Johnny Mathis had been at the top of my list for a long time. I considered him a kindred spirit. I also worshipped him like a god. For me, he was the perfect man, even if he did have kind of a feminine side. I copied him unashamedly. I made clothes that looked like his: the pinstripe gangster suit that looks so great on him, the black-and-white houndstooth jacket; I even tried to re-design his famous red leather jacket in such a way that it wasn't leather and it wasn't red; this way it would be mine but still be like his! Yes, I had it bad! It wasn't just clothing, I wanted to live like him, too. I learned he put most of his money in bonds and real estate, that he even owns a post office in Wisconsin. I figured whatever worked for him would for me, too. I couldn't afford a post office, but I figured a mutual fund with bonds in it would be a good start.
In short, I wanted to be like him in every way possible. That's the way it is with me. When I devote myself to someone or some cause, I go whole hog. I started collecting everything I could find that he had recorded that weren't compilations. I taped all the TV appearances that I knew of. One of the happiest days in my life was the day he was coming to my city. I would finally get to see him in person!
It was such a memorable experience for me, because the whole experience of going to shows was new. I had never gone to a show of any kind before in my life. Not to see the Jackson Five, not to see Elton John, not to see Journey, all of whom I was an ardent fan of before I latched onto Johnny Mathis. I didn't even know you had to dress up for his shows; I showed up in my sweatshirt jacket just like my friends would at their rock concerts. I was so excited to be there just knowing I was in the same room as my idol and role model. I had stars in my eyes. I could have used binoculars, because I couldn't afford to get tickets up close. But I was there to hear and to learn and to absorb. I made a note of everything I saw, everything he did, what kind of people attended. I noticed he spent a lot of time with his back to the audience, like he was singing to his band and not to us. But I still had stars in my eyes. I figured it was one of his quirks, kind of a Miles Davis thing.
All in all, though, I went home from the show generally satisfied. Before I knew it, I had spent three hours, with only a thirty-minute intermission, listening to great music, and from that day forward I knew Johnny Mathis was more than a series of album covers. He had performed a lot of songs I didn't know had words to themas well as a lot of songs I hadn't heard, I wanted to learn more about these songs. I saw a limousine pass out front after the show and I waved at it; I just knew it had to be his.
By the time I attended another concert, I had learned a whole lot more about Mathis and the songs he sings, but I had also learned to notice things. I noticed how he tended to say the same things he said at the show I first attended four years prior, as if he were scripted. I would say to myself, "Why does his voice crack there?" or "He's stumbled over his words again" or just plain, "What's wrong with him?" I was tough on him! I thought he was the best and I wanted him to act like it. But like most people in love I was willing to give my transgressor another chance. I'd see him again someday. In Dallas.
I remember being so excited for my first trip to Dallas, staying at the beautiful Marriott Quorum and marveling at the fantastic architecture that is the Morton Meyerson Symphony Center and the unusual vantage point behind Joe Lizama's drums from which I would view the stage. For a change I wouldn't need binoculars. Good thing, too, because as it happened I would spend the evening not believing what I was seeing with my own two eyes.
Something was wrong from the get-go. He was late coming to the stage, and fifteen minutes later when he did appear he seemed, well, disoriented. He came on and tried to say something about his being one of the first performers at the Meyerson, and was almost unintelligible. He seemed to recover once he started singing again, but after a while weird stuff happened. He was fumbling around for his sheet music, and he forgot the words to one of the Christmas songs he's been singing for over 35 years! He even dropped his microphone! As it happens, that show was shorter than normal, too. He was behaving, in my opinion, as if he were either drunk or drugged.
But surely this couldn't be! I was truly worried for my idol. He looked like a man in trouble out there. I mean, it's not like he was staggering or anything, and he did have the presence of mind to notice his audience just above and behind the stage and sing to us, as well. Still, the experience jarred me emotionally. I was frightened, and from that perch behind the drum kit I wished I hadn't seen what had happened.
I remember being a little subdued by my disillusionment driving back to the hotel after the concert. Back in my hotel room I buried my face in the sweatshirt I bought at the show and I tried to rationalize his behavior somehow; this was a man who could do no wrong in my eyes. I thought, "there has to be a good reason for what I saw"; "it's gotta be a fluke"; "...maybe I'm making too much of this; maybe he acts like this all the time, I'm just not used to it yet." Who am I kidding? Mathis is a dignified professional and acts like one, always. Maybe he was on some kind of medication. Blood pressure medicine, something. He had taken a fall and had hip surgery not long ago, he may be reacting to something. I was grasping at anything. To this day I don't know what was going on, but by the time I left for home the stars in my eyes were gone, and I was hoping to hell the people who still had them in theirs didn't see what I did.
