"OMG! We're gonna be late!"
"Maureen! You take the food upstairs first! I'll grab the Cokes and follow, okay???"
"Okay, Della! I'll unlock the door and come back down to help if you're not up yet!"
September 20th, 2003.
Bay Area.
In a neighborhood next to UC Berkeley, two girls in their twenties looked like they were running from an incoming apocalypse.
With a sharp screech, the car came to a perfect stop in its space.
At once, the redhead—Maureen—unbuckled her seatbelt, twisted around, and grabbed a McDonald's paper bag from the back seat. The blonde—Della—jumped out immediately, popped the trunk like she was channeling the Hulk, hoisted a crate of Coca-Cola, and took off running.
They raced up to the third floor, burst into their apartment, and turned on the TV in a panic, flipping channels like their lives depended on it.
When ABC finally flashed on the screen, cheerful ads bouncing across it, both girls exhaled in unison and collapsed onto the couch like discarded laundry.
After a few seconds of recovery, they turned toward each other, and the moment their eyes met, they both broke into relieved laughter.
"God, I thought we'd miss it—"
"Same here…"
American TV broadcasting is kind of an odd system. Because if you count Alaska and Hawaii, the U.S. spans six time zones. Since the whole country can't possibly share one sleep schedule, there are two ways to air shows: delayed or live nationwide.
Generally, delayed broadcasts are used for news or less important entertainment.
For example, news shows typically have Eastern and Western editions: the Eastern one airs live for viewers in the East, Central, and Mountain zones, while the Western one is a rebroadcast for those in the Pacific, Alaska, and Hawaii.
So, if it's 6:30 p.m. in New York, people in Chicago and Denver are watching live. Then when it's 6:30 p.m. in L.A., people there see the exact same newscast that aired hours ago back east.
But for massive events—Super Bowl, Oscars, Grammys—everything airs live nationwide.
So when The Voice's hype exploded, of course it got the full-country simulcast treatment.
Disney set the broadcast time at 8 p.m. Eastern.
Which meant West Coast fans had to tune in at 5 p.m. if they wanted to watch live.
Yeah, that's inconvenient—but Americans are used to it. The country's too big to care, and people adapt.
And sure enough—
Click!
Psshhh!
Maureen and Della cracked open their Cokes.
Since they'd just sprinted upstairs with them, the moment they popped the tabs, fizzy brown liquid sprayed everywhere. They both covered the cans with their hands and burst out laughing, eyes squinting from the sugary sting.
"Ahhh—so good—"
"Yeah…"
Still grinning, Maureen said eagerly, "Wonder who's performing today?"
"Oh, I hope there's someone from California," Della replied. "I'm obsessed with that Bruno Mars kid—he's amazing! Though nobody beats Isabella. She's the coolest person I've ever seen!"
"Hey hey hey! You don't need to keep saying Isabella's awesome, okay? Everyone already knows she's awesome! Unless they're not from Earth! Only Earthlings doubt Hermione's power—"
"Hahahaha—"
A live-broadcast talent show really gives viewers that sense of participation. It's basically emotional investment in real time—when people witness someone's rise from the start, their love becomes unshakable.
So after two months of local rounds, most people were already rooting for their hometown contestants.
Though there were exceptions.
Even though The Voice's city and state rounds weren't aired cross-region, this was the age of the internet—the greatest invention in human history. Disney had uploaded short 30-second clips of every contestant on the show's official site.
Which meant if you had talent, there was no hiding it.
So even before the national competition began, everyone already had their favorites.
"Della, I think Bruno's really strong too," said Maureen, "but if he ends up against Katy Perry or Lana Del Rey, he'll have a hard time winning. So… let's pray he lands in Mariah Carey's team."
"Oh~ Maureen~ you think the other three don't suit him?"
"Of course! Mariah's the only one who really does R&B and soul. The other three just—" Maureen shrugged. "Rock, rock, and more rock."
"Hahaha!" Della cracked up again.
The mentors and format for The Voice of America had already been announced, so everyone had already picked their fantasy coach lineup.
That ability to simulate outcomes early was part of what made the show so addicting.
As the two chatted away, it finally hit 8 p.m. Eastern.
When the on-screen time signal vanished, the TV went black. It was as if an invisible hand had pressed the mute button on the entire United States.
And then—
With a burst of cheers, The Voice of America officially began.
No opening credits. Just darkness.
Then, suddenly, a spray of starlight, and the sound of pure joy—an audience roaring, waving glowsticks, screaming their lungs out.
But as the upbeat intro played, the chaos subsided, replaced by knowing smiles from viewers across the country—because they recognized the tune.
Party in the U.S.A.
