Deep in my closet, behind all sorts of other skeletons, there is one wearing a striped vest and a bow tie. He is singing high tenor with an adolescent falsetto. Hello my name is Jared, and I am a recovering barbershop quartet member.
I do not think there is anything wrong with all barbershop quartet singing, it is perfectly appropriate at Disneyland and by older men nicknamed 'Gramps'. But there are some things that America's youth need to be protected from, some things that we should not let them do. Things like like stealing, drinking, doing drugs, hurting others, killing people.. and singing in a barbershop quartet.
In my defense, I was young, probably 14 or 15. And I was small; now that I have a beautiful wife and daughters, I am comfortable admitting that I was what you would call a "late bloomer." At 15 years old I was barely 5 feet tall, weighed 100 pound if I had rocks in my pockets, and as much as I practiced shaving with my brother's razor, nothing more than peach fuzz and the occasional pimple decorated my upper lip. My little sister was bigger than me. And my voice must have been simply angelic, which is exactly what a 15 year old boy wants his voice to be.
So when a guy from church mentioned to my dad that he was starting a barbershop quartet with his son, a baritone, and was looking for a tenor, my dad must have thought I'd be perfect. The details of the groups kick off are a little hazy. I can't imagine that I went along with it completely voluntarily. Perhaps when the guy came and asked me if I wanted to join, he was saying barbershop quartet and I was thinking boy band. "Yes, I would like to be in a boy band." "My voice? It has been compared with the voice of an angel." "Can I dance? I'll do the Running Man right now." "How will I handle hoards of screaming girls? One at a time, he, he, he." I would be the shy and sensitive one; it would be perfect.
My boy bandmates and I assembled for our first practice, and it was quickly obvious that there would never be any screaming girls. If I was the shy sensitive one singing tenor, then the others in the group were the tall gangly one, singing bass; the studious overweight one, singing baritone; and the awkwardly eager one, singing lead. Somehow it turned out that we were affiliated with another barbershop group of older men in the town, one of whom was recently removed as the choir director at my high school and relegated to teach basic economics for the rest of his tenure to seniors just hoping to graduate. Their group called themselves the Jaybirds or Jaybees or something like that. So they dubbed us the Little Jaybirds, apparently all the other completely emasculating names were taken.
Our rehearsals went something like this. We would all gather around the piano at Baritone's house. Baritone's dad (who I think secretly was trying to position himself into the Big Jaybirds group) would play the piano, and the four group members would stand around with our fingers covering one ear, trying to harmonize. Baritone would burst in "Lead, you are way off." Lead would reply "What are you talking about, I'm the lead. You follow me." Baritone's dad would pipe in, "you just need to try to follow the piano a little better." Baritone, seeing his chance, would venture "Maybe I could sing lead." But his dad would insist, "you are a perfect baritone, and he is doing a fine job at lead." Bass and I would exchange glances and rolling of eyes. I got along best with Bass, he was by far the most normal. He has since served some time in jail, but I don't believe his crimes were singing related.
Our first performance was after a small church gathering, and completely unexpected. Up until that point, I had kept my double life somewhat secret from my friends. But the secret was out when Baritone's dad stood up after the meeting had ended and said, "Who would like to hear from the Little Jaybirds?" I think most folks thought he was crazy even before he positied the awkward question. "You see my son, Baritone and his friends have formed a barbershop quartet," he said with pride. "Isn't that right Lead, Bass, and Tenor?" he asked, outing us to everyone. I shifted uneasily in my seat "Please sit down you crazy man" I thought, finally beginning to understand the full weight of my decision to join this fateful group. My friends looked at me with confusion and bewilderment, like Ceaser must have looked at Brutus. By being so uncool, I had tanked the stock of our collective coolness. The ultimate betrayal.
"The Little Jaybirds have a competition coming up in a few weeks and could use a practice audience." I was dumbfounded. My 15 year old mind was swimming,"what in the world is this man talking about." No one said anything about a competitive barbershopping. Would it be an acapella battle to the bitter end? Would I be pitted against other Tenors in hand to hand combat? I had accepted the fact that I would never have the opportunity to fend off screaming girls, but to proactively make a fool of myself was a different story. "Never mind the competition", I told myself, I had a few weeks to wiggle my way out of that, break a bone, contract a disease, whatever. This spontaneous performance was the immediate catastrophe. Maybe they wouldn't have time for us to sing.
