Imperfect Harmony

Singing old-timey songs in an
antiquated style has made
THE FOUR GUYS KNOWN AS OC TIMES
INTO CULT SUPERSTARS.
But some folks would like to see them silenced.
KIBBERS, SURFER GIRLS, AND THE BATTLE
FOR THE SOUL OF AN AMERICAN ART FORM.

Story by Kevin Roose Photographs by Bob Croslin

T’S A FEW MINUTES before noon on a late-summer

Friday, and 50 miles east of Los Angeles, behind the

counter of a Chick-fil-A in a Riverside County shopping

center, Shawn York is daydreaming. Wearing black pants,

a crisp Express button-down, a necktie emblazoned with the Chick-fil-A logo, and his OWNER/OPERATOR name badge,

he’s absentmindedly leading his franchise through the chaos of the daily lunch rush. His hands are a blur of motion—

taking sandwich orders, high-fiving his employees, fixing a broken soda fountain—but his brain is preoccupied with

visions of the stage. Like a thousand other musicians toiling away in America’s fast-food restaurants, York, a 31-year-old

 

singer whose wiry frame and slightly avian nose make him resemble a more wholesome Tony Hawk, wants to be famous. He hears the roar of the crowd while he works, sees the pop of flashbulbs and the glare of klieg lights when he closes his eyes, and feels quite sure that in short order, all of this really will be his.

In about an hour, when things slow down at the restaurant, York will drive to LAX and hop a flight to Orlando, where he’ll rendezvous with three others holding down similarly unglamorous day jobs: Cory Hunt, 23, is a research

associate at an environmental consulting firm; Sean Devine, 33, just graduated from Azusa Pacific University after completing what he calls “the 13-year plan”; and Pat Claypool, 25, waits tables in nearby Costa Mesa. Together, this foursome—who call themselves OC Times—will perform a Saturday night show in an auditorium filled with their biggest fans. After multiple encores, they’ll sign CDs, pose for cellphone photos, and fend off a phalanx of female groupies. In short, after this lunch rush is over, Shawn York will get his wish. He’ll be a star. Sort of.

OC Times is a barbershop quartet. As any Disneyland visitor or Family Guy aficionado can attest, barbershop—a style of four-part unaccompanied harmony characterized by a melody in the second-highest voice, a homophonic vocal texture, and, if you want to get technical, the frequent use of dominant seventh chords— isn’t typically known for its sex appeal. The archetypal barbershop quartet consists of four white-haired septuagenarians warbling “Coney Island Baby” while wearing striped vests, straw hats, and handlebar mustaches. As a musical genre,

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