"Wait—is Isabella opening?" everyone thought.
Nope.
"I hopped off the plane at LAX~~~"
It was Mariah Carey singing the first line!
The signature whistle tone hit, and boom—instant Mariah energy.
As she belted the first verse, the stage exploded with light, revealing her in a gold mini-dress. Microphone in hand, she lifted her left arm and spread her fingers wide, the universal gesture for Bow down, I've arrived.
The crowd went berserk.
Screams everywhere. Silver glowsticks flashing like fireflies chasing a star.
"Oh my god, Mariah's breath control—"
"She's such a Diva—"
"She doesn't look as pretty as before though! I liked her pre-'95 look better!"
"Everyone ages, don't they? Besides, slim Mariah never had this kind of power!"
She'd been famous for over a decade; everyone knew her face. So her appearance brought nostalgia more than surprise. Even when she nailed the high "Yeah~~~~~ it's a Party in the USA~" to close Verse 1, applause carried more warmth than excitement.
But that wasn't the end.
As the music paused, Mariah raised her arm, pointing forward like she was summoning something.
A blinding beam of white light fell on the mentor's stage—
Inside the light stood a cloaked figure glittering like starlight.
As the camera zoomed in, faces across the country froze in disbelief, hearts stabbed by nostalgia.
"Oh my god—it's Elton!"
"That outfit—it's from his 1970s tour, right???"
"Yeah! Back when he'd just gone solo and dropped his debut album—it debuted straight at No. 1 and stayed there for seven weeks!"
"That was Rocket Man era Elton!"
Exactly.
This wasn't just a show for young viewers.
The kids loved Isabella and dreamed of stardom, sure—but who among these mentors was less legendary than her?
Elton John had ruled music since the '60s. When he debuted, every single release went platinum—and decades later, that hadn't changed.
So yeah, people weren't missing this.
And then—
As Verse 2 began, Elton shrugged off his starry cloak and sang:
"Get to the club in my taxi cab~"
"Everybody's lookin' at me now~"
His voice was flawless, but then—he lifted his pinky delicately, twisting his hips in the most flamboyant way possible.
"Like who's that chick that's rockin' kicks~"
"She's gotta be from out of town~"
The audience froze for half a second—then burst out laughing.
"Oh my god—what a setup—this is genius—"
"This is such a surprise—hahaha—"
Because Party in the U.S.A. is a self-narrative song from a female perspective—lyrics like "who's that chick" don't really fit a male singer. But Elton? Elton could pull off anything.
He'd long since mastered the art of entertainment, and he was fearless.
Plus, he'd come out publicly years ago, so his self-parody was brilliant.
Viewers were delighted beyond words.
Sure, people had once asked: if Disney rejected Jay-Z for his bad image, why not Elton too?
But the answer was simple.
Elton had baggage, yes—but after he came clean, his albums still sold, and his tours still sold out.
When your flaws don't hurt your profits, who's going to say no to money?
As Elton wrapped up the verse to a chorus of cheers, the other two mentors—Sting and Springsteen—finally appeared.
They didn't dare sing the girly lines, of course, so they came in with guitars.
Sting kept it simple—black T-shirt, blue jeans.
Bruce Springsteen, "The Boss"—rocked a sleeveless tank and a red headband, pure Rambo mode. (He once said his Born in the U.S.A. album was inspired by First Blood, after all.)
Together, they cranked the song into a rock anthem.
Soft pop gave way to roaring guitars.
Sting's mellow rock met Springsteen's hard rock, twining together in a surge of energy that lifted the whole performance sky-high.
By the final chorus—those four words, Party in the USA—they were shouting them, one by one.
"Oh—what an opener—"
The four-minute show blazed past like lightning.
Even after the music ended, Maureen sat there tingling, scalp prickling.
"Ohhh—this arrangement is insane—"
"Right? It started soft, then exploded like a battlefield! So cool!"
"Yeah, yeah—I feel that too!"
Della wiped sweat from her forehead, grinning. "This doesn't even feel like a competition show—it's like a full-blown concert!"
"Everyone's giving it everything they've got—it's amazing!"
And across America, millions felt the same way.
The opening had been nothing short of explosive.
As the audience finally caught their breath, the classic Voice logo flashed on screen—the hand gripping a mic, forming a peace sign.
Then, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson strutted on stage as host, warmly welcoming everyone.
Honestly, the bald guy's natural humor could light up a funeral, but the producers didn't even need that tonight. His job was simple—
Rattle off the sponsor list like reading a menu—
The show began with a brief introduction of the four mentors—then it immediately jumped into the first contestant's entrance.
"What??? They're starting right away???"