"Uh, sure, lets hear them sing," said our bishop. Of course they wouldn't stop us from singing, it was a church for heaven's sake. Baritone's dad must have known this, perhaps I underestimated his cleverness. Baritone, Bass, and Lead all got up to follow Baritone's dad to the piano for our pitches. I slowly got up as well; how could I avert this disaster. "Uh, I don't know if we're ready" I said. "You'll be fine" Baritone's dad replied. "I just ate ice cream," I said, "isn't there some time period where you are not supposed to sing after ice cream?" I ask him, trying to feign sincerity. "I've never heard that, you'll be fine." "I'm not really feeling that well," I begin, but by that time my dad had noticed my resistance. "Just sing" he said, and gave me a look that threatened a hundred days of dishes, pulling weeds, and splitting wood. That was the end, I was going to sing.
We each got our pitches. I looked at my friends, most had eyes fixed on the ground hurt by the unjust reality that my first angelic falsetto note would be the end of all of us. Then I looked at my older brother. He was giddy. Reveling in every second, he was bathing in the awkwardness of the moment, already dreaming up the hundreds of way he would remind me for years to come of what a dork I was. I looked at my dad, I could tell he was nervous too. He loved to sing and loved music, and I'm sure wanted me to do well and love music like he did. But perhaps he began to doubt the wisdom in placing dreams in the hands of such an awkward son. We sang, but I have no idea what we sounded like. It is hard to hear when my head was pounding with the ridiculousness of the situation. We finished and there was a tepid golf applause. "How has it come to this" I thought.
At our next practice, Baritone's dad shared the exciting news of the competition. I readied the list of a thousand reasons why I could not go; I would order and fire them off starting with the most effective until this beast of an idea was killed. "The competition is in two weeks, March 18 and 19th in Las Vegas. I can't go, but you'll be traveling on a bus with the Big Jaybirds as they go to compete as well. They'll take care of you." "I'm busy that weekend, I get carsick, Vegas is too far, I'm alergic to buses, I'm alergic to Vegas, I think I'm getting sick, I can't sing, I've hit puberty.." the excuses were streaming. Then it dawned on me, I only needed one excuse. "I don't think my parents will let me go." I said. It was true, there was no way they'd let me, a 15 year old boy, travel with other 15 year old boys and a bunch of old men nicknamed 'Gramps' for the weekend in Vegas. Right? Right? It was perfect, Right?
Wrong. Dead Wrong. Either I underestimated my dad's desire for me to sing, or I overestimated my value in a family with six kids. They might not even notice if I never showed up again. And just like that, I was on a bus headed for Las Vegas with Bass listening to his Walkman, Baritone and Lead dueling vocal accomplishments, and the Big Jaybirds all asleep with mouths wide open. At least I won't know anyone, was my mantra, it saved me that weekend. Before we got into Las Vegas one of the Big Jaybirds had the driver stop the bus at a WalMart. He said we needed an outfit. "If he says the word 'bowtie' I'm going to hitch hike home," I thought. "But since you guys are young and cool, lets get you some matching t-shirts." That was fine by me, even though I think the t-shirt idea had less to do with us being young and cool and him being cheap. Four turquioise Hanes t-shirts later we were back on the bus.
The competition was a bust, we came in fourth of four teams. We sucked. All the other groups had bow ties and choreographed moves like grabbing the heart when singing about a girl, or shaking a finger when singing about doing something wrong. It was genius. We just stood up there like turqoise tools and tried our best to harmonize.
At least the Big Jaybirds were too busy gambling and boozing the night away to bug us, so we just walked around Vegas trying to avoid the fliers for topless dancers like only good 15 year old Mormon boys would. At one point Bass and I were walking a few paces away from Baritone and Lead, and he casually said to me "I don't think I'm really in to this." "Yeah, me neither." I replied. And we ducked into a building leaving Baritone and Lead to decide the groups next move.
"The Little Jaybirds have a competition coming up in a few weeks and could use a practice audience." I was dumbfounded. My 15 year old mind was swimming,"what in the world is this man talking about." No one said anything about a competitive barbershopping. Would it be an acapella battle to the bitter end? Would I be pitted against other Tenors in hand to hand combat? I had accepted the fact that I would never have the opportunity to fend off screaming girls, but to proactively make a fool of myself was a different story. "Never mind the competition", I told myself, I had a few weeks to wiggle my way out of that, break a bone, contract a disease, whatever. This spontaneous performance was the immediate catastrophe. Maybe they wouldn't have time for us to sing.
