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Page 1 of 2  Many of you reading this blog are perhaps wondering when I'm going to post a book review of Mickey Rapkin's "Pitch Perfect: the Quest for Collegiate A Cappella Glory" that was released a month ago. Alas, I am not. I'm found throughout the book, and as such could spend so much time discussing the nuances and details that you'd end up with yet another book.
I can say I recommend the book wholeheartedly, with the caveat that there are certainly a number of errors, omissions and exaggerations, much as one of those historic maps of America. The East Coast is oversized, Mississippi's nick name is not "Missy," and there's no thousand-mile river bisecting the Rocky Mountains. No matter: it's still America, and God Bless it.
It is without a doubt the most thorough book on our community since, well, ever, and as such deserves the attention of anyone who's acappellacrazy enough to wade through my musings. And to Mickey's credit he has solicited corrections for future printings.
Although I don't have a book review in me (or, more accurately, I don't think it is appropriate), the book has stirred several questions in my mind, one of which I'll wander through today. Yes, Virginia, these blogs are written in a fit a Joycean stream-of-hightened-conscioussness, which leads me to wonder if the famed Irishman was similarly unpaid for his writing, and had to fit it in between beverage service and final descent.
What struck me initially was not the content of the book, much of which I lived so it's hardly news, but the tone. Specifically, for lack of a better word, the snarky tone.
Now, I don't blame Mickey for this specifically, because he's a product of our culture, and snark has been the flavor of the month since David Spade uttered his first "buh-bye" on Saturday Night Life. And snark is only the latest patter upon which the age-old entree of salacious gossip is now being served.
You're above that, are you? I doubt it. At first I thought I was, until I realized that the Economist, which I read with nose-upturned beside my wife's grocery-store gossip mag, itself enjoys the British version of snark, which carries with it more wit, but no less venom.
Fact is, we all enjoy the failings of others. Schadenfreude, as we've come to know American entertainers, our domestic royalty, as our own friends. And much as the news media feeds our hunger for sensationalism even as we decry the loss of dry, objective journalism, I believe the latest non-fiction writing nowadays is bent toward the scandalous to feed an ever hungrier and more desensitized public. Ironic that I've entertained myself earlier on this flight with a Fresh Air podcast featuring David Sedaris (brilliant, but recently admitted to stretching the truth for the purpose of humor), and a book of essays by David Rakoff. Regardless your background, there are a steady stream of creative professionals happy to feed your hunger for humor. At someone else's expense.
Why the revelation? Well, first, I should admit it's no revelation. Most of us educated enough to enjoy the act of laughing at others using four syllable words also laugh at ourselves. At least I do. Perhaps it helps that I'm in a band whose members chidingly teased me throughout our 3 week European tour with riffs on the books various declarations. Sometimes exaggerated for effect: "Thank you SO very much Deke, for everything. How DID you ever THINK to invent a cappella?"
This at 7am in the morning, continuing through every waking hour. By the end, they all thanked me for inventing singing, for without it, we'd all still be grunting.
Anyhoo, if I'm in a position to help myself to a plate of other's misfortune, then I should certainly be willing to provide an appetizer when I can, no? It doesn't really matter if as I child I was "gawky, with only partial control of my limbs," because it makes for good copy. Telling people I was the defacto captain of the annual track meet through Jr. High because I won the most ribbons each year doesn't make for good copy. In fact, I feel a little silly typing it. Best people think I started an ugly, clutzy duckling and emerged a (Lynn) Swann?
Who knows. And, in the end, who cares? Most people who read the book will never know me, and probably never bother to wade further into the details that occasionally bristle when I read them. Jonathan Minkoff and Don Gooding both deserve a more positive portrayal in the book, as they've both given heaps of money and time to promote a cappella. And yet, the Gods of dirt are hungry, so the CASA board is referred to as "nefarious," even though about the most evil thing we've ever done is, well, I can't think of anything. Be less efficient than we could be? Does well-meaning inaction rank as a sin, when the result is perhaps an increase of poorly tuned seventh chords?
Is there anything to be made of all this? I think so: Don't believe everything you read, because some of it is wrong (even if unintentionally so), and cut celebrities some slack. My fifteen minutes has been more like fifteen seconds, and my portrayal in the book is overwhelmingly positive, so I'm not one to speak from experience, but I can imagine if I were hounded like Britney Spears is that I'd too shave my head. And worse. Entertainers, by definition, are emotionally fragile people. They forgo reasonable, lucrative, safe careers in hopes of a little bit of love from the public, and that can easily sour with time, a few extra pounds, and a disgruntled former employee who is happy to sell their "story" (which probably often is) for a couple months' rent.
So, drink up America. Just know that each heady brew has its share of empty calories.
As for Pitch Perfect, it's not perfect, but it is filled with plenty of collegiate a cappella glory. And what more could you ask for?
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