12/31/04’s illustrious band:

A Very Good Year

Without further ado: 2004 -- BND's year in review! You've heard it all before, but here are the moments I found noteworthy, in no particular order.

Celebrity Encounter: I got legendary boxer Sugar Ray Leonard's autograph in January (no relation to Rockapella lead singer Scott Leonard). He could have had mine, too, had he but asked.

Blasts from the Past: I got back in touch with several old friends this year. That was interesting and very enjoyable. Gotta do more of it.

Stuff that Broke Down: Plenty of stuff failed to work as expected this year. In January, I had problems with my sewer and DSL provider. In March, the fridge died, and I replaced it. In June I was singing the debit card blues for quite a while. Then there was my blondest moment ever, escaping from my car through the trunk when the power locks failed. And now I've just learned that the transmission on the Subarushi has given up the ghost after a mere 93,000+ miles and needs to be replaced.

But for some reason it still seems like it's been a really good year. I must be keeping good company.

Best Road Trip: Easy: my trip to Victoria and Seattle with G-Doc and Sister Amy Sunshine -- who is in the process of becoming Canadian as we speak. Congrats, Amy & Jazret! It was a long vacation: chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8,. 9, 10, 11.

Biggest Dorkfest: I made my annual pilgrimage to MarsCon in March, where I encountered balloon animals, belly dancing, whip cracking, and map lights. Oh yeah, there was some sci-fi involved, too. And daiquiris.

Personal Bests: This fall, I was promoted to Senior Editor of our award-winning magazine. That was terrific. And then on September 13, I got the best job in the world: I became an aunt! I got to go visit my new niece Jocelyn in early November, and she and her parents have come to me for Christmas, bringing loads of joy, and New Year's.

Most-broken Resolution: To quit drinking Coke. From New Year's Day until my birthday in May, I did great: not a drop of cola passed my lips. Once that milestone had passed, I figured I could go back to having one on a Friday, maybe one on a Saturday. That quickly devolved into one almost every day, and I could feel the enamel on my teeth eroding with every swallow. Unfortunately, my waistline is not eroding at a similar pace, so I'm back on strict rationing. Starting tomorrow.

Biggest Remodeling Project: Mother Media spent a couple weeks at Sensational Acres this summer painting like a madwoman. She returned a month later to house-sit and completed a few more projects. The place has never looked so good!

Best Concerts:

Small-scale: Datura 1.0. Bone-shaking noise music from circuit-bent toys doesn't get any better than this. I'm a groupie for sure.

Large-scale: Rockapella, the antiDatura. I've been a fan of this group for years and finally made it to a concert in person. Then I spent a week's worth of BND blathering about it (chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 4+, 5). What can I say, it was a lot of fun.

Best Thing Ever: This one's a no-brainer. The birth of Princess Jocelyn easily tops the lengthy list of great things that have happened this year. And as if being an auntie weren't cool enough, I get to be her fairy godmother, too. It's been a delight hosting her and her parents for Christmas and New Year's. The Acres are going to seem awfully quiet when they've gone.

Starting 2005 Off Right: A few weeks ago, I got an e-mail from the General saying --

Whoops! That's all the time we have for this year. Thanks for a fantastic 2004! See you next time around.

Today around the world: December 31 is New Year's Eve.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/29/04’s illustrious band:

Cookie Cookie Cookie

Brought to you by the letter C and the number 913.

Cookie cookie cookie starts with C. Yep, you guessed it, I'm wearing my new Cookie Monster underwear. Thanks, Sister-san! I offered to show it to my friends at Media HQ, but they declined. In fact, they accused me of creating a hostile work environment. Hey, they should be thankful -- now that I've been through sexual harassment training, I at least know to ask first before I drop trou. But according to the training video, I get one "free" transgression before it really becomes a problem. We've had lengthy discussions about whether this means just one free unwanted hug before a complaint is filed, or one free date invitation, or if it extends to one free french kiss, one free boob grab, etc. The training video, in my opinion, was not specific enough in this regard.

But anyway, to return the focus to where it belongs: my bum. Cookie Monster. My big-girl panties. First of all, the panties fit, and I'm no mere slip of a girl. Whose idea was it to manufacture Sesame Street underwear for adults, and why am I not that wealthy person? It's brilliant marketing: We all grew up with Sesame Street, and the undies are a novel, reasonably discrete (for most of us) way to reconnect with our childhoods. It's great fun knowing I've got CM under my sober business attire.

Second, Cookie Monster was always my main man, for two reasons: cookies, obviously, and he's blue, my favorite color. Even as a child I wasn't really comfortable with his "Me want cookie" grammar, but I was willing to overlook it in context. Cookie's perpetual smile and enthusiasm for dessert always carried the day. He was a kind and simple soul, not smug like Prairie Dawn or fawning like Grover or ratty-looking like Oscar the Grouch. And now he's grinning out of a hot-pink background on my thirtysomething caboose. Life is sweet.

Know what else is sweet? My wee niece Princess Jocelyn. DANG but she's cute! At age 3.5 months, she can do no wrong. Just old enough to smile and coo (especially when Daddy does his funny robot dance, which gets a giggle out of Auntie, too), but not yet old enough to know how to be naughty -- not that she ever would be -- she's the angel atop my tree. It's been a real treat having her and her parents, plus all three of her grandparents, her favorite uncle, and her handsomest cousin, at Sensational Acres this Christmas. Princess J is a serene traveler, a delightful guest, a patient photographic subject, and the best-dressed girl at all the parties.

And there have been plenty of parties for the Princess: Christmas Eve at Uncle's place, Christmas Day at Grandma & Grandpa's, Christmas evening at Sensational Acres, christening in God's house, reception at cousin Shelly's, more gift unwrapping at the Acres, brunch at P&J's, R&R at Grandma & Grandpa's, another sojourn at the Acres, and New Year's invitations at several of the metro's most happening hot spots. Whew! Makes me tired just thinking about it, but Her Highness takes it all in stride.

