Twenty Years. Some Stuff Takes Time..

Twenty years ago today, my dad died. The cause was prostate cancer. He fought it for years. He refused to stop working, so he went through treatments while shooting “Law And Order.” On the one hand, one could think that was crazy — wouldn’t you want to devote all your strength into battling your illness? On the other hand, his work was so much a part of his identity, that to let go of it might have been letting go of himself. After spending so much of his life in the theater, where camaraderie and teamwork are so important, the idea of not letting the cast, crew, and audience down must have been a big motivator for him. So as a son, I can think “why didn’t you take better care of yourself?” But as an artist, I can think, “At least you didn’t abandon yourself.” It took several years to be able to detach enough from the grief of losing him to be able to make that distinction.

I’d never lost someone that close to me before, and it screwed me up for a long time. Grief makes you completely nuts. And in western society, where we’re SO focused on life, health, and youth, I think a lot of us are probably mentally and spiritually unprepared for illness and death.

The added components of fame and money made an already painful thing a lot more complicated. Things that most other people hash out in private are laid bare in public, often without context and with a lot of misunderstanding.

The main thing is, it took a lot of time to be able to sort things out. But as years — decades — have passed, many of the complicated, negative, and immature resentments I hung onto have fallen away. I’ve said this before — when you have a parent who is a celebrity, you have to share them with the world. When you’re a kid, you think, “I want more of you for me!” But the trade off has been seeing the millions of people around the world that sharing him has brought real joy to. Not just passing pleasure and light entertainment…people genuinely feel better because of his work. I think of how many songs, books, and movies that helped provide context and meaning to times in my life that seemed impossible to navigate.The right song at the right time can make the unbearable bearable. Knowing that my dad’s work continues to make so many people happy makes me happy too. It doesn’t fill the hole of his not having been there at times then, and not being here now…but it’s like a glider that flies me over it. I can see the depth and size of that hole, and also the beauty of the sky above it.

I’m mostly sad that he didn’t see me become more together as a person, and that he’s never met my kids. But he’s also IN me, and in them. When Aaron cracks a silly joke, I see a little bit of dad’s zany gleam. Emily looks TOTALLY like her mom, but when she stands on a box and belts out a song, I think of him standing in a spotlight and hitting the back of the house with his voice. That’s the real legacy. Not who cashes the checks.

He never taught me how to change a tire, or use a chainsaw. But he did show me the importance of being on time, treating your co-workers well, and giving it your best shot. Also how to hold a pool cue.

I also want to share a story — about the time he got the most angry with me.

I think what frustrated him the most about me was my talent for getting in my own way. I didn’t really learn how to sing in public without being a nervous wreck until I was in my forties and fifties. I could open up in the recording studio, but on stage, my voice “hid.”

One day, I was visiting him at his “health” club. I put the word “health” in quotation marks because it was mostly middle aged guys smoking cigars and eating cold cuts while playing cards. But there was a gym there, and I would visit him often and we had great times.

On this one particular day, after working out, we were in the showers, in separate stalls. We would often sing together while showering, sometimes duets and sometimes taking turns. But on this one day my voice was feeling especially good, and I started singing Roy Orbison’s “Crying.” It’s a tough song with some big, open, long, high notes. And I was banging them out with no problem. I hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t laughing or singing along. There was silence. As I was hitting another big note, I was startled to see him in the corner of my eye — he had left his shower stall and was standing, naked, dripping, still covered with soap — suds in his hair and all over his body, and he was holding a back brush like he was going to beat me with it. He looked absolutely LIVID. The anger in his eyes was more intense than I’d ever seen before or since. And then he yelled at me: “HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU HITTING THOSE NOTES??? AND WHY AREN’T YOU OUT THERE SINGING SOMEPLACE???? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU???”

Back then, I felt a kind of shock around that. But it took me years to unpack that moment. Yes, he was frustrated with me, but also, my god, what a vote of confidence! This was Jerry Freaking Orbach, one of the best singers on Broadway, telling me at 29 that I “had it.” I didn’t really believe it until I was around 53. A connection finally got made, between a shower on 54th street in 1998 and a rehearsal studio in Ogunquit in 2022. I wished he could have seen it.

Some stuff just takes time.

The Hallmark Channel — A World Of Its Own

Christmastime. The Hallmark Channel really is its own reality.  It's that Vancouver-as-America "everytown" vibe.  A pretty girl with a big smile and a vacuous soul has a high-pressure unfulfilling job in “the big city.” She decides to spend this Christmas in the small idyllic town where she grew up. Her mother (or aunt or grandma) runs an ornament shop or small bakery that probably makes 10 bucks a year in profits, yet the old girl somehow manages to be able to swing having said store in an amazing corner location in the best part of town. She has a boyfriend— invariably he’s an asshole — a slick guy in a Porsche (or a Camaro, budget permitting…in any case it has to be red). He’s always on the phone and he never has time for her. Early on in her visit, she has an awkward, humbling, chance encounter with a scruffy dog-walker/barista with a permanent 2-day beard and a funny zit on his jawline that the makeup artist couldn't conceal (or just couldn't be bothered to). He was the guy in middle school with thick glasses and an overbite who played Dungeons And Dragons in the stands during gym who has become pretty handsome as time’s gone by.

