Does anyone but me ever wonder where these old doo-wop stars you see
in purple tuxedos with mauve lapels on public-television marathons
have been between the distant time when they recorded their hit (usually only one,
one huge one, that being the nature of doo-wop) and now, when, bathed in limelight and applause,
the intact group re-sings it, just like then?
They have aged with dignity, these men, usually black, their gray hairdos still conked,
their up-from-the-choir baby faces lined with wrinkles now, their spectacles a-glimmer
upon their twinkling eyeballs as they hit the old falsetto notes and thrum-de-hums,
like needles dropped into a groove, the groove in which both they and we are young again,
the silent years skipped over.
Who knows what two-bit gigs and muddled post-midnights
they bided their time in? And when at last the agitated agent’s call came through—
the doo-wop generation old enough and rich enough by now to woo again,
on worthy telethons this time around, nostalgia generating pledges—why
was not a weathered man of the quartet deceased or otherwise impaired? How have
they done it, come out whole the other side,
how did they do it, do it still, still doo?