Anyway. As you can see, this has been one of our best Christmases ever, marred only by the absence of Dad, Jocelyn's Grandpa Bill. He would have enjoyed telling her stories about all the ornaments on the tree. Instead, we'll tell her stories about him and pass the kisses on to the next generation. The halo comes full circle.

Today around the world: December 29 is the king's birthday in Nepal. Not Elvis; His Majesty the King of Nepal. But I did receive Instant Elvis accessories in my stocking -- and Sister-san has the blackmail photos to prove it.

Year-end missive: under construction.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/23/04’s illustrious band:

Very Merry

Brought to you by the Media Sensation and the whole Sensational Clan.

In case you hadn't guessed, BND is officially on a holiday break. I plan to post a year-end wrap-up by 12/31. Other than that, I'll be too busy hosting Mother Media, Sister-san, Chef Jeff, and Princess Jocelyn here at the Acres to do much blogging.

It's Princess J's first Chirstmas, so we're going all out. There's no room in the fridge or on the countertops for any more treats. In fact, we're using the garage as an auxiliary freezer. The tree is up and lit, the stockings are hung by the virtual fireplace with care, and Mother Claus is wrapping a few (dozen) last-minute gifts in the kitchen. If the CD player hadn't conked out last night, we'd be enjoying some a cappella carols right now, too.

Warren Peace and Sprite are curious but coping. They've only tipped over the poinsettia twice so far. We'll see how they do when the other three visitors arrive.

Here's wishing you harmony, grace, and compassion during this season and all others. LOVE!

Today around the world: December 23 is the day the rest of my family arrives at Sensational Acres. Woo!

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/20/04’s illustrious band:

Holding Pattern

Brought to you by some people who are really going to get a piece of my mind (not that I can spare what little hasn't been rotted by this horrendous holiday Muzak) if they ever come on the line.

I've been on hold all afternoon. No, it doesn't just feel like that -- I have been on hold for 120 minutes and counting. And you'd better believe I'm counting. Actually, my phone is counting. But I'm watching the numbers advance heavenward. I've already seen the 99-minute display roll over once. I'm giving them another 25 minutes, then I have to beat it for home.

It's going to take me an equally long time to creep from the office to the Acres tonight due to icy weather and slow going. (I'm skipping T'ai Chi altogether today.) But when I get home, I'll have the pleasure of lighting the tree I put up yesterday and greeting Mother Media when she arrives. She's been on the road for over 12 hours already and really deserves a chance to crash -- on the couch, I mean, not on the side of the road. The Christmas holidays officially begin as soon as she steps through my door, so I'm psyched.

My ear hurts.

Today around the world: December 20 is the Day of Mourning in Panama -- and here, too, if you've been on hold for 122 minutes. On a brighter note, however, it's also Louisiana Purchase Day.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/16/04’s illustrious band:

Hair Apparent

Brought to you off the top of my head, so to speak.

I got a haircut last night so I can look good in all the holiday pictures that will be taken next week. Stylin' Ryan, the amusing gent who made me look good last time, is no longer with the salon, so my appointment was with someone new, Adequate Angie. When I left the salon, my hair was cleaner and shorter than when I arrived, but that's about all the credit I'll give her. From the dearth of banter (Ryan was a hoot) to the lackluster scalp massage (Ryan was a master), her performance just wasn't up to standard. She fell especially short in the area of "listening to/comprehending client's wishes."

To give the poor girl a bit of a break, I'll point out that she's not alone in that failing. With the exception of Karen, the college roommate who trimmed my hair in exchange for Mountain Dew, and Stylin' Ryan, who actually understood what "low maintenance" meant, every stylist I've ever had has insisted upon doing things to my hair that I would never do at home. Ever. Angie is simply the latest in a long string of offenders.

Our conversation went something like this:

ANGIE: How much time do you usually spend on your hair in the morning?

ME: Just a few minutes.

ANGIE: How would you describe your style?

ME: Easy-care. Low-maintenance. Wash-and-wear. Easy to tie back for working out.

ANGIE: OK, got it.

Next thing I know, she's toiling away with a round brush, a hair dryer, and enough hairspray to give me helmet head for a month. She tugged and dried and fluffed and sprayed for a good long time. Finally I looked in the mirror and whoop! Zero to 60s in 15 minutes flat! With hair high in the crown and flipped at the ends, I looked like an extra in an Elvis flick. The first thing I did upon arriving home was stick my head in the sink and hose that bouffant down.

Apparently, in salonspeak, "Got it" means "I will now do something to you that under other circumstances would be considered a poor excuse for a practical joke." Am I supposed to consider that a treat? Should I be delighted by a stylist's complete disregard for my preferences? What ever happened to the customer always being right? In other industries, that's not acceptable. If I ordered a steak and got sushi, you can bet I'd send it back. But when it's my hair, I'm more likely to bite the bullet and slap on a hat.

Since the Gidget 'do was the worst thing that happened to me all day, I can hardly consider my life unpleasant. But I am bemused and will appreciate any insight others can offer. And don't try the "she's just trying to do for you something you wouldn't do for yourself" line. If I had wanted something outdated and unbecoming, I would have asked for it. What I did ask for -- a simple, flattering, professional style -- I did not get.

Today around the world: December 16 marks the anniversary of the Boston Tea Party. I'm still a bit miffed that I wasn't invited.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/14/04’s illustrious band:

Single Handed

Brought to you by accident.

