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Last Night a Beat Box Saved My LifePitch Perfect and the strange allure of a cappella.

By Nina Shen RastogiPosted Tuesday, July 15, 2008, at 7:09 AM ET

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Marc Weingarten reviewed Bjork's avant-garde foray into a cappella, Medúlla. Rob Walker explained how an a cappella Apple ad was inspiring clones. Troy Patterson's review of America's Got Talent skewered an a cappella group inexplicably named N'versity.

Successful dork documentaries like Trekkies, Spellbound, and Darkon demonstrate that a handful of strong, charismatic characters are essential for grounding skeptical nondorks in the subculture in question. Rapkin fails to do this. Perhaps more important, he hasn't absorbed these films' most persuasive tactic: They made it clear that the activity in question really stands for something else. Spelling bees, in other words, aren't actually about orthography—they're about young, dedicated immigrants achieving the American Dream. LARPers—that's live-action-role players, to you—aren't just running around with plastic helmets and Nerf swords; they're creating organically engaged communities. In the best dork documentaries, audience members realize that they want the same things nerds want; they just look for those things in different places. Rapkin doesn't locate the deeper, human story of this subculture, and the book lacks emotional heft as a result.

For me, and for most of the former singers I know, a cappella offered fellowship. Of course, that's precisely what so many people find off-putting about the whole thing—the insularity, the cultishness. There are many similarities between cult members and a cappella singers: Matching outfits. Frozen smiles. Intense recruitment tactics. Obscure traditions. ("No, no, no—for 15 years we have been stepping on the one and snapping on the two!") But what is cult if not another word for community? I arrived at Yale fresh from the suburbs, terrified of all the chic city kids I imagined would be roaming about, ready to mock me because I didn't smoke pot or know all the bylines in The New Yorker. A cappella gave me something to belong to. Rushing singing groups—a complicated, monthslong process involving hundreds of hopeful freshmen—meant that, suddenly, dozens of upperclassmen were going out of their way to say hello to me on campus. Later, when I spearheaded rush efforts myself, I realized that these seemingly casual encounters were as carefully planned and executed as a military bombing campaign. But it feels good to be wooed, even if the seduction is a little canned.

Once I was actually tapped to join a group, it was like gaining membership in a sprawling, hilarious family. This was a heady thing for an only child like me. Suddenly I was spending my weekends in a station wagon with eight other people, watching miles of highway unspool in front of me as everyone in the front seats squabbled about radio privileges. (As the shortest member of the group, I was always relegated to the way back.) We spent our vacations visiting members' hometowns, singing for elementary schools, charity functions, business events—anyone who would pay us, really. Sometimes we were put up in fancy hotels; sometimes we packed in eight to a room. I once spent three days sleeping under a piano in Nashville. It was the closest thing to a family I had in college.

I wasn't the only one who found affirmation and fellowship in the dorky arms of a cappella. My best friend in the group had formally come out just before he arrived on campus. He recalls, "I'd had very little social contact with gay men in high school—you steer clear of each other for safety's sake. So it was great to have all these interesting upperclassmen that you could sort of look up to and feel comfortable around." Like drama club in high school, a cappella is a safe haven for gays and the girls and straight boys who love them.

And while no one would ever claim that a cappella approaches high art—though some professional groups, like Take 6 and Sweet Honey in the Rock, have been critically acclaimed—there are pleasures to be found in the music itself. If you've ever sung around a campfire or joined a drunken round of "Livin' on a Prayer," you know what I'm taking about: Singing with other people is fun, even if you're not very good. What many people don't realize is that, for singers, there's an extra, physical dimension to that pleasure. Belting out a clean high C is like executing a slam-dunk or a crisp pirouette—there's an exhilaration that comes with feeling your body reach its limits. Singing with a group—especially if you're lucky enough to have some true musicians in the mix, as I was—is as gratifying as playing on a sports team. Plus, there's always the thrill of stepping out in public and having lots of people look at you. It never gets old.