Ever since my sexual awakening watching Anna Kendrick and Brittany Snow’s shower duet in Pitch Perfect, my dream was to join the ultra-glamorous, high-status world of collegiate a cappella. So when auditions rolled around, I knew it was time to showcase my star quality.
I suppose the audition sign-up form should have been my first warning, but I tried to have an open mind. I figured they were asking about my gag reflex because of the laryngeal acrobatics required to seamlessly switch vocal registers.
I knew that it was a blind audition, so I didn’t think anything of it when I stepped into the audition room and found thick velvet curtains and two people with their faces cloaked. I did think it was a bit excessive when they handed me a mask, and it seemed strange that it was leather and shaped like a cat, but I love it when a group has a clear artistic vision.
The two cloaked figures, whose voices were disguised, had me sing several scales and match pitch. They then began what they called my “preliminary interview,” where they asked about my flexibility and if I had good knees (to keep up with demanding competition-worthy choreography, of course). They also asked if I had experimented with a capella before, to which I truthfully replied no, but that I was willing to do anything to make it. That answer must have satisfied them, because they then told me that I was “ready for the next trial” and pulled back the curtain, ushering me inside.
There were several more cloaked figures behind the curtain, as well as many other masked hopefuls like myself. Boy, they really take this blind audition thing seriously, I thought. The auditionees were told to sort themselves into groups based on signs posted around the room: bi-curious sopranos, they/them altos, tenor bottoms, and straight male basses who had never sang before they were forced into their high school’s production of Shrek: The Musical by the drama teacher. Once separated, we were made to sing “...Baby One More Time” by Britney Spears on an endless loop while performing the authentic music video choreography. As sang, danced, and slayed, the cloaked figures slowly encircled us, tapping those who were unworthy of the honor of a spot in a group (or who simply lacked the stamina to continue) on the shoulder silently, sending them sobbing uncontrollably out of the room.
At last, the ritual ceased. There were ten of us left: the chosen all-talented few! We had made it! I was utterly elated. Finally, I could live out my Pitch Perfect dreams.
We were drafted into the groups that wanted us: the Bottom Splits, the Throat Goats, and the all-male group, the Twink-le Tones. I was welcomed with open arms and open legs (it seemed an odd sitting position but who am I to judge what’s comfortable?) into the Bottom Splits!
The next day I was summoned to my first rehearsal, which began rather strangely. I and my fellow newbies were given a pledge of secrecy to sign in blood in which we had to swore not to divulge any of the events that occurred during official a capella-sanctioned gatherings. When the oaths were made official, the president of the group stepped to the front of the room and announced that this rehearsal would be devoted to “group bondage.” I was sure she meant “bonding.” I quickly discovered that I was, indeed, quite mistaken.
Before my very eyes, all of the veteran vocalists began to strip! I found myself in a pool of flesh, hormones, and debauchery, the likes of which has not graced a stage since the Broadway premiere of Spring Awakening. I couldn’t believe my ears when I witnessed a ménage à trois moan in a perfect D minor triad!
It was suddenly clear to me what I had gotten myself into: the singing was merely a guise—these glorified theater freaks were all fucking each other! How could I have been so blind!
Anyways, I will be back next week.