November 14, 2005

My first Rockapella show was in Boston in 2001 at the slightly slimy Somerville Theater on a night when Kevin was sick, Barry was late, and Steven Tyler was in the audience. Thanks to one of those conditions—I'm not sure which—Scott sang almost every song and spoke at the M&G in hush-hush tones that made it clear that he was Preserving His Instrument. It was also the first and last time I ever heard "Indiana," "So Much Better," "Just You, Just Me," and Barry Carl's voice live and in person.

I went with my sister, who wore a very red sweater that caught the eye of Jeff Thacher after the show, a conversation that sparked the ire of the ever-excitable diehards eavesdropping behind us. Jeff when on (and on) about the color of the sweater and the color of her eyes, etc., and when the hissing over our shoulders was nearly audible, I grabbed her by the arm and declared that it was time to go. In short, I came in with a bang. I did not, of course, learn anything about the true nature of a Rockapella concert. (I've never seen one since that had anything to do with what I saw that night, except that the diehards are still here.)

My second show in Boston was about a year later at the Berklee Performance Center, with its flawless sound and hideous sightlines. I remember only a few things about that show, including the frigid rain, the minor fact that Scott sang the first three numbers with his fly down, and the big-palmed, curly-headed waiter I flirted with at the Cactus Club over my chicken-and-red-onion quesadilla before the show. I remember that I thought about tucking my business card under my empty margarita glass as we left, but I didn't do it.

And then I saw them with the Pops. No one believes me, but it's true: I thought Rockapella should perform with the Pops years ago. Why? It's a total no-brainer. You have singers with no band and a band with no singers. The audience is the same. The set list is the same. Holiday concerts? Soft-rock covers from the sixties and seventies? They're like your two friends who are obviously compatible and yet they can never get their shit together enough to date. It drove me crazy. My other theory—that Keith Lockhart and Scott Leonard are a match made in brilliant, bitchy bandleader heaven —is unsubstantiated, but it's more fun.

When it happened, it was like watching your kids in the school play. You're so proud, and yet you're saying Hail Marys that they won't screw up and embarrass you. They were lovely. And rather nervous, I think. (For one song, Scott blew the pitch no fewer than six times.) But most surprisingly, The Rockapops were not the match made in sonic heaven I had imagined. When the arrangements were created specifically for Pops, the noise was remarkable. When they were Scott's arrangements with some violins behind them, it was not.

Never has it been clearer how Scott's arrangements truly cover the bases, how they do, in fact, compensate for the lack of guitars and piano to the extent that you will not only never miss them, but when they're there—as was the case at Symphony Hall—you sort of wish that they'd just go away.

Rockapella and the Pops might seem like a nice couple in theory, but in truth, they didn't really need each other. When the arrangements were tailor-made for them, on the other hand, the results were far better, and for one reason. Both parties had enough space to do their thing without interruption. In fact, "The Beat Goes On" was basically a back-and-forth between the orchestra and the band where only one was allowed to shine at a time.

They got a thundering reception. I you like watching people love Rockapella—I do—get yourself to Pops this spring.

And at the BPC on Friday, where the sound is still great and the sightlines are still bad, Rockapella had a fistful of new songs and an energy that seems unprecedented. Scott Leonard especially blew like a motherfucker, as we say in rock and roll. He was big-voiced and reaching for everything; his sense of energy, of ease, was firmly in check.

Maybe it's the new material that did it, material that buzzes and hums with a kind of vitality that's nowhere to be found, for example, on easygoing, floppy Smilin'. The new songs are good for their smarty pants lyrics and their quick sense of timing and drama, but more, they're good because there's a real sense of risk about them. Like the band is reaching for something new. They have new life, and it's fun to see. Hopefully there's a new album to go along with this new life somewhere in the future. Until then, the shows are providing a nice sneak preview.

The new songs borrow heavily—as Scott's music always has, but in subtler ways—from people like Stevie Wonder. But there's other good stuff swimming in there too. Whiffs of old jazz tunes and big band numbers and Cab Calloway and gospel songs.

The only new song I can't quite get my head around is George's sort-of solo ballad, "Baby Girl." It's like my whole weird Freudian/Odipus/Rockapella complex come to life. It's like one of those Christian rock songs where you can't tell if it's about God or your girlfriend. Only more obviously wrong. I don't known if I'm horrified or aroused. Rock on.

The show's other entirely inadvertent highlight is a quasi-medley of all Rockapella's commercial jingles, including ones for Taco Bell, Budweiser, various candy bars, and the NBC morning shows. The best thing about them, of course, especially in the case of the latter, is that they're filled to the brim with wiseass lyrics and half-serious melodies, indicating rather pointedly that Rockapella will sell whatever you ask them to sell, but never underestimate their ability to get, or spin the joke back on itself.

There was no M&G for me after Boston. The family was intent on making the 10:30 train and I wasn't one to rain on that particular parade. But then, what is there to say? Not like anyone could go on for more than 25 words or so about something as mundane as Rockapella...