look down on collective singing groups in the realm of musicianship, or to scoff at how intense the singers’ relationship with their craft can become. But by doing so, you’re stifling one of music’s greatest capacities: to bring people together, no matter if it’s just over some goofy rendition of a corny pop song.

The singers in the six groups Rapkin profiles, anonymous except to their fellow a capella cohorts, are the most interesting characters in Pitch Perfect–much more so than the celebrities who’ve participated in a capella groups in the past–and their interactions with each other exemplify this strangely unifying quality of the activity. A movie clip about the book on Current TV, for example, gives you a candid look at how the Divisi ladies from the University of Oregon have worked together to achieve success, from helping one teammate recover from an eating disorder to coaching themselves on their song pre- and post- performance to curling each other’s hair before getting on stage. And not only do the singers in Pitch Perfect face the challenges that come with being a musician. But they also face the challenges that come with being a college-aged kid in America, an experience that can remain riveting, nostalgic, comical, and endearing to all of us no matter how many clichéd TV shows and books hack away at the subject.

What truly separates this book from all the other pop culture tales about some no-name’s quest for stardom or a kid’s struggles to fit in beyond its subject matter is its lack of hackneyed situations and scenes. Preppy uniforms notwithstanding, the characters in this book are not the over-confident dweebs a capella singers are often portrayed as being. They’re nerds, to be sure. But they’re also a representation of our common humanity, regardless of our age, talent, or popularity: we are ambitious, competitive creatures who achieve the greatest, most unique success when we are part of a community that shares our interests. And above all else, we are quirky, artistic-driven individuals just waiting to discover a craft through which to express ourselves. We should all be so lucky to have a passion as deep-rooted as these musicians do. If not, at least we’re now lucky enough to be able to read about it.

 

[this post is cross-published at www.glassshallot.com]

 

UO Divisi singing Imogen Heap’s “Hide and Seek”