I bruised the side of my hand in martial arts practice last night. No big deal by any means, but when I got home I decided to apply cold to minimize swelling and discoloration. (It worked; there's almost no sign of a mark today.) To do this, I dug into the freezer for the ice pack I haven't needed since my long-ago days of judo study. The pack was much too big, however, and was freezing my whole hand. So I hit upon the idea of covering most of my hand with an oven mitt (the one shaped like a Hawaiian shirt, a gift from the partner I was practicing with when the whackage occurred), exposing only the affected area, and putting the ice pack over that. What can I say? It was 10:30 p.m. and my blood sugar was low.

With the help of an elastic bandage to hold everything in place, I eventually had a paw the size of a tennis racket at the end of my right arm. While it was no mean feat wrapping my smart right hand with the stupid left one, I managed. I then had to complete several end-of-day chores one-handed. Some were easier than I thought they'd be, and some were harder.

Things that weren't too tough to do one-handed:

• Open the mail, including a hermetically sealed box from Mother Media. Thanks for the audios, Mom!

  
  

• Feed the cats. Scoop and dump food into bowls; no problem.

  
  

• Refill humidifier tanks. Unscrewing the caps with the wrong hand took a little trial and error, but not too much.

  
  

• Listen to voice messages. Push the button. Easy.

  
  

• Brush my teeth. This one was hard -- and messy with a mechanical brush -- but doable.

  
  

• Change clothes. Tugging and shrugging did the trick. Turning a garment right side out was difficult, but some creative pinching between my toes got the job done.

  
  

Toughest task: squeezing the Charmin. When you've been right-handed for as long as I have, some habits are really, really hard to modify, know what I mean? Nothing disastrous occurred, but I had to think very carefully about something I normally do automatically. If you're up for a challenge, give this a try.

And that is the extent of my adventures so far this week. There'll be plenty more, however, as I begin serious preparations for hosting my wee Princess and her parents, as well as Mother Media and Princess's other grandparents, at various times during the holidays. Egad, that's just a few days away! What am I going to feed these people?

Today around the world: December 14 is Chingshan Wang's Birthday in Taiwan. Chingshan Wang is a god believed able to cure illnesses. Maybe he can make me a little less ditzy, eh?

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/13/04’s illustrious band:

Ladder Day Saint

Brought to you by the overworked maintenance crew at Sensational Acres.

Being a solo homeowner has its perks. The bathroom is always available when I need it, the stereo is always tuned to my station, and the TV remote is always in my hand. I have a monopoly on the hammock, the couch, and all the purring cats. I get the first sniff of lilac in the spring and the last crunch of leaves in the fall. I am Queen. It's good to be Queen.

However, I'm a queen with no subjects, a fact that becomes clear every time there's work to be done around the place. Clogged drain? My problem. Overgrown lawn? My problem. Empty pantry? My problem. Ejected hairball? My problem. Expired light bulbs? My problem.

It was for this reason that I found myself royally loofing the neighborhood last Friday. [Loof, v. To moon, or to expose one's buttocks to, in the manner of my childhood neighbor Mrs. Loof as she bent to pull weeds in her yard.]

One of the security lights at the peak of the garage roof needed replacing, and it was up to me to do it. First I had to work the kinks out of the ladder (the Gorilla 13-Foot Multi-Position Aluminum Ladder, to be precise), which is like a big, heavy, cold Transformer toy for grownups. Lots of bending over involved. Then I had to find a level, nondusty, ice-free spot on the driveway to place the ladder. More bending as I swept a place clear. Then I ascended the ladder in that hunchy buns-out ladder-ascending crouch. Swapped the bulbs, counterbalancing my east-reaching arm with a west-thrusting hip.

The operation went well until the old bulb fell out of my coat pocket to shplatter on the driveway. So once I returned to the ground, I had to sweep up the glass, since I'll be barefoot out there next summer. It finally occurred to me, as I bent to whisk shards into a dustpan, to turn my head toward the street and my rear toward the building, but by then it was too late. Any neighbors who happened to be watching got a full show.

However, this was the worst thing that happened to me -- and probably to the neighbors -- all weekend, so as weekends go, it was a very good one. I cleaned and laundered, read and wrote, surfed and chatted, and even braved the Darth Mall for a little holiday shopping. It's likely to be my last lazy weekend for a while, since I've got company coming in a mere 10 days and plenty of decorating, etc., to do. Next project: degriswalding strands of lights. Wish me luck.

Today around the world: December 13 is National Tree Planting Day in Malawi, a small republic in southern Africa, east of Zambia.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/10/04’s illustrious band:

People Change

Rockapella Then & Now

THEN: tight harmony, tighter pants
NOW: tight pants, tighter harmony

THEN: Barry smoking on camera (in the Spike Lee video)
NOW: all 5 guys smokin' onstage

THEN: Let us entertain you!
NOW: Who's your daddy?

THEN: singing swingles
NOW: dashing dads, and Jeff (Dashing? Yes. Dad? Not that I know of.)

THEN: original members almost performed as the Groovebarbers
NOW: original members most all perform as the Groovebarbers

THEN: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
NOW: When in the world can we stop singing "Carmen Sandiego"?

THEN: "Big Bad John"
NOW: little John's not bad

THEN: prayed for commercial success
NOW: have made successful commercials

THEN: from NY
NOW: from FL, except for Jeff

THEN: worshipped the Persuasions generation
NOW: worshipped by the House Jacks generation

THEN: "Zombie Jamboree" —> big break
NOW: "Zombie Jamboree" —> big yawn

THEN:
bass: a Bear of a man
baritone: Monarch of the Kingdom of Shy
2nd tenor: mullet of braids
high tenor: "Flat Tire," no flat notes
rhythm: claps and snaps
NOW:
bass: a teddy bear of a man
miscellaneous middle harmony: Lord of the Dance
2nd tenor: helmet of curls
high tenor: sharp dresser, no sharp notes
rhythm: lips and hips

