Joe Kennedy

Joe Kennedy is routinely named the region's best writer by readers of The Roanoker magazine.

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A few weeks ago, my friend Martha gave me a CD by a singer I'd never heard of.

His name is Josh Groban.

He sings a highly romantic repertoire of lushly produced songs such as "You Raise Me Up" and "My Confession."

He sings in four languages, mostly English and Italian.

He is American, and he was a rehearsal singer for David Foster, a famed producer, composer and director, before he was discovered.

He has been on talk shows, "Ally McBeal," public television and other places where even the dimmest of people would have seen him.

But I hadn't. Nor had any of my male friends.

I listened to the CD Martha gave me and liked it.

Later, I went online and discovered that Groban was to play at the RBC Center in Raleigh, N.C., on Friday. I asked Martha if she wanted to go. When she said yes, I ordered two $65 tickets.

I thought it would be an adventure.

A short reunion

My childhood friend, Mike, lives outside Raleigh with his wife and family. They've often asked me to visit them, but I'd seen them only twice in the past seven years, once in Baltimore and once at the beach. I hadn't seen them at all for at least 15 years before that.

I called Mike and told him our plan. He invited us to stay at their place.

Friday afternoon, we visited with Mike, his wife, Elizabeth, and two of their three children.

That night, we saw Josh.

It is s-o-o-o-o easy to lampoon performers like him. He's boyish, in his 20s, and he draws a lot of middle-aged people like Martha and me. His music is lightly classical and certainly operatic.

He appeals to many fans who probably spend little time listening to the real deal, the "serious" stuff.

Again, including me.

The gig is up

No one can question the quality of Groban's baritone voice, the strength of his performing skills or the volume of screams from his younger fans.

I say this as prelude to a startling confession: Just hours away from my 59^th birthday, I permanently disposed of any coolness credentials I ever possessed.

I fell in love with Josh.

Well, not with Josh per se, but Josh the performer. Or maybe I should say Josh's show.

I've been Grobanized.

He sang for more than two hours. He kibitzed with the audience, played the piano and drums and accepted the adulation with grace.

He brought a hot band and a lot of strings, with a barefoot violinist in a long black dress who scratched out a raw, lengthy solo while I wondered where Josh went.

Then he appeared at a portal in the stands beneath us and made his way through the roaring crowd, shaking hands, speaking to children and spreading good will.

My schmaltz-o-meter was turned up high, but it never registered anything like mawkishness or kitsch.

Even the opening act was great. I'd never heard of Angelique Kidjo, but her mix of African, Latin, jazz and gospel music rocked the joint, especially her unique version of "Gimme Shelter."

Not everybody loved Josh. The middle-aged couples to our left consisted of two ecstatic women and two solemn men. We never saw either guy smile, tap a foot or applaud.

After all, they were missing "March Madness."

On Saturday morning, Martha and I had breakfast with Mike and told him we enjoyed the show.

Mike had never heard of Groban, either.

Then we drove back to Roanoke.

I'd invited some longtime friends over Saturday night to help me celebrate my upcoming birthday. My kids and two of their friends came, too.

We had chili, salads, vegetarian fare, cake, various beverages and recorded music -- blues and soul, mostly, from the likes of Marvin Gaye and Keb Mo.

I asked Martha whether I should put on the Groban CD.

She said no, and I agreed. We liked him a lot, but we had to admit it just wouldn't have been cool.