Maureen frowned.
"Where's Isabella?? Oh—where's our little Beaver??"
Della looked completely dumbfounded.
Sure, they already had contestants they liked, but the whole reason they were watching The Voice was to see Isabella!
So… the adorable little Beaver—just gone?
"Wasn't Isabella the creator of The Voice?"
"Yeah!"
"And the show started without her appearing?"
"Apparently?"
"Did they forget to record her or play the wrong clip?"
"I have no idea!"
The two, who had been lazily slouched on the couch, sat up straight. Honestly, they both wanted to grab the TV and give it a good shake, because something about this world didn't add up.
Just then, the broadcast changed.
As the four mentors turned their chairs, ABC began showing the contestant's intro video. It opened with an aerial shot of The Voice set, the camera panning grandly over the stage.
A narrator's voice came in:
"As the mentors take their seats, our first contestant is walking toward the dream stage."
Snap—
The camera zoomed down fast—like a charging boar—straight to the stage entrance.
A second later, a blonde figure stepped into view.
It was a young girl, simply dressed in a white dress, light-brown Oxford shoes, a straw sunhat, and a large guitar slung over her shoulder.
Even so, her beauty was unmistakable.
"My name is Lily Zeller. I'm thirteen, from London, England, and currently living in Los Angeles. I've loved music since I was little and have always dreamed of singing on stage. So when I heard there was a show called The Voice, I signed up right away."
"Oh—that's Isabella!"
As soon as the girl appeared, Maureen, who'd been about to crawl into the TV, burst out laughing.
"Isn't she the creator of The Voice? How did she end up as a contestant?"
Della couldn't help laughing either, though she also sighed in relief.
Isabella was there after all!
"I have no idea, this setup is wild…" Maureen shrugged.
"I actually think it's funny," Della said. "Maybe she's trolling everyone?"
Isabella's entrance took them both by surprise—but what surprised them even more was what came next.
"Uh… contestant 001, uh, Lily Zeller… alright, I honestly don't even know what to call you now. But seriously, are you really planning to appear as contestant 001, Lily Zeller?"
With the VCR ending, the show cut backstage.
The host, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, looked constipated as he interviewed Isabella.
"Why not?" she tilted her head, smiling.
"Aren't you the one who started the show?" Dwayne said, struggling to keep a straight face. "You're the one who sent the call, saying you wanted to make The Voice. That's why we're all here."
"Exactly," Isabella nodded. "That's why I want to test you all."
She smiled brightly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Since I created the show and invited you mentors, I want everything to be the best it can be. So I'm going on stage to test whether the mentors can recognize voices. If they can't even recognize mine, they're not fit for The Voice, because this stage is supposed to be about—well—the voice."
"Ohh—"
Dwayne finally got it. "So you mean you want to see if the mentors can identify your voice and turn for you? If they can, it means their ear for voices is really sharp?"
"Yeah!" Isabella nodded enthusiastically. "That's exactly it."
"And if they don't recognize you?"
Dwayne was convinced but curious.
"Then they're out."
"Immediately replaced?"
"Immediately replaced."
"Okay. But what if they do recognize you and decide not to turn just to create drama for the show?"
"Still out."
"Why?"
"Because this is a serious competition," she said firmly. "Every contestant comes with a dream. When someone treats their dream seriously, I don't want a mentor treating it like a joke. That's disrespectful."
"Oh—I actually agree with you," Dwayne nodded seriously.
On the surface, he seemed to approve.
But then he said, "Alright—but hypothetically, just hypothetically—we all know that successful singers usually have very distinctive voices. So… what if yours isn't?"
"Huh?"
Isabella blinked, confused.
Dwayne frowned slightly. "Boss, it's just the two of us here, so I'll be honest. You're very popular right now, and your records sell great, but…"
"That's all because of Harry Potter, right?"
"You've never proven yourself outside of Harry Potter. So… if your album sales come from that fame, how can they identify your unique voice?"
"..."
Isabella froze.
Two seconds later, realizing Dwayne had basically said her music might be average, she puffed up like an angry squirrel.
She jabbed a finger toward the door and shouted, "Dwayne Johnson, right? You're out!"
had officially exploded.
The moment her furious voice hit the screen, the audience burst into laughter—
"Okay! Okay! So Dwayne just insinuated that Isabella's popularity comes from HP? Hahaha—this show is already chaotic, I love it—"
"Oh my god, this is hilarious! Dwayne's twice her size but got yelled 'Out!' by her? Too funny!"
"Ohpusi—Isabella's stunned face is adorable! I love her!"
"Honestly, this whole scene is kind of awkward, but… whatever, Isabella, I adore you!"