The Bobs Are Plenty Long on Form but Considerably Short on Feeling

The Bobs raised their voices in miraculously arranged harmonies Friday at the Coach House, living up to bass singer Richard Greene’s description of their singing as “architecture constructed out of air.”

The Bay Area a cappella quintet built some impressive edifices, several with harmonies so richly tiered as to be nearly palpable, and others with a spare interplay of voices to suggest a steel-and-glass minimalist design. But don’t go looking for cathedrals in their music. The Bobs’ architecture is decidedly modern, and like its more concrete counterpart, their constructs can leave one cold. While always clever, and sometimes daring, their songs, arrangements and delivery smacked of artifice and emotional distance.

One need only hear the similarly instrumentless Persuasions or Ladysmith Black Mambazo to be dumbstruck by the range of emotions and overriding human warmth that entwined voices can convey. And with either of those outfits, the intensity of the performance could be such that there would scarcely be time to notice that there were no instruments on stage.

While funny in places, the Bobs incessant air-guitar antics seemed always to be reminding, “Whoa! Are we unique or what?” For better or worse, that blinking sign only occasionally distracted from anything deeper going on.

Granted, much of the Bobs material doesn’t purport to be anything but humorous, and they did sometimes connect in that area. The new “Drive-By Love,” a well-crafted little pop song detailing the romance of a Fotomat vendor and a UPS driver, was both witty and tender. On “Cowboy Lips,” Matthew Stull lampooned the Marlboro mannerisms adopted by city-dwelling males, managing some inspired prairie yelps.

While every arched eyebrow and between-song comment seemed scripted, the group’s drama-major affectations worked to their advantage in some instances. “Welcome to My Fog,” a few minutes spent in the mind of a blissfully oblivious fellow, was rendered hilarious by Gunnar Madsen’s simpleton expressions. With a nod to Herman’s Hermits’ “There’s a Kind of Hush,” he sang, “The only sound that I can hear / Is when you’re yelling in my ear” while offering the sort of grin that Elmer Fudd wears when he’s just been knocked senseless.

Madsen’s nimble face also enriched Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer,” as he delivered the song glowering like a high-strung demento. He and Greene made “Bus Plunge” a comic romp, swaying like woozy bus drivers as their chorus prayed for coffee and bennies.

The singing throughout was about as splendid as it gets without risking actual emotion. The rest of the group set lush chords hovering behind Stull as he recited the Sam Spade-like opening lines to “Santa Ana Woman,” a song aptly introduced by Greene as “a cappella noir .” The most effective vocals came on “Pounded on a Rock” from their “Laundry Cycle,” with bass man Greene stepping forward for the lead on the gospel-inspired arrangement. But while the group sang with power and precision, there was no disguising that it held no passion for the subject matter.

That shortage of fervor was particularly evident in most of the cover material, which included a forgettable James Brown encore medley, the Beatles’ “Helter Skelter,” and Janie (Bob) Scott’s “Fever,” which hardly even called for an aspirin. There was an equally tepid version of Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire,” which was elevated only by a mock-horn duel between Finetti and Greene. While no contender for Bill (Bojangles) Robinson’s incredible brass mimicry, Finetti does a pretty impressive trumpet. His other specialty, duplicating percussion sounds with his mouth, was used to good effect throughout the show.