Once I discovered that not everybody could harmonize with every conceivable melody, it became clear to me that this was a skill that might very possibly get me laid, or at least noticed, by members of the prettier sex.  I then began a process that has served me well throughout my life: I surrounded myself with exceptionally capable musicians.  This diverse collection of uberfolks has uniformly been attracted to my height, my cheekbones, my potty mouth and my genetically blessed ear. 

David Yazbek was my first duo-mate and most important early influence — a singer, prolific songwriter, wordsmith and master epithet-slinger, all before he was 18. (He has since won an Emmy for comedy writing and was twice nominated for a Tony for best original Broadway score.)  We formed a teen duo called Moon Pudding and my career as a wizard harmonizer was off to a sprightly start.

At Brown University I allied myself with the best (ok, the *only*) male a cappella group on campus — The High Jinks — whose members included the brilliant and dashing gents who comprised the first incarnations of Rockapella after graduation: Elliott Kerman, Steve Keyes, David Stix and, later, Charlie Evett.  With a team of that caliber, it was virtually preordained that early Rockapella become kings of the New York City bar mitzvah circuit and local TV variety show stalwarts.  We had three levels of dynamics: loud, deafening and ear-shattering, and we were ready to slay the world with a pitch pipe, a song and a smile.  By the time the mighty bass man Barry Carl came aboard, the "fearsome foursome" (New York Post) was ready for its big break: our inclusion in the PBS documentary "Spike and Company — Do It A cappella" and the explosion of contemporary a cappella that ensued.

The next wave of Rockapella members enabled the band to fulfill the promise of its founders.  Star tenor Scott Leonard and mouth drummer Jeff Thacher ushered in an era of unprecedented creative and financial prosperity: five years starring as the “insufferably coy” (Entertainment Weekly) house vocal band in the PBS TV series "Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?"; eleven album releases in the USA and Japan; recording and album in Jimi Hendryx’s studio; numerous sold-out tours in both countries; naked business meetings in Japanese saunas (damn that physically blessed Barry Carl); lucrative corporate shows (to the tune of “Hound Dog”: “You ain’t only an ointment — Preparation H!  You ain’t only a suppository — Preparation H!  Got a brand new cream and a *tight* hold on first place!”); commercials for candy bars, tacos, life insurance and coffee; appearances on “The Tonight Show” and other fancy TV venues; singing with Billy Joel at Madison Square Garden; eating a live lobster at a record company-financed sushi dinner; and lots of original songs arranged by ear in the "Rockapella style": lead vocal, bass, vocal percussion, 2-3 backup parts moving in tandem, and assorted countermelodies and sonic candy.  What a day job!

As Rockapella’s star rose, I began, in the spirit of baseball great Ty Cobb, to adopt a self-aggrandizing promotion strategy that continues to deliver: I began to refer to myself in public (and private, at Thanksgiving feasts, seders and the like) as "The Father of Modern A cappella" or the more humble "A cappella Legend," each with only a hint of sarcasm.  I even took the liberty of changing the spelling of the term “a cappella” to the more graceful and streamlined single word “acapella,” without that annoying second “p.”  

Was I the legend I professed to be?  Bolstering my case were the fact that I had co-founded the most successful modern acapella group (Rockapella), created a vocal arrangement that has been so oft-performed as to become a cliché (Zombie Jamboree), composed a bona-fide a cappella hit TV song (Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?), and was the only 3-time winner of the Contemporary A cappella Award (CARA) for "Best Original Song" (Carmen Sandiego, My Home, Daisy Simone), all while sporting a horrific braided mullet.  Hell; *somebody* had to be deemed the “father” of this new musical idiom, so why not *me*, right?  CASA founder Deke Sharon has a legitimate claim to the "father" title, but I'm older and more wizened, so he'll have to settle for "Grand Poobah of Modern A cappella" or another lesser moniker.

You've Become a Legend. Now What?

Ok, so what does a somewhat universally accepted legend in the fringiest of fringe art forms do to remain such?  Probably not quit the group onto whose coat tails he has clung since its inception.  Nevertheless, after eleven years I stormed away from Rockapella like a grumpy little leaguer, determined to bat, run, field and sign autographs all by my legendary lonesome.  I decided that it would be more fun to be the King Arthur of my own wee castle than some garden variety Knight jousting it out at a round table, trying to arrive at some elusive, if not illusory, consensus with a bunch of other equally hard-nosed Knights.  In normal English I mean that it’s tough to be in a democratic group when all you want is to have it *your* way, damnit, like at Burger King but with songs instead of pickles.  Off I went. 

The first sign of my newfound independence was a supremely quirky album of home recordings entitled "seandemonium."  The 19-song CD was a projectile vomit torrent of hyper-tastey sonic morsels: some a cappella, some guitar, vocals coming at you from every which way, and all drenched in post-divorce bitterness, self-pity, technicolor bile, sprightly harmonies and reverb. Because most of the tracks were created as demos not meant to fall upon human ears, it's a remarkably unselfconscious album which still does me proud.

