In my DNA

I mentioned recently that the first record I ever owned was Elvis Presley’s Love Me Tender. But before that 45 started my love of collecting music there were already several 78s in the house. The only two I remember off the top of my head are Mitch Miller and the Gang’s version of The Yellow Rose of Texas and 1952’s Thumbelina by Danny Kaye.

There were also LPs, though that was a bit later, in the early 1960s -- music that my parents remembered from the 40s through the 60s: Les Brown and His Band of Renown, Benny Goodman, Meyer Davis, Les Elgart and other dance band recordings. And there were original cast albums such as My Fair Lady and soundtracks like South Pacific, West Side Story and Oklahoma!

I played all of them but I was particularly fond of the Broadway shows, whether on stage or on film. How many times home alone did I dance and act out the parts of both rancher and farmer in The Farmer and the Cowman from Oklahoma!; or sing the boys part in America from West Side Story; or pretend I was outside Professor Higgins's house singing On the Street Where You Live?

Maybe it was in my blood. I mean we gay men are supposed to love this stuff, right? Wasn’t it Robin Williams who said “homosexuals are tall, thin men who like show tunes”? I’m six feet and was once thin.

West Side Story sits at perhaps the top of my list. The music and dancing are among the best ever written or choreographed; I’ve seen three staged versions and have watched the film – now out in an incredibly gorgeous Blu-ray edition – at least a dozen times over the years. (It’s on "pause" right now as I write this).

Yesterday my friend Suzanne and I went to Lincoln Center to watch New York City Ballet’s “Tribute to Broadway:” Fancy Free, Carousel (A Dance) and West Side Story Suite. It was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. Fancy Free, choreographed by Jerome Robbins, with music by Leonard Bernstein, brought a modern, American sensibility to ballet and was later expanded to become the Broadway show On the Town. It’s a staple of both New York City Ballet and American Ballet Theatre and I’ve seen it half a dozen times at least.

Carousel (A Dance) was new to me and was somewhat less impressive than the other two, but the chance to hear a sixty-piece orchestra play that gorgeous score was thrilling.

It was West Side Story Suite though that bowled me over, as usual. Every note, every move, every word is, as I say, in my blood. Also choreographed by Robbins with, of course, music by Bernstein, I have never tired of this most American of musicals. The dance version hits many of the highlights: Something’s Coming, Dance at the Gym, America and more. City Ballet even uses vocalists, including some of the dancers themselves.

The stereotype is not true; there are plenty of gay men who are bored by musicals – my husband is one of them. But I am part of the group that fits the stereotype: a show-tune-loving, somewhat tall, not often thin gay man. 

Let me shut up and get back to Tony and Maria.

Before Leo there was Walter, and before that, Don

Readers of this blog know that I love ships. I love being on them, I love seeing them, I love reading about them and I love imagining what it would have been like to be on a specific ship.

In the latter category I think of the French liner Normandie, thought by most ship aficionados to be the most gorgeous ship ever built. This art deco beauty boasted some of the most lushly appointed public rooms afloat, rivaling those on shore. The glasswork, from the chandeliers to the water glasses, was by Lalique; the fabrics on the walls and furniture were of extraordinary quality; and the first class dining room was the largest and most beautiful room at sea (pictured).

Alas, this lovely lady met a sad and undignified fate, burning and capsizing while tied up at a New York pier during World War II.

I didn’t sail the Normandie, but I did manage three voyages on another storied liner, Queen Elizabeth 2: a Caribbean holiday and two transatlantic crossings. Every day on board the last of the great ocean liners– at least until her sister, Queen Mary 2, was launched – was a day to cherish. The extravagant meals, the theatre shows of Broadway quality, the guest lectures, the afternoon teas and ballroom dancing in the Queens Lounge all added to the thrill.

However, the greatest experience of all was born in jealousy and ended in enmity.

In 1977 my cruise mate Don and I sailed QE2 from New York to Boston to the Caribbean and back. It was a two week cruise full of all the above-mentioned diversions, and one more that soon became unavailable to passengers: we were taken to a crew bar and enjoyed the lively camaraderie of dining room workers and other crew members. Cunard didn’t encourage this mingling, but neither did they forbid it.

After one of these visits Don ventured out on deck where Ricky, a waiter, led him to the very tip of the bow. Of course neither of them belonged there; Ricky would have been fired immediately; Don would have faced a stern tongue-lashing.