THEN: fans: grade-school kids
NOW: fans: have grade-school kids

THEN: busking for change for Chinese food
NOW: jetting to Tokyo for sushi

THEN: Pretty Women competed for a serenade
NOW: the band Ain't Too Proud to Beg

THEN: virtuoso scat breaks
NOW: bravado vp breaks

THEN: novelty act with surprising substance
NOW: substantial act with surprising novelty

THEN: members took time out from touring for side projects
NOW: members take time out from side projects for touring

THEN: "Rock River"
NOW: "Rock the Boat"

THEN: adored in Japan, underappreciated in America
NOW: adored in Japan, underappreciated in America

Monday -- One: 1st Night
A Rockapella fan is born

Tuesday -- Two: A Change in My Life
That first concert

Wednesday -- Three: Falling Over You
In which the narrator discovers that she is not alone

Thursday -- Four: Come My Way
Madison concert notes and Pellavision Awards

Friday -- Five: People Change
Rockapella then and now

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com
Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

BND BONUS: Pellavision Awards

• The Architectural Atrocity Award goes to the Orpheum Theater. It's a beautiful historic facility with ornate plasterwork and a swaggering balcony. However, the classical ambiance was ruined by mammoth speakers depending from the lofty ceiling and a makeshift stage jacked seven feet off the floor by ill-concealed scaffolding. My fourth-row seat had me craning my neck all night, and I couldn't see the dancing feet. Across the street, a new Overture Centre for the Arts is under construction. Let us hope that when it's finished, the Orpheum will be restored to its rightful splendor.

  
  

• Surprising Hottie: George W. Baldi III in a post-modern, snow-white suit. Can I get an amen? In photos, George looks great. They all do; you just expect that. In person, however, George will make you squirm in your seat. He moves with a sly grace that suggests he knows exactly what you're thinking, and he's thinking the same naughty thing. And the eye contact? Lethal.

  
  

• Best Bling: John Brown. What he lacks in height, he makes up in accessories.

  
  

• Virtuoso Award: Scott Leonard. Hearing Scott on a recording is very impressive; he scampers up and down and around the scale like a monkey in the treetops. But you figure he had as many takes as he wanted and expert sound editing to get it right. Then you see him live, looming overhead about 20 feet away, and you realize Holy high notes, Batman, he just did that miraculous riff right in front of me. And another. And another. With one hand in his pocket. While limboing. Suddenly there's no doubt at all why he's the front man.

  
  

• Albert Peterson Award: Kevin Wright. Albert Peterson was a character in Bye Bye Birdie whose girlfriend Rosie wished he would have been an English teacher. "An English teacher is really someone/how proud I'd be if you had become one," she laments. Rosie would have been proud of Kevin Friday night, as he looked very pedantic in a V-necked sweater over a wing-collared shirt. Class, please open your books to chapter six . . .

  
  

• Perpetual Motion Prize: Jeff Thacher. I kept an eye on him all night, and he never stopped moving for a second. The facial contortions and hip snaps go with the job of making inorganic sounds with organic equipment. But even on songs where he sat out for a breather, he was always swaying or tapping time. For Jeff, rhythm is life. What makes him intriguing is the sense of profound stillness that inhabits the worlds between the beats.

  
  

• Don't Know Much About Anatomy Award: Kevin Wright. Dude. We appreciate your effort to change up the tired old zombie eyeball shtick, but the femur/pituitary mumbling has got to go. Stat.

  
  

• Mr. Congeniality: Jeff Thacher. He was the first Pella I met, because he walked up to me with a hand out and introduced himself. He chatted easily, remarking on my scarf, asking where I was from, etc. Then he wiggled his Sharpie at me — not as dirty as it sounds — and offered to sign anything and everything in my bag. All the guys were gracious, but Jeff seemed even more enthusiastic at the m&g than he had onstage.

  
  

• Audience Overachievement Award: The opening act's fan club. I don't mind rowdy college students loudly cheering their classmates, but when the yelling is so loud the singers on stage can't hear their starting pitch, it's too loud. Give 'em a break, people.

  
  Runner-up: a service dog belonging to a lady in the front row. It barked loudly during John's "Glow Worm" soft-shoe routine, inspiring much caution during John's later foray into the audience.

  
  

• Best Smile Lines: Jeff Thacher. In addition to joking with fans after the show, Jeff got Scott good during the performance. Scott had lamented about a slip he made during a morning radio appearance, accidentally referring to the University of Wisconsin as the U of M. ("You've got to flip the M, see, so it makes a W.") Later came a song that ended with a reference to whatever venue they happened to be playing, so Jeff inserted "here at the U of M" as the closer. Scott's expression of "Oh crap, not again!" dismay was so genuine that it prompted Jeff, laughing, to pat him on the shoulder and say, "It's a joke, man."

  
  Runner-up: Kevin Wright, for a brief belly-to-back moment during "Zombie" and for his self-conscious "This is SO not me" grin during his brief vp solo. Apparently that’s as much a joke to the band as it is to the rest of us. "Break it down, white boy," Scott teased.

  
  

• Best Nose: Scott Leonard. It's straight and narrow, unlike his mind, and the tip bobs up and down as he speaks. Gaze raptly at his profile for a stalkerly long time. You'll see.

  
  

• Most Likely to Get Voiceover Work: George Baldi. He doesn't just purr that basso rumble into the microphone, he'll make your feet itch standing around on a concrete floor. The college boy singers mobbed George at the m&g trying to soak up some vicarious testosterone.

  
  

• "Looks Like" Award: John Brown. Remember the Will Smith TV show Fresh Prince of Bel Air? Remember nerdy cousin Carlton? That's who John reminds me of. Ask a dozen people and you'll get a dozen answers, but everybody thinks John looks like somebody else.

  
  

• Pneumatics Cup: Kevin Wright. He sometimes sounds like a breathy teenage girl, and those gaspy inhalations are as much a part of his songs as the notes he sings. The way he was pressing his lower abdomen during "A Change in My Life," I feared one of the passages was giving him a hernia. But all that air must have been for breath support, because he hit every note cleanly. Woo!

