When I tell you that last Saturday was one of the most exciting days of my life, I am not serving up one ounce of hyperbole. Granted, this may be a commentary on the pathetic nature of my day-to-day activities or even a condemnation of a life poorly lived. But we will not engage in such speculation here on Tinsel and Rot. OK?
Instead, let's bask in the glory of the day when Big James Sigman met Little Jimmy Dickens, the man who pointed the way to classic country music for me. The man who I desperately hoped would be on the Grand Ole Opry each time I went to Nashville, only to have my dreams dashed. The man who I missed by mere minutes outside Carnegie Hall last November.
Saturday was a good day.
***
But there were no guarantees that I'd even get the chance to meet one of my musical heroes as of early last week. I'd known about the concert at the American Music Theatre in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, for months, but I just figured that it wouldn't sell out. There were two shows (2 p.m. and 8 p.m.) and, well, I falsely assumed that the people of Lancaster and the surrounding area wouldn't flock to a Country Legends show, even if it did have Jean Shepard, Ferlin Husky, Kitty Wells, Charlie Louvin, Hank Thompson, and Little Jimmy--a lineup that, with the exception of Husky (whom, despite having one of the all-time great country music names, I just don't know that well, and whom I would've replaced with Porter Wagoner or Gene Watson), couldn't have been better suited for me. Turns out I was wrong about the classic country fervor in the Land of the Horse and Buggy, because both shows were listed as sold out when I checked the site a few months ago.
That was a sad day, but I figured that my friend and fellow autograph collector Frank would be OK with taking the trip and just sneaking into the lobby after the show, where the stars would likely be seliing their wares and signing away. There was no guarantee they'd be doing this, of course. At the last Legends show I went to in Lancaster, Jerry Reed was too ill to come out after the show, which, coupled with his decision not to play "When You're Hot, You're Hot," made for a slightly underwhelming day. Luckily, the day was partially saved by meeting John Conlee, who is, in fact, only in it for the love. (I'm making a reference to a John Conlee song, which may be a mistake. But check out "I'm Only In It For The Love" to hear the perfect 1980s country song, with everything good and bad that implies.)
In any case, we figured it would be worth it to just take the chance on the lobby autograph session, and maybe if we got there early enough, someone would have an extra two tickets. It's a big destination for senior citizen tour buses, so surely someone would bail at the last moment to have a hip replaced or something. But just to be sure, I e-mailed the theater staff and asked what my chances would be of scoring a pair of tickets on the day of the show. I got an e-mail back saying to call to be put on the waiting list. Cool. So I did that and after I gave all my info, I asked the woman at the box office if I was likely to get a call back.
"Well, you're, let's see...you're on the sixth page."
"Not good" would have been just fine.
So I had accepted that I wouldn't be seeing the show...until last Tuesday, when I got a call saying that seats had opened up and I could have two seats in the tenth row if I wanted them.
Yes, that would be fine.
***
And, so around 1:30 on Saturday afternoon, after a four-hour drive that started in Secaucus, New Jersey, Frank and I were in the lobby of the American Music Theatre, just down the road from the amusement park (Dutch Wonderland) I visited as a kid and a hotel that advertised "Weird Al Karaoke: 9-1." The merchandise tables were all set up, though no one was signing. I stood in the middle of the lobby and I swear to you, I don't know as if I've ever been as excited as I was at that moment (for the sake of people reading this who might think events in their lives really excited me, we'll say maybe once or twice...but, between you and me, I'm lying). I was going to see Little Jimmy Dickens, not from far away, like at Carnegie Hall, but right up close; the furthest I'd be would be 10 rows away. And maybe even closer after the show. They were selling 8X10s at his merch table, which is usually a good indication that signing will be taking place. And out in the car were three Little Jimmy albums and a CD cover waiting for his signature (I could've brought much more, but I didn't want to push it).