But my god, people were going to see him! I had been a fan club member for so long, and I took my role seriously. I felt it was kind of my job to tell people about Mathis; not people who were fanatics who spouted their accolades among themselves and already had their minds made up, but people who hadn't experienced Mathis magic yet. I knew the ultimate experience for anyone who really wanted to see what Mathis was about would be the live concert experience, such as that captured on my audiotape "Johnny Mathis In Person--Live in Las Vegas". I wanted people to see the true Mathis; such that I thought he was, anyway. Not a president's subservient court jester, like my brother suggested; not a china doll whose sole purpose is to shine and look pretty and be petted with no other real purpose. My Mathis was a real professional; an intelligent interpreter of a variety of songs who delivers with emotion and precision, and who is careful about the image of himself he projects either on stage or on television. People listen to me go on and on about him at work and at home. Then he goes on stage and does crap like this! How was I supposed to explain this to people? I couldn't even explain it to me!
Well, I have to say it was bitter medicine. I had started to think about what I had seen not only at Dallas, but on his few TV appearances and in his music videos during the three-and-a-half hour drive back home, and I've thought about it a lot since then, too. I went home and really studied the videotapes I'd made to see with new eyes what I was looking at; I figure maybe it was a good thing that I had seen less of the god I'd made Johnny Mathis out to be and more of the human being that God made him to be. What I had been seeing all this time on TV, and to some extent hearing in my records, it turns out, was a lie. A big, fat, stinking fabrication. What I had been seeing in concert, then, was the naked truth; the kind of truth that can't be scripted, or edited out, or planned, or planted. The disappointing truth is, Johnny Mathis is just a man.
It takes a fair dose of maturity to be able to accept this. It's like at the beginning of a love affair when two people wallow in each other's perceived perfection, and they live and breathe each other with such an intensity, all they can see is the brightness of the stars in their eyes, but then they learn more and more about each other, noticing quirks, sometimes annoying, that was there all along but they've just never noticed before. They each have to decide if they're going to be able to live with these quirks, or are they going to break it off. And if they accept each other for who they are, they experience a love that's less intense, perhaps, but no less deep; a mature love develops.
I've learned a lot about Johnny Mathis over the years. Thanks in part to that night in Dallas, I can see Johnny Mathis clearly without the stars in my eyes. Although I no longer need to follow his every move as closely as before, I can still appreciate his artistry, his accomplishments, and his humanness, and I can now accept that, well, it's okay to have a bad day, even in public.
I'm slowly coming to terms with my perfectionist "you're the best so act like it" expectations, but I have trouble settling for "the best they can do". I hate settling. Whether you're a professional singer or a writer or any other kind of artist, you owe the people who attend your performances or read your books or see your paintings the best possible product. A professional, of course, understands this and tries their best to deliver. After all, the audience understandably feels obligated to get something worthwhile for the money they spent for your product.
You expect the studio perfection of a recording when you go to a live performance, especially if you don't go to that many shows and just don't know exactly what to expect. But what happens is anything but perfection. You get to hear the hiccups and the coughs and the voice breaks and the memory lapses and all the other things the recording engineers edit away.
It all comes down to lies and truth. Studio perfection is a lie. Henri Matisse said, "Accuracy is not truth". What you get from a live performance is the truth; but truth can sure be disconcerting when you're not prepared for it.
One day, I'd like to meet Johnny Mathis after a show, only I wonder if my realization that he is more human than god will ease my awe of him. After all, as he has recently proven to me at Carnegie Hall, sometimes truth is very, very close to perfection. Yes, again, I gave him another chance. It was a performance such that I would have easily reinstated his god status had I been less enlightened an individual, and he has renewed my faith in the professional I knew him to be. I guess, if that day ever comes, I'll handle it the way my fan club correspondent told me once how to handle the situation. It's basically common sense. "If your behavior would annoy a friend, it'll annoy John," she said. That, and keep it short. It'll have been a long night and he can't stay up like he used to. Can't we all. It makes sense. If you are able to see him as an imperfect human being, not as a god, you can understand how that can be so.
Of course, I would never insult him by pointing out his foibles; after all, he knows what went on out there, he was there. I like Dr. Suzuki's suggestion about visiting the altar, which could be applied to going backstage, too, I think. (If you're not familiar with Shinichi Suzuki, oh! how much you miss!) He basically says, and this is a paraphrase, "When you go to the altar, don't ask for a bunch of crap, just say thank you." That's a good approach. I would simply thank Mr. Mathis for again giving me the opportunity to see him again, and I hope he stays well, and happy. That'd be all the truth he needs to hear.
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