  
  

• Least Likely to Make an Impression: John Brown. Sorry. He's good, certainly; wouldn't have gotten the job otherwise. Maybe he's still just feeling his way through all the new material. But frankly, I was expecting more stage presence from somebody who has been performing with most of the guys as Swank for as long as he has.

  
  

• Most Conspicuous By His Absence: Elliott Kerman. This needs saying. Elliott lent the group both a suavity and a sweetness that now are missing. He seemed able to achieve in third gear what the rest of them need overdrive to do, and they're working too hard to make up the difference.

  
  

• Most Decibels Per Cubic Inch: Scott Leonard. He must weigh all of 67 pounds holding a case of Diet Coke, yet he rattles the rafters. How is that possible?

  
  

• More Than Meets the Eyes Prize: tie, Jeff and Scott. Jeff clearly inhabits a world inside his own head (and what I wouldn't give for a tour!). Onstage he has a dreamy soft focus that makes you wonder whether he's channeling those strange noises directly from the mother ship. Face to face, however, he zooms in to make you feel like the most interesting person he's met all day.

  
  And I'd forgotten the ease with which Scott works a room. Normally I hate it when singers spend too much time talking. (Yes, that was me muttering "Shut up and sing!" any time one of the Redefined kids started yapping.) But Scott's between-song banter is actually smart and funny. When he remarked, "This is turning into a stand-up show. We should sing," I was almost disappointed.

  
  

• Rising Stock Award: Kevin Wright. Strong and steady (when he's not wandering off looking for girls), he's got a little bit of Elliott's understated appeal. I was more impressed with Kevin than I expected to be. That's a pleasure.

  
  

• Unsinging/Unsung Heroes: Phil Gulotta and Fred Shulman, of course. Thanks to their road manager and sound man, the band looked at ease and sounded outstanding. There would be a lot less rock to the Pella without Phil & Fred.
  

Monday -- One: 1st Night
A Rockapella fan is born

Tuesday -- Two: A Change in My Life
That first concert

Wednesday -- Three: Falling Over You
In which the narrator discovers that she is not alone

Thursday -- Four: Come My Way
Madison concert notes and Pellavision Awards

Friday -- Five: People Change
Rockapella then and now

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/09/04’s illustrious band:

Come My Way

Concert day dawned bright and clear. A quick check of the Lounge found a report on the previous night's show in Milwaukee: almost all Christmas music. That could be disappointing — I wished I were likely to hear more secular (and more familiar) stuff. But it was no surprise. You go to a December concert, you hear Christmas music. With great trepidation, I set out for Madison, my mind full of questions. Would the weather stay decent? Would the roads remain clear? Would I find my hotel without too much trouble? the concert venue? Was my cell phone charged? Did I have cash? Did I pack the right socks? Would I still like Rockapella?

With my car CD player down for the count, I grabbed a couple books on tape to speed the journey. (Irony of the day: passing the Kalahari Inn, whose big draws are a water park and a seafood buffet.) The drive went well until I got into Madison and the area near the capitol. Driving in this part of town is not for the faint of heart, nor for those relying on directions from MapQuest. I gave up on them pretty fast and spent the next half-hour lurching around the grand edifice until I stumbled across my hotel.

Once checked in, I set out on foot for a little recon mission. The Orpheum Theater was fairly easy to find just a few blocks away. I picked up my ticket at the will-call window and continued down the street. Within five minutes, I found Christmas gifts for my sister and her husband. Bonus! I was back in my warm hotel room within an hour.

At 5:15 I returned to the Orpheum to meet up with half a dozen other fans for dinner, as prearranged online: Kt, Kelly, Brendaly, Lisa, Greg, and Michelle. Thanks for the welcome, y'all. We got acquainted over noodles at Noodles, then prowled State St. looking for postcards. We returned to the theater around 7:00, the time we'd been told the doors would open. But things were running late, said a staffer, and we'd have to wait outside. Dude! It's 20 degrees out there! We went out, though, and with better grace than several people did.

My seat was in the same row as some of the others, so I scooted down a couple chairs to sit next to them. (I also stuck a piece of used Doublemint to the bottom of that seat, D-19. Look for it next time you're in town.) The opening act, Redefined, came on many minutes late. They weren't bad for a college a cappella group, but they could take a cue from Rockapella on the wisdom of choosing shorter numbers to perform. Keep it moving, kids.

At last they left. We weathered a short intermission for stage setup. Then the lights dimmed. It was time.

My will-I-like-it worries returned. I was especially concerned that Elliott's retirement had left the arrangements too top-heavy. With the addition of John Brown, the band is now 60% tenors — 80% if you count Jeff, a recovering lead singer who still trills it high and sweet when he’s not chakking out drumbeats. George was alone down there at the bottom. Could he handle it?

A few bars into the first number, I relaxed. I still liked Rockapella. How could I have doubted? My eyes did not leave the stage, nor the smile my face, for the next hour and a half or so. I soon forgot my care about the Christmas-heavy program; it was impossible not to enjoy what I was hearing.

Ditto my fears about the blend. Did George handle it? Heyull yes! Have no fear, Papa's here. The sound mix was a bass-lover's dream. If sound man Fred wasn't leaning heavy on the "sexy" button all night, he must have simply taped it down.

The set list, frankly, is a blur. And it would have been too hard to write it down with my jaw in my lap anyway. There was comfort, there was joy, there was Scott making a lewd reference to the Olsen twins. There was a lot of vocal percussion, and not just from stage left. Jeff has little to fear from the Andrews Sisters, but that Baldi boy is one to watch. I volunteer.

