Tonight I’m heading over to my parent’s house, to see Taylor for the first time in a week (I know, boo hoo hoo) and to go to the Barbershop Quartet Preliminaries.
The Barbershop Quartet Preliminaries.
Before you ask, no, I’m not singing. Neither is my father, nor Taylor, nor my mother. We are not indeed going as our own Barbershop Quartet because I like having friends who think I am cool. I enjoy being able to wear a pair of ironic sunglasses and talk about youth culture in a bar without feeling like somebody might find out. But the fact that I am even attending the Barbershop Quartet Preliminaries sort of makes this a moot point, so I really might as well jump up on stage in a pair of red suspenders and sing Alejandro in four part a cappela harmony.
Actually, I’ve had a secret fondness for barbershop music for many years, probably since I sang along with the Buffalo Bills on the glitchy old Music Man VHS that we rented every two weeks. It’s romantic, not in a ‘kees me you foo-el’ kind of way, but in a cultural sort of way. Kind of like how ‘gothic’ doesn’t always have to mean ‘highschoolers in a rebellious phase’. It’s a comfortable, nostalgic sort of music.
So tonight I’ll be at the Barbershop Preliminaries, and I’m actually a little excited. Maybe they’ll sing Lida Rose. Maybe someone will have adapted that Presidents song about peaches. Will there be little old men in straw hats? Or little old men in fedoras? The possibilities here are endless.
When my father first called me about the idea of going to the Barbershop thing (which he has been attending for years) he said, “I’m at the ticket place right now. Are we going? Are you coming with me? I need to know so that I can get the good seats.”
“Uhh, sure,” I said. “Sounds fun.”
We talked later after he had made the buy.
“Sorry,” he said. “The only good spots were in the very back of the theater.”
“No problem,” I said. “That sounds absolutely perfect.”