Barbershop Quartet Blues

A word to the wise: a barbershop quartet is only as strong as its weakest link. 

Melvin had been dealing with a raspy voice the whole second half of the ‘Pinstripes and Blue Buckles’ Midwest Circuit. He complained that it was because he was getting older, but we all knew the real reason: he had not been consistently practicing his vocal warm-ups. 

“Let’s drop his ass,” Jimmy spat, hands hovering over his India Pale Ale. 

“We really should, for the good of the group,” Patricio agreed. He was chowing down on a large basket of deep-fried onion rings. 

“Let’s not be hasty,” I said. I was picking away at a pathetic looking Caesar salad with no croutons. “We’ve been together since ‘13. Let’s carefully think this through before we make any rash decisions we might regret.”

The Oily Pig pub was bustling with musicians on tour that night. We fit right into the place. Our booth was sandwiched in between a booth with an Elvis impersonator and a booth with an angsty-looking guitar player and his band. 

“Melvin’s been dragging us down since day one and you and I both know it,” Jimmy spat. “Now’s the perfect time to can him.”

“I’ll agree that Melvin hasn’t always been the easiest person to work with,” I acknowledged. “But he’s always given us his A game, always does the work.”

“He hasn’t even been doing his vocal warm-ups during tour,” Patricio uttered just before he took a drink. 

“When was the last time he did his warm-ups?” I asked. 

“April of this year was the last I saw or heard,” Patricio said. 

“Oh my god,” Jimmy spat bitterly. 

“I have to say, I think April was the last I heard him, too,” I admitted. 

All three of us were dressed in our traditional barbershop quartet garb – white and red stripes like human candy canes, straw hats, and walking canes. One of the members from a heavy metal band walked over to our booth in his leather jacket, looked us up and down, and asked me, “How much to take the ferry across the river?”

“Haha,” I said sarcastically. 

“Piss off, why don’t you?” Jimmy spat. The poor boy was already a few drinks in. 

“What did you say to me,” the metal-head asked. 

“Pay him no mind,” I said quickly, stepping in. “He’s the slow one of the group, if you know what I mean.”

“You better watch him from here on out,” the metal-head said, giving us all the death stare. 

“Oh, we absolutely will,” I said. “You have a good night, now.”

The band member nodded and sauntered back over to his band mates. 

“What was that?” Patricio asked. 

“I don’t feel like getting pummeled tonight, do you?” I asked them both. 

“You’re starting to significantly lack leadership skills,” Jimmy spat. “Careful, or you’ll end up like Melvin.”

”What are we going to do about the poor bastard, then?” Patricio asked. 

“We have to let him go….he just doesn’t practice anymore,” Jimmy spat. “If you don’t practice then you’re thrown to the wolves. That’s barbershop quartet 101.”

“But if we let Melvin go then we won’t exactly be a barbershop quartet anymore, will we?”

“We’ll get someone to fill his spot,” Patricio said. 

“Like who?” I asked. I pointed over to the heavy metal table. “Mike the Meathead?” 

“No, we’ll have auditions,” Jimmy spat. 

“At least think it over,” Patricio advised. “He’s killing our act.”

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll think it over.”

“Uh oh,” Patricio said. 

“What is it now?” Jimmy spat. 

The door to the Oily Pig pub had swung open and in walked the fourth member of our quartet, Melvin. He had not shaved for several weeks, his straw hat was askew, and he walked towards our table with a distinct hunch. 

“You guys talking about me,” he asked, taking a seat at the booth next to Jimmy. 

“We would never,” Patricio said. 

“Course we were, you’re bringing us down,” Jimmy spat. He was now starting in on his fifth beer. 

“It’s cool, I get it,” Melvin said dejectedly. 

“Melvin, it’s just that you’re not practicing,” I said. “Your voice is hoarse and your heart’s not in it anymore and you haven’t been practicing.”

“What’s been going on?” Patricio asked. 

“Well, you see, boys,” Melvin started. He reached for Jimmy’s fry basket. “May I?”

“No, you may not,” Jimmy spat. 

Melvin retracted his hand. “Well, you see, boys…I’ve been starting to rethink my career choice. Don’t get me wrong, I like the pageantry. I love the whole song and dance, the showmanship, the colors. But I’ve been getting fed up with the same old musical numbers, over and over again. It’s getting boring. I’m no spring chicken anymore, fellas. I’m starting to get to that point in my life where I really want to make the most of the time I have left.”

“So what are you saying,” Jimmy spat. 

“I’m saying I want to get into the taffy business.”

“Beg your pardon?” I asked. 

“You know, taffy. Make the taffy, pull it, sell it to people at the shop window,” he said. “Maybe somewhere on a coastal town, by the beach.”

“That’s incredibly random,” Patricio said. 

“Well, it’s what I want to do and I’ve been fantasizing about it nonstop since April when I initially had the idea.”

“That’s when you stopped practicing your vocal warm-ups,” Jimmy spat. 

“Exactly.” Melvin sighed. “I just want to pull my taffy by the beach. That’s all I want to do.”

“Well, Melvin…I think you should do it.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah. I think if it makes you happy then you should go ahead and do it.”

“Thanks!” Melvin’s face lit up and he reached for Jimmy’s nearly empty fry basket. “Not on your life,” Jimmy spat, swatting his hand away. 

“What do you fellas think?”

“Do it,” Jimmy spat. 

“If it makes you happy, then go for it,” Patricio said. 

“You won’t be a barbershop quartet anymore,” Melvin said sadly. 

“It’ll be okay,” I said, patting him on the back. “Maybe we’ll try something else for a while.” I looked over at the meatheads in their leather jackets, laughing over their pitchers of beer. “Maybe we’ll try out the heavy metal scene.”

Jimmy, Patricio, and Melvin laughed in unison. 

“I’m serious,” I said.