The new choreography is also something to watch. Pity we didn't get to see more of it, but the Christmas numbers don't seem to lend themselves to much fancy footwork. They walked in circles a lot, Jeff with his shirttails aswirl. I couldn't decide whether they were practicing pa kua up there or reading from the same MapQuest directions I had been.

John collared a boy from the audience to ask what he wanted for Christmas, and Kevin brought a fetching lass (one of the Redefined girls) onstage for reasons that remained unclear even after the song was over, as it wasn't a serenade. OK, I lie. The reasons were very clear and only partially covered by her skirt. You can let go of her hand now, Kev. George recruited a young man to play the Grinch who did a fine job but was obviously relieved to be liberated from the too-warm mask and jacket at the end. I wasn't clear on whether that was usual; I'd had the impression that Phil often filled the role.

And speaking of Phil, mad props to the most intrepid road manager in the business. As we loitered in the lobby after the concert, trying to scope out a Rockapella meet-and-greet amidst the Redefined CD release party, Phil came to the rescue. He quietly murmured that if we went back into the theater, we might find certain parties available for conversation down near the stage. This was my first chance to meet the guys, and I would have been sorely vexed to miss it. So thank you, Phil.

The concert ended on a high note, so to speak, with the fifth standing ovation of the night: one for Jeff's 2:15 vp solo (Greg timed it), one for the first finale, and one each for all three encores. Alas, there were no off-mic numbers this time, but I got to hear the old familiar tunes — "Zombie Jamboree," "Carmen Sandiego" — again, plus a score of newer ones. And "Shambala," and "Papa Was a Rolling Stone." I didn't notice my sore palms or the crick in my neck until I was back in my room, scrambling to write it all down.

Verdict: 9 stars out of 10. The show did a fine job of dragging my humbug heinie into the holiday spirit. After the months of dithering, the concert itself was almost anticlimactic.

Almost, I said.

It's a crying shame, though, that they don't perform some of the Christmas songs Sean Altman wrote back in the day, the ones that deliver a series of stiff jabs to the desperate consumerism that has come to define this allegedly sacred season. Sometimes it takes a cynical Jew to write a truly meaningful Christmas song.

Obligatory fashion footnote: Scott was wearing a tan suit, which in my ideal world would be a more saturated hue. Mercifully, however, the band appears to have called a Christmas cease-fire in the war between patterns and textures. John was wearing black socks with white shoes and pants. Is that OK? I'm the wrong person to ask.

(Pellavision Awards sent separately)

Monday -- One: 1st Night
A Rockapella fan is born

Tuesday -- Two: A Change in My Life
That first concert

Wednesday -- Three: Falling Over You
In which the narrator discovers that she is not alone

Thursday -- Four: Come My Way
Madison concert notes and Pellavision Awards

Friday -- Five: People Change
Rockapella then and now

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/08/04’s illustrious band:

Falling Over You

Fast forward again to spring 2004. In search of an album by another group, I stumbled across a web site that sold nothing but a cappella music. And there, on the home page, was a shiny new release with a familiar name on it. Hey, Rockapella! I remember those guys. Still at it, huh? Good for them. Wonder what they sound like these days. This lead to an impulse purchase of Live In Japan. And I fell in head first.

I noticed a few differences between the new album and the old one right away. For one thing, they were speaking Japanese. Good catch there, genius. Those college linguistics courses just paid for themselves. There were quite a few cover tunes, but the arrangements were top-drawer. The energy level over all was sky-high.

Also, there was something funky going on down at the low end, something unexpectedly but very pleasantly funky. But what? To the liner notes! A quick look confirmed my suspicion: big, classically polished bass Barry Carl had been replaced by big, sex-it-up bass George Baldi. Welcome, George! Miss ya, Bear. But did I mention the funk? (Actually, my addiction is mostly George's fault. It was his rendition of "Ue O Muite Aruku," sung in Japanese in a crowd-silencing falsetto, that made LIJ a permanent fixture in my car stereo.)

Anyway, that made me wonder what else might have changed over the past four years, so I headed for the Internet to find out. And find I did, far more than I imagined possible. First of all, there was Barry’s web site, which showed that he had retired from the band a full two years ago. OK, color me out of touch. There was also a big cache of stuff he’d written to post on the official Rockapella site while he was still with the band. I read all his old posts and all the new ones and developed a word-crush on the Bear. Then I looked up former lead singer Sean Altman’s (Braid Boy’s) site, read his e-postcards, and became smitten with him as well. Curious, I went in search of more Rockapella.

Oh. My. Gawd. Don’t Google Rockapella unless you’ve got a lot of spare time. I spent my whole summer getting up to speed. I started with the official web site, where I read up on the band members and what they’d been doing lately. I checked their tour schedule and learned that they’d been in my area just weeks before. D’OH! I found a discography page displaying a long list of albums, most of them still tough to get in the U.S. Note to self: eBay. I clicked over to the Lounge, the fan bulletin board, where I learned that I was not the only Rockapella fan in the world, nor the most rabid. Not by a long shot.

And the fan sites. Oh lordy, the fan sites! Page after page of road trip diaries, concert recaps, meet-and-greet vignettes, quoted lyrics, tributes to favorite band members, songs parsed to the last note, and photos. Photos photos photos. Photos of Scott contorting, Kevin crooning, Elliott laughing, Jeff percussing, Barry glowering and later George grooving. Close-ups, long shots, group shots, profiles, candids, poses, action shots, publicity shots -- and many many many posterior perspectives. (Rockapella has always been blessed in the booty department, a fact the largely female fan base has documented extensively.) Talk about your undiscovered country. I applied for a passport and began to visit frequently.