It hit me around that time, as I waded my way through the aged and infirmed to get to the bathroom, that I was also about to see a really good show. I'd seen Charlie Louvin and Hank Thompson in concert before and Jean Shepard at the Opry, but I'd never seen Ferlin Husky or, more importantly, Kitty Wells, the "Queen of Country Music," who I'd found out the day before would also be performing with her son, Bobby Wright, and husband Johnnie Wright. Johnnie was half of Johnnie and Jack, whose song "Poison Love" is one of my favorites. So that was gonna be cool, too.
Passing the time before the show started, I tried finding someone who might be younger than me. There were a couple of questionables, but I think I may have won. At the very least, I was a good 35 years below the mean. If you've been following the Sigman literary output of the last decade, you are probably aware that this is not a rare occurrence. And, as often happens in these situations, I was sensing a lot of sidelong glances from the older folks. I get the feeling that a lot of them thought I was part of a hidden camera show, one where I would suddenly start rapping just to piss them off. But they gradually accepted me as one of their own, like the couple sitting next to me, who seemed a little confused by my presence at first but who eventually confided that they were very excited to see the show. I won them over after telling them that this was my second time at the theater and I had come from New Jersey. It was their first time, and they only lived about a half-hour away. They asked if I had come on a bus, which strikes me as something I should do someday--take a trip on a charter bus full of senior citizens. For the newcomers, I feel obligated to say that I am not kidding.
Soon after bonding with my seatmates, the show began (promptly at two--they don't mess around at shows for seniors), with Ralph Emery, former host of The Nashville Network's "Nashville Now," taking the stage and introducing the backup band for the afternoon. And soon we were off, with Charlie Louvin first out of the gate, seeming less cranky than he usually seems on the Opry, where they almost always relegate him to a late segment. Perhaps that's because he's been fairly critical of the Opry in the past. Or because of moments like when Bill Anderson took ill and couldn't host his segment, giving Charlie time to do one more song. Before starting the second song, he said to Jeannie Seely, who was offstage, "Anderson should get sick more often. This is the first time they've let me do two songs in eight years." Coincidentally, moments like that are why I love Charlie Louvin.
Ferlin Husky took the stage after Louvin, and I don't think I've ever been more frightened that someone might pass out and/or die on stage. Ferlin, you see, had quadruple bypass surgery last December. And he's just now getting back on the road. And, dear sweet God, did it show. He sang fine, and he came bounding out on stage full of energy, but after the first song, he was gasping for air. Hard. Someone brought him a bottle of water, and gradually he made it to the point where he could sing another, much slower song. The panting continued after that one, but he was getting better and telling jokes that, regrettably, were told in such a low voice that there was no chance that 75% of the audience could hear them. At times, I wondered if the out-of-breath thing was some sort of shtick, but if it was, he really sold it. I was certainly hoping he was joking when he revealed that he has had twelve bypasses and four stints, drawing an audible gasp from the crowd. And around that time--forgive me, Ferlin--I had the following thought:: "Wow, if he collapses and has to be taken to the hospital, do you think they'll still have the autograph signing afterward?"
I'm not proud of that thought. But I thought I should come clean.
In any case, Ferlin made it through and closed with "Wings of a Dove," a helluva song that has been burned into my brain after watching the Time-Life "Classic Country" infomercial one too many times. But I don't mind.
As Ralph Emery came out to introduce Jean Shepard, I was reminded that old people apparently really like jokes about Viagra. Emery repeated one that I think he told the last time: An 80-year-old guy goes to his doctor and he says, "Doc, I want some of those little blue pills I keep hearing about." The doctor says, "Well, I don't know that I should be giving those pills to someone your age. They can be dangerous, y'know." The guy says, "Oh, I don't want a lot of 'em, Doc. Just enough so I don't piddle on my shoes."
Brought the house down.
You may think that the elderly are delicate, sensitive souls who don't go for so-called filthy humor. But no one is immune to the powers of a good erection joke, friends. No one.
NEXT: The rest of the show and the moment of the truth. And, also, a smorgasbord.
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