Critics said nice things about “seandemonium” which served to validate my inner petulant child and my decision to go it alone, and to stroke my ego to bonerific proportions: "Imagine Dion meeting Marshall Crenshaw at the Beatles' house, with the Kinks, Beach Boys, Four Seasons and Persuasions all dropping by for a song swap.... The words have a cynical edge, but what really grabs you is the old-fashioned sweetness and punch of Altman's neo-doowop vocals playing off incredibly hook-happy tunes..."  —Philadelphia Daily News. 

I was thereby emboldened to more fully launch my quixotic post-Rockapella career, assembling a band of crackerjack, instrument-wielding pros to accompany my rudimentary guitar strumming and make me feel and appear more like an authentic rocker, albeit an aging one. 

My next album featured this "Full Muscular Band" blasting through fifteen ditties in a blistering, power-pop CD collection called "alt.mania."  Gone was the homespun quirkiness of “seandemonium,” replaced with more consistent song writing, bombastic production values, and the testosteroney sound of a guitar-driven pop band under the spell of the Beatles.  The album’s ode to divorce “Unhappy Anniversary” struck quick pay dirt for me — sassy pop starlet Vitamin C did her own girl-pop version of it on her million-selling Elektra Records debut, and the song earned me a finalist spot in the prestigious Kerrville New Folk Festival. 

Early Rockapella used to joke onstage that we chose a cappella because we were all lousy instrumentalists.  For me, however, it was no joke — I was simply a tall singer with a good ear and a quick smile, but *no* instrumental chops whatsoever, although my dexterous right hand always held promise.  Nevertheless, somewhere between “seandemonium” and “alt.mania” I actually taught myself how to play guitar and sing simultaneously, which was no small feat, let me tell you.  This got me back on stage, doing what I love best — singing my damned songs to anyone who'll listen. 

Three years of band shows followed, during which I learned fancy rock'n'roll tricks like telling the bartender that we were five people instead of four, so as to score an extra free drink ticket; how to wind those funny wires onto the guitar and twist the cute little knobbies until the wires made a pretty noise; how to not look embarrassed while sound-checking in front of an audience; how to hold my breath for extended periods in the CBGB rest room (who would want to rest *there* of all places?); and most of all, how to piss away *thousands* of dollars on a rehearsal space that smelled like piss.  Oh, how quickly the post-Rockapella money evaporated.  Each gig, while great fun, was the financial equivalent of buying a new computer, seeing 50 movies or getting 25 lap dances to completion.  The $57 in beer-soaked bills that the club owner would toss me after a band gig barely covered the cost of getting my swelling ass to the club. 

Fortunately, as the dough dwindled perilously close to extinction, my guitar chops improved.  Soon, lo and behold, yay and verily, I became a serviceable axe-wielder.  As I grew more confident bashing away at my guitar without the protection of my virtuosic band, I ventured into the solo acoustic realm from which I have yet to emerge — me singing my guts out, accompanied only by my own fitful strumming, at clubs, colleges and frequently in so-called "house concerts" — solo acoustic performances in people's living rooms (Interested? Go to http://www.seanaltman.com/housegig.shtml and give me a holler). 

What I gave up in instrumental interplay, propulsive drumming, rock star volume and on-stage camaraderie, I gained in intimacy, lyric intelligibility, and income.  Let's face it — I was no longer in a famous a cappella group playing for thousands of paying customers; I was now a not-in-his-’20s guy with an Irish-Jewish name that remains unknown outside the wacky world of group harmonizers playing for *tens* of paying customers, most of whom I know by name and cherish dearly.  Running a band was as pricey as being a drug addict, but I had happily found a cheaper way to get my gig fix: going truly solo.  It's expensive to be King, but less so in a kingdom of one.

Lest you think that I’m perpetually alone in my dank and depressing room, drinking last week’s coffee whitened with last month’s milk, brooding and typing in the dark, waiting for inspiration to strike or for the phone to ring, I must assure you that I busy myself with numerous “side” projects that get me out of the house.  Several of the Rockapella alums and I have a for-fun-and-money group called The GrooveBarbers; I am half of a raunchy, Jewish themed comedy duo called “What I Like About Jew” ;I sing lead and backup in a popular tribute series called “The Loser’s Lounge”; I am half of a burgeoning boy-girl duo that fancies itself a “Human League for the new millenium” called “Dragon Meets Phoenix”; and I do a cappella arrangements and production for vocal groups Minimum Wage, Kol Zimra and others.

So that’s the nickel and dime version of how I became the humble deity who stands before you today — still tall, still smiling, still singing loud and somewhat in tune, still writing songs meant to ensnare you in their hooky web, still making several albums at once and occasionally releasing one, still trying to find engaging synonyms for “poop”, still loving the applause, still the 3rd-grader who had to bribe Laurence Levine with bubble gum to get picked for lunchtime kickball, still... a legend.  http://www.seanaltman.com

Be first to comment this article

Only registered users can write comments.
Please login or register.

Powered by AkoComment Tweaked Special Edition v.1.4.6
AkoComment © Copyright 2004 by Arthur Konze - www.mamboportal.com
All right reserved