Album number four, Vocobeat, was my first eBay purchase. I was hopelessly hooked from the first note. After weeks of lurking around the chat lounge, I logged in to rhapsodize among sympathetic ears. I bought more CDs on eBay and waited eagerly for them to arrive from Japan and various parts of the U.S. I picked up fanspeak, deciphered the code words, absorbed the trivia: which of the singers are left-handed, who drinks Diet Coke, who used to date Debbie Gibson, who moonlights as a graphic designer, who’s into bowling. It was sort of like becoming a Trekkie at the age of 10, only this time I had the Internet to connect me with like-minded fans and disposable income to spend on goodies. I was pretty well entrenched when the train hit.

Elliott Kerman calls it quits. The headline shocked me breathless. My favorite band member was retiring. Elliott was leaving me -- and we’d never even met.

I was not quite distraught, but I couldn’t just take the announcement in stride, either. Elliott’s buttery baritone voice is what joy sounds like. When he opens his mouth, it’s like someone has parted the curtains on a tabernacle and God is peeking out through the gap. El’s jazz contributions brought welcome variety to an increasingly poppy repertoire. Holding the middle notes of the chords, he was the self-described jelly in the donut. The jelly is the best part. And the best part was leaving. This was almost as bad as killing Spock at the end of Wrath of Khan.

Deep breath.

Just as there are those who say that Star Trek was never the same after Spock died, there are those who say that Rockapella without Elliott Kerman is no longer Rockapella. Several fans publicly swore off the band altogether, in fact. El was the last remaining original member of the group, and his retirement meant the official passing of the torch to the next generation. The big question was, would we be getting a lame Voyager or a kicky new Enterprise?

I decided to reserve judgment. Sure, the band had survived personnel changes before. The Steve-to-Scott transition had been successful, as had Sean-to-Kevin and Charlie-to-Barry-to-George. Adding drummer Jeff to the mix had likewise proved a smart move. But this was Elliott, my Elliott, getting replaced here. I remained skeptical.

In September, I warily bought a ticket for the December concert in Madison. And I waited.

Monday -- One: 1st Night
A Rockapella fan is born

Tuesday -- Two: A Change in My Life
That first concert

Wednesday -- Three: Falling Over You
In which the narrator discovers that she is not alone

Thursday -- Four: Come My Way
Madison concert notes and Pellavision Awards

Friday -- Five: People Change
Rockapella then and now

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/07/04’s illustrious band:

A Change in My Life

Fast-forward to fall of 2000. I had split from my husband a few months before, sold one home and bought another, and helped to launch a new magazine. To say that it was a period of change in my life would be an understatement. Readjusting to single status, I decided that I owed myself a treat, an outing, and that I could be my own perfect date, thank you very much. When I saw a Rockapella concert listed in the paper, I was overjoyed. Seeing them would be a great way to reconnect with pleasant memories from a simpler time in my past.

For some reason, it failed to occur to me that eight years might have wrought change in the life of Rockapella as well, so I was shocked and, let’s be truthful now, angry when they filed onstage for their opening number that night. First of all, there were five guys up there, which was just wrong. Braid Boy, the face of the band to me, was gone, and the high-noter, the cutest of the bunch, was also missing. They’d been replaced by two other tenors, a squirrelly little riffmeister with a diction problem and a beaming cherub with Broadway pipes. Hmph, I thought. How ‘bout we squash those two wannabes together and make one good one.

The big guy, the bass, seemed to be trying to convince the crowd that he was gay. Not that I care, but could you stop poncing about and sing, please? The mild-mannered baritone, looking surprisingly sophisticated with his frizz buzzed off, appeared to be even more amused by the show than the audience was. Good for him, I thought, that makes one of us. And what the hell was up with number five down there on the end, the one spitting all over the place? Human beatboxes were so 1980s. Was that really necessary? I did not think so. This was not who I came to see. This was not my Rockapella.

My peevishness lasted for one or two songs, but soon I shushed the inner critic and tried to get my money’s worth out of the music. It only took me a few bars to realize that I’d been wrong. My Rockapella was still there. Better dressed and better coifed, more polished and more grown up, same as me, but still there. The harmony was as rich as ever, anchored by the familiar bass and baritone. And there was still a bit of silliness not too far beneath the surface.

But the frenetic novelty act had been replaced by a mainstream show that included both a cappella chestnuts and hummable original compositions -- and a Folger’s coffee commercial. Oh, so that was them. I thought that ad sounded familiar. They even did the zombie song and the Carmen song, so I got some nostalgia out of the concert after all. I had to admit that the new high tenor was kind of cute in his own right, the curly guy could wail, and Spit Boy, the vocal percussionist, was actually pretty impressive, not to mention single. Oh, if those lips could talk!

Then came the encore, so simple it was almost incomprehensible. They laid down their microphones, assumed parade rest positions at the edge of the thrust stage, and just sang. Just sang. I was riveted by the power of it: every note, every chord, every silence complete. As marvelous as the group sounds with amplification, nothing compares to their naked voices, that direct connection between us sitting outside and the hearts within. You can’t look away. That’s right, make us love you, I thought. This is what I came for.

OK, new Rockapella. I could live with it, and happily. Yes, there were a couple bits I could have done without. The cover of “Tempted,” was one; I've never liked that song, but that's just me. And the “Pretty Woman” serenade shtick was another. When I buy a ticket, I want to focus on the pros I paid to see, not some mortified audience member (in this case a grade-school girl who could hardly have been less pleased to join them onstage). But OK. I bought their new album in the lobby and played it half to death in my car in the following months. Again, I looked for more offerings in record stores, but again, no luck.

Oh well. On to other things. Except for occasionally spinning the CD, I pretty much forgot about Rockapella for another four years.

Monday -- One: 1st Night
A Rockapella fan is born

Tuesday -- Two: A Change in My Life
That first concert

Wednesday -- Three: Falling Over You
In which the narrator discovers that she is not alone

Thursday -- Four: Come My Way
Madison concert notes and Pellavision Awards

Friday -- Five: People Change
Rockapella then and now

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/06/04’s illustrious band:

1st Night

Welcome to Pellavision Week! This week's entries comprise a guided tour of Rockapella fandom, as seen by yours truly.

