October 30, 2004

Sitting in the second row at Rockapella, like sitting in the second row of a tennis match, or an action movie, is like an ambush. It is a voyeur's dream, absolutely the thing to do if you want to be at once appalled and fascinated by the bigness and realness of the average contemporary male a capella group. It is an especially good idea if you want to be that girl, the one who can't tear her eyes away from the glinting mis-arranged piece of Scott Leonard's fly, which will simply not remove itself from her line of vision. The second row is also great if you want to see everything and hear nothing, because the sound is crap when you're that close, and who's listening anyway when it becomes clear, about five bars in, that the second row is more about them watching you than you watching them. When you're that close, you have to pay attention to your facial expressions. You get self-conscious. In the second row, all the action verbs get sharper. You aren't just watching. Rockapella does it, and you too.

At this show, I was not the only one. My friends felt it too, the boozy disorientation of actually going somewhere to see a band, even if that somewhere was just through the Lincoln Tunnel. New Jersey conjures it—a kind of listless disorientation, the kind that makes you keep asking, "Where am I again?" That's what happens, then, when you knock Manhattanites off their precious concrete grid. Makes you wonder, too, if the band was feeling some of that, with their cracks about getting lost, about going South on the interstate to get North. It was also a keen reminder that they're not New Yorkers anymore, that indeed, when they visit Montclair, NJ, they don't stay at their own places in Manhattan, but at the Holiday Inn near the venue.

I feel like my perspective is distorted from that second row, like it somehow impedes objectivity to be that close. The twenty-fifth row sits benignly by with its quaint view of the proscenium. The second row, every big blown vein, begs comment. For example.

In the second row, it is entirely impossible to ignore that Scott Leonard is a fashion disaster, not to mention a genuine danger to members of the audience with acute astigmatism, or those who are prone to seizures. The stripes on the suit are quite enough without the stripes on the socks, or the subtle texture of the shirt. The gentle twenty-fifth row, mind you, would have rendered the shirt simply "black," and the socks simply invisible, but there's no escape when you're that close. Also mightily exaggerated by the short distance—by reality, in essence—are Scott's various dance moves and assorted spontaneous wiggling, all of which have their charm, but which seem downright contortive without a little perspective. A girl could lose an eye, or her virginity, if she's not careful.

This does nothing, of course, to dilute Scott's major DILF status, or his morbidly quick sense of humor, which are among the prime nonmusical joys of any Rockapella experience. Adding to that list, thanks Row B, are the L-shaped scar on George's right bicep, the stunning pearly perfection of Kevin's teeth, and John's tasteful, but none the less impressive collection of bling.

Beyond the crotch-and-nostril view, though, there was actual music at this thing, and what music it was. Never has Rockapella sounded so sure of itself, or so remarkably solid. The harmonies in particular have newfound muscularity, due in no small part to the group's newest member, John K. Brown, who brings a kind of breathless energy to the lineup. Never have I been so moved to dance, or been more sorry for the seated-and-sane format than I was last night.

So how is he?

He's quite good. He's also nearly the polar opposite of Elliott Kerman in almost every way. He is as hammy as Elliott was understated, as restless about his melodies as Elliott was mellow and even-handed. The most surprising difference is this one: By no stretch of anyone's imagination is John a baritone. He's a tenor, and a highish one at that.

Another change: Thanks to John's influence, the group has gone seriously dancy. This works, with a few key exceptions, the most serious one among them being a break during "Use Me" where the group launches into a Stomp-esqe series of rhythmic claps, perhaps in an attempt to make good on the "appendages" promise in the liner notes. It was fine piece of unexpected fun, but all the white people on the stage except Jeff, we're not naming names, got hung up.

"Tonight," a new Scott original, and a sweet cover of "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" are the show's brightest new additions. George's high-octave riffing on the latter is mind-bending in its coolness, its ass-kicking bravura. And a medley of disco-era songs is truly Scott-like in its manic schizophrenia, its sly references to a million and one sounds of the seventies and beyond. It never has as second to come up for air, much less get boring. As soon as you've heard enough of one song to recognize it, they're halfway through another.

"Ain't too Proud to Beg" also serves as the new Pretty Woman, with John yanking some poor girl out of the audience to play Rockapella rag doll for the next ten minutes. Marissa was super cute, one of those rare girls who convince me that noserings and tattoos can indeed be worn with a measure of grace. The band, of course, had no trouble whatsoever picking up on this. The only problem, perhaps, is that the song is too good. "Pretty Woman" was so resoundingly old hat that the antics were welcome as a kind of diversion. Last night, you wanted them to ditch the girl and just sing.

One part of the show, however, that has gone majorly down the tubes since Elliott's departure is "Zombee." For the love of God, kill it! Dig the hole, and kick the festering mass of it in, and then run far far away. Let the Grovebarbers have it. Whatever the solution, though, rescue it from its terminal state of slovenly undead. It sucks. It should die. And STOP requesting it, you fools.

That's a relatively minor complaint, though, in an encore that included the lovely, unexpected "I'll Hear Your Voice" and "Here Comes the Sun."

At the meet-and-greet table, my friend had them autograph her notebook. Scott, Kevin, and John signed upside-down on one sheet while Jeff and George took up three pages between them. George scribbled a suspect phone number, along with his name, under "G". Yes, we called it. No, it wasn't real. Yes, we did think it was real for a moment, and panic ensued. No, that moment didn't last long.

My most articulate offering of the evening was, "Hi Scott," until I chatted with Jeff, whose cuteness grows exponentially as the years pass, I swear. He tried to give us directions to get home. That was nice. I mentioned that I loved the liner design for Live in Japan, how it's so stylishly Lost in Translation. Apparently I was very much on the nose with this assumption. Because Jeff said so. And then we got on a bus.