Sean's January 9 mini-show: Waiting for Altman

The cab dropped us at the Hilton hotel. We made our way up to the second floor, and it was like walking into a Christopher Guest movie. Waiting for Altman. The dozen or so conference rooms on that floor had all been set aside for the APAP showcase, so the area teemed with performers, promoters, helpers, and hangers-on. Aspiration and perspiration hung thick in the air. We passed, among others: guitarists in all stages of scruffiness, from "His that a homeless person?" to "Look, a leprechaun;" a tiny lady wheeling a huge harp; bald, shirtless breakdancers in baggy pants and suspenders; Broadway babies with stage parents in tow; Jeff Thacher; a country-western duo decked out like drugstore cowboys; fly girls (backup dancers) with striped stockings, chunky hair, dirty kneepads, and makeup to spare; a squad of buff young men in kilts and sassy t-shirts; and Sean's wife Inna. But no Sean.

"It's like being backstage at a show choir competition," said the General. The two of us tried desperately to think up an act just so we could get access to the warm-up areas. Does Rockapella need fly girls?

Weaving our way to the end of the hallway, we spotted the room in which Sean was scheduled to appear. It was occupied by a brass ensemble oompahing out the longest wedding/birthday/barmitzvah/Oktoberfest medley in the history of music. Beating a hasty retreat, we nearly backed over Six, whom we'd talked with the night before. The three of us clustered, a small island of sanity in the surreal swirl. The conversation consisted mostly of "Did you see -- ?"

We also snagged a couple of promotional flyers, on which Sean is listed as the former front man of Rockapella and the songwriter responsible for "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?" Personally, I think the man should stop trading on the Rockapella name already and call himself the Groovebarbers' front man, because what is Rockapella but the GBs' farm team, anyway? (That's a joke, by the way.)

At last we spotted the man of the hour -- not difficult to do as he cut down the hall, all cheekbones and piercing eyes in head-to-toe rock star black. He had bootleg CDs of other performances in his hands (he'd promised one to any fan who showed up) and a worried expression on his face. More fans than CDs, apparently. Still, our trio was close enough to the head of the line to score one apiece. Then he disappeared. The brass band was packing up, so we figured it he'd gone in to prep for his set.

We spotted a nearly empty table at the front of the conference room, occupied solely by a slouchy, shaggy guy in ill-fitting khakis. Exchange of looks: Geek alert! Were we just transported to a science fiction convention? Our fears were realized when Socially Obtuse Boy began blathering at us before we'd even set our purses down. He didn't offer to scoot over so we could all sit together, so the General wedged a chair in between him and me. His Female Proximity Alert went off then, and he finally budged. The SOB kept talking. So did we. Not to him.

Soon Sean was introduced by a man in a bad Buffalo Bill getup. Sean's shadowy sidekick was not, but we knew from the web site that it was his frequent coconspirator Julian Maile. They launched right into a song that consisted largely of the singing of Sean's praises and the spelling of Sean's name, hanging on a melodic hook I thought I recognized from a previous (and equally catchy) composition. He managed to tread the fine line between straight-up earnestness and sly self-awareness and stop just this side of obnoxious. S-E-A-N A-L-T-M-A-N. SEAN. Yes, I think the booking agents remembered it. I still can't stop chanting it.

Though short, it wasn't an easy set. There was a wardrobe malfunction when a guitar strap went flapping during an instrument changeover, and Sean managed to break not one but two strings about halfway through his 30 minutes. He called upon Buffalo Bill to entertain us with some bullwhip stunts while he restrung. Bad idea. For one thing, I've seen better whip cracking. (And yes, that was at a sci-fi convention.) For another, a dim, cramped hotel conference room is a lousy place for feats of accuracy; the lash licked Six's shoe, nearly sending her into my lap.

Bill was mercifully brief, and Sean returned to the stage. Well, the carpet. He invited anyone familiar with "The Notion of You" to sing the backup vocals, sort of reverse karaoke. Our SOB immediately began clearing his throat and warning us that his voice wasn't really the right range for the song, but he'd do his best. Fortunately, Sean's ragged guitar drowned him out.

Sean's lovely wife Inna, an opera singer by trade, joined him for a Buddy Hollyesque ditty called "Don't You Leave Me." She was not drowned out. Inna is the poo, I'm telling you. And Mr. Rock Star appears tightly wrapped around her petite finger.

Then it was time for the song I'd prayed I'd hear, the surf-rock anthem "Taller than Jesus." Sean, 6'4" when fully moussed, is indeed much taller than Our Savior could have been, given the average height of His day. Jesus may have turned water into wine, but when it comes to changing light bulbs, Sean is divine. Amen. After the weirdness of the hallway hopefuls, the errant whip, and the SOB, this struck me as the funniest thing I'd heard in ages.

And then he was done. We spilled into the hall to regroup. The SOB vultured over our little group until Six asked him, "Who are you, anyway?" She stepped forward to hear him over the chatter around us, and I've never seen a man backpedal so fast. As he mumbled a name, we turned away to watch Sean approach.

Sean worked the crowd with practiced efficiency, autographing an album for me while talking with Six and scanning for bookers. Then he sailed on, and we started looking for an exit. We needed drinks, stat. We started walking. The SOB followed. We bid him good night and changed direction. The SOB followed. Finally we loudly proclaimed we were going to the ladies' room and darted around a corner. He did not follow, and we made it outside unmolested.

Verdict: Worth the wait.