When Don told me about it the next day I was overcome with jealousy. I hated that I had missed the adventure, and was determined to experience it myself. Later that night, finding ourselves in the crew bar again, I managed to convince Ricky to take me, and then covertly, and selfishly, gave Don the slip.

It was everything Don had said it was. He remembers most the incredible stars visible from that vantage point. My memory is of the intense wind: the twenty-plus knots QE2 was pulling, added to whatever wind there was that night. I also remembered how high above the water we were and how dark and dangerous the ocean looked from way up there. It was intense, magical, scary, and thrilling; my heart was pumping madly.

We managed to get back safely and undiscovered. (As I look back I am amazed Ricky pulled this off two nights in a row without getting caught. I mean, we must have been perfectly visible from the bridge, had anyone been looking.)

When I next saw Don he was furious. I had lied to him and had bullied my way into something that had been very special to him. I would have had just as much fun if Don had come with us, but I was too selfish to realize that.

I am sorry I behaved as I did. I am even more sorry that I caused a rift that kept Don and me apart for two years. I am thankful that he graciously accepted my long-overdue apology when it was finally proffered.

But I still thrill at the memory of standing at the very tip of QE2. Long before Leonardo DiCaprio had his “king of the world” moment aboard Titanic, Don and I each had ours on her cousin.

This is obviously not the QE2, but I love the image, and it shows you just where we stood on QE2:

 right at the very point that seems about to hit Lady Liberty.

James is coming to town

My friend Don wrote in an email today that he had “seen JB so many times on TV (the Ed Sullivan show, for example), but never in person.” He was speaking of James Brown, the incredible soul singer/shouter who died on Christmas Day, 2006.

Remembering my brother’s comment that if you’ve only seen a film on home video you haven’t really seen the film, I’m here to say that Don never really saw James Brown. Whatever dynamic power came across the airwaves, in person it was far more -- almost unbelievably -- intense. His energy level was incredible; if Sam and Dave didn’t put on the best ever live show -- which, according to Rob Bowman in his liner notes to The Stax/Volt Revue: Live in Norway 1967, they did -- then it was James Brown. I saw him at least twice in Richmond, VA, and one memorable time in South Bend, IN – more on that in a moment. Each time I left the show wet with sweat, and I wasn’t the one on stage.

On the iconic 1963 album James Brown, Live at the Apollo, announcer Fats Gonder dubs Brown “the hardest working man in show business.” You’ll get no argument from me. The full introduction bears repeating:

"So now ladies and gentlemen it is star time; are you ready for star time? Thank you and thank you very kindly. It is indeed a great pleasure to present to you at this particular time, nationally and internationally known as the hardest-working man in show business, the man who sings "I'll Go Crazy" ... "Try Me" ... "You've Got the Power" ... "Think" ... "If You Want Me" ... "I Don't Mind" ... "Bewildered" ...the million dollar seller, "Lost Someone" ... the very latest release, "Night Train" ... let's everybody "Shout and Shimmy" ... Mr. Dynamite, the amazing Mr. Please Please himself, the star of the show, James Brown and the Famous Flames!"

The South Bend show was the second of two performances that night. It was supposed to start at 11:00pm. I was perhaps 18, so just the thought of going to an 11pm soul show was thrilling, and a little bit scary. I didn’t know what to expect. The first show ran late and we didn’t even get into the theatre til past 11:30. The show started at perhaps midnight. James Brown didn’t hit the stage for a couple of hours. I wish I could tell you who else was on the tour, but I’d be guessing.

Eventually the announcer introduced Brown, very much like Gonder did at the Apollo.

At that moment his band and his vocal group, the Famous

Flames, took what was already a fast, loud and furious beat to a new level. The horns blared, the electric guitar punctuated the backbeat and James Brown ran on stage. He didn’t stop moving for over two hours.

By the time we left the auditorium the sun was rising, the street lights were winking off and we were ecstatic. We walked all the way back to campus – it was too early for the busses. It was a night I’ll never forget.

The first time I heard Brown was in 1966. I had a summer job with the City of Richmond, reading gas and water meters. One day I was assigned to Church Hill, a predominantly Afro-American section of town. It was my favorite neighborhood to work because I was often able to swing by the Church Hill Record Shop and browse bin after bin of music that simply wasn’t available at the stores in the white part of town.

Near the record store was a dry cleaner and since in the car I had a sport coat that needed cleaning, I dropped in. After the guy asked me when I wanted the coat back I vaguely said, “Saturday?”  He looked me right in the eye and said, “Saturday? We won’t be here Saturday. JAMES is comin’ to town Saturday.”