There are sad attempts at witty dialogue that fall flat with bells on. And there's WAY too much exposition in said dialogue -- things that could be told well with a gesture or a look in the eye have to be spelled out and said clearly, either to make sure we "get it", or because the writer had zero faith that the actors chosen could convey such subtleties, and, therefore, any potential stabs at artistry have to be reined-in in the holy name of "Why the next door neighbor is so grouchy."

Having locked up the romantic leads with former cheerleaders and Ottawa's finest, the producers blow the big dollars on a star appearance or two: maybe Christopher Lloyd, or William Shatner, or if the producers are REALLY feeling frisky, BOTH.  They gladly appear, too -- genially sleep-walking through the sucker because, hey, it'll pay for something: feed for the show-horses for a year? The grandkids' college fund? The cable bill? Or as Rick said in "Casablanca" -- "sort of a combination of all three"?

In the fullness of time, there is the inevitable deus-ex-whackina “Christmas magic”, in the form of a wizened old janitor who turns out to be Santa, a kid who turns out to be an Elf, or a shelter dog who turns out to be a reindeer (wait, that's TOO GOOD).  Said enchanted person/creature cathartically transforms the troubled protagonist into the sweetheart she was really meant to be, and she and the dog walker/barista go traipsing through machine-made snow drifts into the tiny-bulb-lit night, to the strains of an easy-to-get-the-rights-to public domain holiday tune.

Such films are the cinematic equivalent of Cott's Cola.  Cott's was a b-list soda brand that was sold in a vending machine outside of a long-gone locksmith's shop on 23rd between 6th and 7th, back when that kind of meant something.  Anyway, my friend Peer and I each bought a can of this soda once, because it was cheap and we were adventurous.  And it tasted....meh.  As Baz put it all those decades ago: "The flavor molecule? And the bubble molecule? They're not going together...."

Do yourselves a favor. Peel some potatoes and watch Alistair Sim's rendition of "Scrooge", again and again and again.  Because nothing else comes close.  If you need a break, alternate between Stevie Wonder's xmas album (that he made in the 70's) Dean Martin's "Making Spirits Bright", and Take 6's debut record.  If I do that, I will close my eyes and feel my late mother with me in the room.  In a good way.

I'll be doing my best to avoid the Hallmark Channel, as lovingly as I can, while still wondering why I can't get work as an extra. I suspect I may have written part of the answer to that question above.  May all my actor friends earn enough to keep their coverage, and may the world, in some form, survive.

Happy Birthday, Sonny Rollins

So yesterday was the 90th birthday of jazz saxophone COLOSSUS Sonny Rollins. I was introduced to his music, of course, through my brother Tony, who actually has one of his old horns. I had the pleasure of meeting Sonny once, and here's how it went.

In the mid-90's I worked for about a year as a runner at Clinton Recording Studios. This was back in my long-hair, pasty, still drinking-and-using days. Clinton was owned by an absolute madman, and staffed largely by people as crazy as me. There was a great deal of pot-smoking in the basement, in the room where they kept the plate reverbs. If you were a runner, like me, that essentially meant you were the LOWEST guy on the totem pole. You ran errands. You swept the sidewalk. You did an inventory of the goddamned plastic forks. You cleaned up dog-shit (Maureen McGovern's dog's dog-shit, but dog-shit nonetheless). And you helped musicians in and out of the place if they needed it. I still get flashbacks when I remember famed percussionist Cyro Baptista loading in for a soundtrack date. He brought every kind of instrument UNDER THE SUN. I don't know how he loaded it all into that modest-sized car. But jesus, he had every kind of clave, guiro, shaker, and box-of-nails in the world. It took us *both* about a year to get it from the street into the studio. You're welcome, dude! (PS you sounded great). And anyway, one did this kind of job to learn about recording, and watch the greats in action.

One day I found out that Sonny Rollins would be recording at Clinton, and I was kind of over the moon. I got to take him and his wife Lucille (who was producing the session) up to Studio A's control room via the freight elevator. We chatted -- I told him I was a fan. I told him about my brother being a player and having one of his old horns. They could not have been nicer or more gracious.

One of my jobs was to change out the coffee in the control rooms. That was policy. Even if the clients weren’t drinking it, they got a fresh pot every 2 hours. So you had to come in with a pot of fresh coffee and hot water, and leave with the empty old pots. You had to wait to get the high-sign from the assistant engineer that it was OK to enter and that they were between takes. You had to come in, change the pots, and leave as quickly and quietly as possible -- saying nothing, making no eye contact, being invisible. As an actor/performer, being invisible wasn't my strong suit, but I worked at it. And I certainly didn't want to disturb or piss off clients as awesome as the Rollinses.

So the time came to do the Studio A coffee change. I got the OK from the assistant, I came in fast and quiet, changed the pots, and started to the door. I then heard Lucille say, flatly,

"Chris."

Fuck. I thought, did I make a sound? Did I do something wrong? The assistant gave me a look, like "uh oh."

I turned, nervously and said, "Yes, ma'am?"

"Would you like to stay and hear a take?"

I mean....HOLY SHIT!!!! In my head I'm doing cartwheels. I think I stuttered before saying, "Uh...yeah...that'd be...wow, THANK you!"

And that's how, on October 7th, 1995, I got to hear Sonny Rollins, Bob Cranshaw, Tommy Flanagan, and Al Foster play "I've Never Been In Love Before." I was crouched down next to the island between the producers desk and the console, holding two empty coffee pots, watching them through the glass and listening through those sick monitors. It remains one of my best musical memories. Happy Birthday, Sonny! xoxo Chris O