Jazzy Jeff: can’t stand a capella

As previously alluded to in this column I am, for my sins, a consummate jazz fan. It is fair to say that jazz is a genre that largely consists of […]


As previously alluded to in this column I am, for my sins, a consummate jazz fan. It is fair to say that jazz is a genre that largely consists of the self-indulgent tootlings of musicians who can’t be bothered learning how to read music. It is primarily listened to by the Lazy Intellectual, desperate to prove his radical credentials without endangering his membership of the country club by admitting he enjoys a good wallow in grindcore rap (whatever that is).

Given my own poor taste, I am fully aware of the rank hypocrisy in criticising any other genre too harshly. However, I simply can’t stomach a-cappella. One of my a-cappellaist friends reliably informs me that it’s “an acquired taste”. Well, I’m sure parched desert explorers get used to the taste of their own urine after being forced to drink it long enough. It’s still piss.

I should make absolutely clear; I have nothing personal against the individual singers. Some of my best friends are a-cappellaists. Having watched the Other Guys’ latest number, all the singers look like pleasant human beings, well adjusted to fill in for a last minute cancellation at a dinner party, without fear that they’re going to start up a racist chant during the entree or molest a fellow guest. If their personality is anything like their music, they’re not going to bring much to the table conversationally, but at least you don’t have to completely redo the seating plan. I bear these cheerful songstrels no ill will whatsoever. It is purely the music that rubs me the wrong way.

Perhaps part of my aversion lies in a general prejudice against choirs. To my narrow mind, they’ll always be the preserve of snot nosed school boys and middle aged divorcees, desperately hunting for an adequate specimen to remarry before their rapidly approaching senility arrives. And yet here are groups of young, universally attractive students, throwing themselves lemming-like into the pursuit. I’ll grudgingly admit that my attitude is partly (largely) influenced by jealousy. The Other Guys are currently the indisputable prince-charmings of St Andrews, and I’ve got to say, more power to them. It takes a special type of talent to become the most eligible men in town on the back of an ability to nail three part vocal harmony. I’ve mentioned the Other Guys, but my opinion of a-cappella music extends well beyond any one particular group. Back in my day, it was the Alleycats who reigned supreme on the a-cappella scene, merrily warbling away in the key of mundane on national television. Like clockwork, a-cappella performances are punctuated by a key change, perfectly choreographed to coincide with the saccharine emotional climax of the song. Generally, the average a-cappella song has about as much integrity as a Boyzone number, only without the production values to redeem it. At least the new Other Guys number has the decency not to be a cover, which is more than can be said for most of that guff. Every now and then a choir will throw in a medley; not content butchering one half-baked pop song in the space of four minutes, they insist on dishing out similar treatment to half a dozen songs in the same space of time, like the musical equivalent of a serial killer’s last-stand.

The Other Guys and the Alleycats are merely the tip of the iceberg. There are literally hundreds of the ruddy-cheeked ensembles popping up, left, right and centre. It’s not just in our fair wee Fife town, but at preppy universities the country over. And if there’s one thing to be learned about a-cappella groups, it’s their insatiable competitiveness, manifested in inter-varsity competitions and desperate attempts to out-sell-out each other at the Edinburgh Fringe every year. If I were in a successful a-cappella group, I’m not sure I could live with the constant terror that a younger and prettier model might spring up and usurp my vocal supremacy. Worse still is the thought that a particularly precocious singer in my own group might strike out on a solo career, leaving me far behind in his harmonious wake. My Ringo, to his Lennon. All that would keep me going from day to day would be the hope that he went down in an inglorious blaze of sex, drugs and a-cappella (after all, Robbie Williams had to reconcile himself with Take That after all those years.) But I bet he wouldn’t, the ungrateful sod.

You might be wondering why I am quite so worked up about this. Having graduated over a year ago, a-cappella holds no sway over me now; no one’s ramming it down my throat. There really is no reason to be angry about it. But, I look back to First Year, I can still picture the audition panel eyeing me up and down. “And what have you prepared for us today?” they ask. “All by myself, by Celine Dion” I say. And I sang my little heart out. And then they say, in chorus “Thank you, JazzyJeff, we’ll let you know in the next few days.” But they never did. They never did and to this day, their angelic faces, secretly planning never to call me back, haunt me from dawn til dusk.