It was that weekend that I saw the hardest-working man in show business for the first time.

(If you have no idea what the fuss is all about, check out The T.A.M.I. Show, available at Netflix. This weird and wonderful concert features an 18 minute set by Brown and will give you at least a taste of what you missed. It's also a concert worth seeing in its own right, although weird is what I call a show that features Chuck Berry AND Lesley Gore, Marvin Gaye AND the Rolling Stones, all hosted by Jan and Dean. Check it out.)

A record I bought -- and probably heard for the first time -- at the Church Hill Record Shop

Mourning a genius

I don’t go to movies much anymore, and that’s a shame. I still watch a lot of movies; I just don’t “go” to them. As my brother, who teaches film, would tell you, if you’ve only seen a movie on your TV screen, you haven’t seen the movie. Movies are designed to be seen in a large, dark room with lots of strangers, on a huge screen, far bigger than even the largest HD TV. Watching it at home is a serious compromise at best.

I agree with him, and there are a few films that I make a real effort to see in the theatre. Avatar was one. The Lord of the Rings trilogy constitutes three more. I wish I had seen Life of Pi in a theatre. I wrote not long ago about the absolute thrill of watching 2001: A Space Odyssey on the big screen for the first time in maybe 40 years.

Another thrill I remember is watching Coney Island being destroyed by the eponymous monster of The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms. I’m not sure I saw it in its first release (1952) but I know I saw it in a movie theatre at some point, and of course I watched it on late night TV several times. It was the best monster movie ever and created in me a lifelong love of the genre.

A film I definitely saw on its first release in the movie theatres was 1958’s The 7th Voyage of Sinbad. There were monsters in this one too, and sailors and sea battles and heroes fighting their way to victory. I was enthralled.

Both these films, as well as Jason and the Argonauts, Mysterious Island, One Million Years B. C. and The Clash of the Titans (among others), had special effects by the great Ray Harryhausen, who died yesterday at the age of 92.

He added tremendously to my love of movies over the years, and though he may not be a household name to most Americans, anyone who loved film knew and admired his work. Yesterday’s piece in the New York Times quoted Tom Hanks saying at the 1992 Academy Awards that "the greatest movie of all time was not Citizen Kane or Casablanca but Jason and the Argonauts." Directors of famous special-effects laden movies from George Lucas to Steven Spielberg, James Cameron and Peter Jackson all owe a huge debt of gratitude to Harryhausen.

As do I. He will be missed.

Driving

I drove my car yesterday for the first time in almost a month. I went to see Dr. David Gibson, the brilliant surgeon who fixed the problems created by the doctor who did my knee two years ago. Gibson was very happy – as am I – with my recovery and wrote a referral for two-three weeks of physical therapy. (I’ve had home visits from Wonderful Wendy, my favorite dominatrix, since I got home; next is work with weights and machines at a rehab facility).

The hesitation about letting someone drive too soon after knee surgery is what might happen in an emergency. If I had to stop suddenly and slam my foot on the brake, who knows what damage I might do to the knee? So, until yesterday, I was home bound.

Turns out the problem I had driving did not come from my knee at all, but rather, from my eyes. It was hard to drive with tears obscuring the road.

Once again, the culprit was a brilliant podcast, this time an episode of Radio Lab from WNYC in New York. This one is entitled 23 Weeks 6 Days and is the story of Kelley Benham and the pregnancy she went through with her husband Tom French. The title comes from the generally held belief that 24 weeks is the minimum age a fetus must reach before it is viable; Kelley and Tom’s daughter was born one day shy of that.

I invite you to listen to the show, so I won’t tell you how it came out. But, as I said, I cried. I cried picturing this poor couple facing decisions no one should ever have to make. I cried thinking about the child that I might have had in 1968 had my girlfriend made a different decision. I cried as I ponder the enormous burden of being a parent – something I have admired from afar in my friends, but never experienced.

Do I wish I had kids? Well, yes. And no. I’ve had an excellent life and much of what I’ve done would not have been possible with children. Had I had kids of course I would have, I hope, had an equally excellent, just different, life. That could have been me and Ransom on the left; instead it's Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka with their twin boys. 

We live the lives we’re given. Mine’s been a good one, and it’s getting better again now that I can leave my house. Who knew spring had arrived while I was cooped up?