Chordiality in Washington

Once upon a time, back in the Gay 90s, a barbershop was a place where mustachioed blades could hang out and sing together in mellow harmony. What happened? The mudpack and the facial, the manicure, new-fangled tonics, lotions and powders, whirring electrical scalp treatments--and the barbershop quartet became a sentimental memory. Then, in 1938, a song-happy Tulsa tax attorney (and baritone) named Owen C. Cash organized the Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barber Shop Quartet Singing in America. Amateur singers flocked to join the society (25,000 members in 615 chapters in the U.S., Hawaii, Alaska, the Canal Zone and Canada), and last week 4,000 of them met in Washington, D.C. for their 16th annual convention.

Scoops & Swipes. Any area in the Statler Hotel (S.P.E.B.S.Q.S.A. headquarters) big enough for four men rang out in close harmony. Young and old, starch-shirted and sport-shirted, coated and uncoated, they harmonized. They bobbed and ducked in unison, cupped their ears, blew pitch pipes, rolled their eyes, leaned on each other's shoulders, swayed and rose on their toes. As elevators stopped at quiet floors and the doors opened, Carolina Moon or Bidin' My Time blasted down the hall. From behind closed doors and in the men's roona bits and pieces of When You Wore a Tulip or The World Is Waiting for the Sunrise were audible.* On the street outside the hotel, quartets with such names as the Agriculturalists (who dress in overalls, bandannas, straw hats) from Wisconsin, or the Clef Chefs (chef's aprons and hats) from Indiana, gathered at a street lamp decorated with peppermint-stick paper and gave out with Wait 'Til the Sun Shines, Nellie or Let the Rest of the World Go By.

Often, S.P.E.B.S.Q.S.A. men fell to in the lobby for some "woodshedding," a term for ad-lib singing by members who have never worked together. Naturally, woodshedding is considered a complex form of quartet work, since it calls for correct harmony and a working repertory of dozens of songs. This is no place for a crow (a nonsinging member who might sometimes toss in an ad-lib dum-dee-dee-dee), but calls for S.P.E.B.S.Q.S.A. men who can drop (the bass singer drops down one octave at the close of the song), scoop (hitting a note on the flat side and sliding up to proper pitch) and swipe (singing a progression of two or more chords on a single word or syllable).

Smiles & Cheers. But the society did not spend all its time woodshedding.

There were meetings, too. Basso Berney Simmer, 51, of St. Louis, a district manager for Acme Visible Records, Inc. (business files), was elected president of the organization. Most important of all were the contests. Beginning with semifinals, in which 40 quartets and 22 choruses participated, the convention ended with a wall-rocking sing-off for the quartet Medalist prize. In Constitution Hall (dubbed Harmony Hall for the occasion) the big finals began with a Wichita, Kans. group called the Orphans. Dressed in blue tailored coats and pants and red bow ties, the quartet sang a smooth When the Bell in the Lighthouse Rings Ding, Dong. Next came the Lytle Brothers from Sharon, Pa.

(white coats, crimson pants, string ties).

The boys were full of practiced gestures and snap as they gave out with I'm Going Home (to Sunny Southland} and Drifting Back to Dreamland. After a Canadian outfit called The Toronto Rhythmaires bowed off, the Statesmen from Sacramento, Calif, (white jackets with a red "S") bounced out with Let's Fall in Love All Over Again and a swinging smile medley--Happy Days Are Here Again, Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag (and Smile, Smile, Smile).

The last quartet was Amarillo's Four Hearsemen (black-rimmed glasses, black frock coats, striped grey pants, black string tie), who trooped on grimly--their tenor is an undertaker--and sang, fittingly, There's Always Room at Our House.

When the cheering finally died down, the 20 shirt-sleeved judges announced the winner: Wichita's Orphans. (The prizes: gold medals, a one-shot recording deal.) The losers would at least take home with them the inspirational words of Convention Keynoter Charles M. Merrill, a baritone and a justice of Nevada's Supreme Court: "When a quartet is really locked in [each voice adjusted to the perfect pitch to produce maximum chord ring], when that chord really rings, we sit spellbound not simply because we are being superlatively entertained. We are vicariously enjoying the precise thrill of accomplishment . . . We sang that chord.

Ask yourselves in all honesty if that is not so. Barbershop is still essentially participation ..."

-- One old favorite that is now officially banned by the society: Sweet Adeline. The society felt that the song had too close an association with the barbershop's neighbor, the saloon.

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