"Uh, sure, lets hear them sing," said our bishop. Of course they wouldn't stop us from singing, it was a church for heaven's sake. Baritone's dad must have known this, perhaps I underestimated his cleverness. Baritone, Bass, and Lead all got up to follow Baritone's dad to the piano for our pitches. I slowly got up as well; how could I avert this disaster. "Uh, I don't know if we're ready" I said. "You'll be fine" Baritone's dad replied. "I just ate ice cream," I said, "isn't there some time period where you are not supposed to sing after ice cream?" I ask him, trying to feign sincerity. "I've never heard that, you'll be fine." "I'm not really feeling that well," I begin, but by that time my dad had noticed my resistance. "Just sing" he said, and gave me a look that threatened a hundred days of dishes, pulling weeds, and splitting wood. That was the end, I was going to sing.
We each got our pitches. I looked at my friends, most had eyes fixed on the ground hurt by the unjust reality that my first angelic falsetto note would be the end of all of us. Then I looked at my older brother. He was giddy. Reveling in every second, he was bathing in the awkwardness of the moment, already dreaming up the hundreds of way he would remind me for years to come of what a dork I was. I looked at my dad, I could tell he was nervous too. He loved to sing and loved music, and I'm sure wanted me to do well and love music like he did. But perhaps he began to doubt the wisdom in placing dreams in the hands of such an awkward son. We sang, but I have no idea what we sounded like. It is hard to hear when my head was pounding with the ridiculousness of the situation. We finished and there was a tepid golf applause. "How has it come to this" I thought.
At our next practice, Baritone's dad shared the exciting news of the competition. I readied the list of a thousand reasons why I could not go; I would order and fire them off starting with the most effective until this beast of an idea was killed. "The competition is in two weeks, March 18 and 19th in Las Vegas. I can't go, but you'll be traveling on a bus with the Big Jaybirds as they go to compete as well. They'll take care of you." "I'm busy that weekend, I get carsick, Vegas is too far, I'm alergic to buses, I'm alergic to Vegas, I think I'm getting sick, I can't sing, I've hit puberty.." the excuses were streaming. Then it dawned on me, I only needed one excuse. "I don't think my parents will let me go." I said. It was true, there was no way they'd let me, a 15 year old boy, travel with other 15 year old boys and a bunch of old men nicknamed 'Gramps' for the weekend in Vegas. Right? Right? It was perfect, Right?
Wrong. Dead Wrong. Either I underestimated my dad's desire for me to sing, or I overestimated my value in a family with six kids. They might not even notice if I never showed up again. And just like that, I was on a bus headed for Las Vegas with Bass listening to his Walkman, Baritone and Lead dueling vocal accomplishments, and the Big Jaybirds all asleep with mouths wide open. At least I won't know anyone, was my mantra, it saved me that weekend. Before we got into Las Vegas one of the Big Jaybirds had the driver stop the bus at a WalMart. He said we needed an outfit. "If he says the word 'bowtie' I'm going to hitch hike home," I thought. "But since you guys are young and cool, lets get you some matching t-shirts." That was fine by me, even though I think the t-shirt idea had less to do with us being young and cool and him being cheap. Four turquioise Hanes t-shirts later we were back on the bus.
The competition was a bust, we came in fourth of four teams. We sucked. All the other groups had bow ties and choreographed moves like grabbing the heart when singing about a girl, or shaking a finger when singing about doing something wrong. It was genius. We just stood up there like turqoise tools and tried our best to harmonize.
At least the Big Jaybirds were too busy gambling and boozing the night away to bug us, so we just walked around Vegas trying to avoid the fliers for topless dancers like only good 15 year old Mormon boys would. At one point Bass and I were walking a few paces away from Baritone and Lead, and he casually said to me "I don't think I'm really in to this." "Yeah, me neither." I replied. And we ducked into a building leaving Baritone and Lead to decide the groups next move.
1 comment:
I can't remember when I have laughed so hard I cried as much as I did reading this story. Between barbershop quartet trauma and cheap Bear's jackets I'm amazed you are not suing us for negligent parenting! Love you, Mom
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