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

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