I’m a bit of a late bloomer, I’ll admit. While most girls go through their rock groupie phases in their teens, I’ve saved mine for my mid-thirties. Which explains why I recently made a much-anticipated 550-mile round trip to Madison, WI, to see my favorite band perform.

They’re not a rock band in the traditional sense: no guitars, no keyboards, no drum kit, no fireworks, no fog machine, no laser light show. They don’t need ‘em. They’re just five guys and five microphones and the most amazing sound I've ever heard. They’re Rockapella.

Technically, I am not a new fan. I’ve thought Rockapella was cool since 1992, when I first saw them clowning it up on the PBS special Spike Lee & Company Do It A Cappella. They were a Day-Glo novelty act in a sea of neutral-colored solemnity, singing about zombies and flat tires. The lead singer’s mullet-o-braids was ridiculous even in the early 90s, and the mud flaps on two of the other three were nothing to write home about either. And could those black pants be any tighter? Definitely not your mama’s barbershop, doo-wop, or gospel group.

However, I love good singing and good theater, so for me, it was love at first sight. I videotaped the special and watched it so many times over the next few months that I dreamed about the quartet (there were only four Pellas then) snow skiing while forming a human pyramid, singing their zombie song.

The Spike special proved to be the band’s big break -- the only one they’d get for a while -- and Rockapella was hired as the house band on PBS’s geography-themed kids’ show Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?. I’ve never seen a full episode of Carmen, although I did sometimes make it home from campus in time to catch the boys belting out the eponymous finale. I liked their sound enough to look for it in record stores, but no luck. It was all but impossible to get their albums in the U.S. at the time.

Oh well. On to other things. Except for occasionally replaying my tape, I pretty much forgot about Rockapella for the next eight years.

Monday -- One: 1st Night
A Rockapella fan is born

Tuesday -- Two: A Change in My Life
That first concert

Wednesday -- Three: Falling Over You
In which the narrator discovers that she is not alone

Thursday -- Four: Come My Way
Madison concert notes and Pellavision Awards

Friday -- Five: People Change
Rockapella then and now

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.

12/01/04’s illustrious band:

Weather is Here

Brought to you by Mother and Father Media.

As I drove home from work, I tried to think of something to blog about. It's been a quiet few days, and the flow of thoughts has slowed to a trickle. Well, don't' worry about it, I told myself. Something will turn up.

Good things come to those who wait. When I got home, I found in my mailbox a priceless treasure: a package of postcards, sent to me by Mother Media, that she and Dad had sent to his parents and other family members when Dad's Army posting took them to Germany. That was more than 35 years ago, back when their handwriting was still tidy. I believe Grandma (Dad's mother) had saved them, and they eventually came back to Mom and Dad. I'll add them to the collection of postcards written by and to Grandma herself that adorn one wall of Sensational Acres, which I inherited when she passed away.

My parents took advantage of the chance to tour Europe while they were stationed overseas, and the postcards prove that they made thorough rounds. Florence, Venice, Rome -- one with stamps that could only be purchased in Vatican City, and they saw the Pope; Paris -- I'm not sure I remember knowing that my parents had been to Paris; Brussels; several locations in Germany, including Heidelberg, where I was born; Luxembourg; Capri (where they make those pants); Holland; and one or two of the German-language ones are probably from Switzerland.

Mom and Dad's cards are a fantastic remembrance for me of the time in their lives when they were footloose and fancy-free -- the time before I, their eldest child, arrived on the scene to turn them into careful parents. In a few, they mention Mom's pregnancy and the fact that they suspected she was carrying a future football player, judging from all the kicking. Later notes describe me as a happy traveler. (They refer to me by a nickname embarrassing enough that you'll have to extort it from Mother Media if you want to know, because I'm not publishing it here for all the world to see.) They talk about taking bus tours, going skiing, and (GASP!) drinking beer. Didn't know we were such a jet-setting clan, did you?

When I was in high school, I had an opportunity to tour Europe with the French club. I was ambivalent about the trip at first; I feared it was too expensive and my friends would think me snobby. For my parents, however, there was never any question. They signed me up and packed me off with the biggest of smiles. I thought at the time that perhaps they were just glad to be rid of me and my adolescent angst for two weeks, but now I suspect nobler motives. My tour covered many of the same places theirs did. They wanted me to go where they had been, follow in their footsteps, share in their history. Having that journey in common became one more common bond. The older I get, the more I realize the value of this gift.

A couple of the cards written by Dad included his signature phrase, "Weather is here, wish you were beautiful." I always thought that sentiment summed up the world, and my father's sense of humor, pretty darn well. Back atcha, Dad. Thanks for the memories.

BND's Virtual European Tour

• Brussels: http://server2.uploadit.org/files/Jugglernaut-Brussels.jpg
  
  
• Capri: http://server3.uploadit.org/files/Jugglernaut-Capri.jpg
  
  
• Germany: http://server3.uploadit.org/files/Jugglernaut-Germany1.jpg, http://server3.uploadit.org/files/Jugglernaut-Germany2.jpg
  
  
• Holland: http://server2.uploadit.org/files/Jugglernaut-Holland.jpg
  
  
• Italy: http://server3.uploadit.org/files/Jugglernaut-Italy.jpg
  
  
• Luxembourg: http://server2.uploadit.org/files/Jugglernaut-Luxembourg.jpg
  
  
• Paris: http://server2.uploadit.org/files/Jugglernaut-Paris.jpg
  
  
• Switzerland? http://server2.uploadit.org/files/Jugglernaut-Switzerland.jpg
  
  

Today around the world: December 1 is World AIDS Day.

E-mail the Media Sensation: BandNameoftheDay@hotmail.com

Visit the BND archives at http://jugglernaut.blogspot.com.