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 They’d been replaced by two other tenors, a squirrelly little riffmeister with a diction problem and a beaming cherub with Broadway pipes.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But the frenetic novelty act had been replaced by a mainstream show that included both a cappella chestnuts and hummable original compositions -- and a Folger’s coffee commercial.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

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