| |
Richard Botto, Editor in Chief / CEO of RAZOR Magazine, has created the definitive men's magazine which features the best in men's fashion, travel, sports, autos, celebrities, technology, humor, fiction, fitness and more.
|
|
 WRITINGS:
RICHARD BOTTO
Back to Writings Main Menu
February 2005
Then and.. Then
One of my first
jobs was working the stockroom at a pharmacy/convenience store when
I was 15. My boss had a bit of a Napoleon complex, not exactly a guy
I wanted to have a beer with when the doors were locked for the evening.
In fact, most days, to put it kindly, he was a complete ass. Every day,
except for Sunday that is. Because on Sunday mornings a certain FM station
in New York played nothing but The Beatles, taming the beast and turning
tyrant into teacher.
Knowing that I was a big music fan, I became the reluctant student as
this guy would chase me around the store to wax poetic about a chord
shift from Lennon's guitar, an octave change in McCartney's voice or
- and this will tell you how insane he was - a nuance in Ringo's drum
playing. Let's just say I could wade in the pool of The Beatles relevance,
I just had no desire to swim over to the deep end.
Years later, while managing a retail store in Brooklyn, I worked side
by side with a guy whose fashion sense can best be described as rumpled.
I mean there was no doubt the floor was his hanger. Despite the constant
push from the upper echelon to get him to wear a jacket and tie, he
declined. When I asked him why, he said, "I only wear a suit when
I go to see Clapton. You know why?" I shook my head. "Because
when you go to church, you look your best." Again, we weren't practicing
the same religion, but I was down with his theology.
Fast forward to 1991, the scene: the steps outside the Post Office on
33rd and 8th in Manhattan, directly across from my center of the universe,
Madison Square Garden. A gang of us, sipping some Jack Daniel's, gearing
up for the night's main event, Guns N' Roses.
The show is supposed to start at 8 pm. But by this point, everyone knows
and accepts that 8 pm in the G N' R universe means somewhere closer
to 10 pm. But when the band hits the stage at midnight, the buzz of
both the alcohol and the anticipation has dissipated, replaced by surliness
and a certain feeling of disposability. But then something magical happened.
G N' R controlled the stage unlike any act I had seen before. The place
became pure electric. Halfway through their seventh song of the evening,
November Rain (yes, they were that impressive that I remember), I gaze
at Axl pounding the keys of the Steinway, Slash just owning the joint
and the 20-piece supporting orchestra complementing the entire production
and I think, Man, this is it, here are my Beatles, my Stones, my Clapton.
We all know what happened shortly thereafter. In this instance, the
great Neil Young was wrong - It truly isn't better to burn out than
to fade away.
I've seen all kinds of acts. God knows I must have seen 500 plus shows
in my lifetime - everything from Metallica to Whitney Houston (cut me
some slack here… it was her early days, BC Bobby Brown and sneaking
pot through airport security). I've seen some acts for the spectacle,
but most have been for the music. But nothing, absolutely nothing I
have witnessed can draw the parallel between the image to talent chasm
of music through the years than the night I saw Frank Sinatra in the
round, again at MSG.
This was Sinatra's 75th birthday tour. The voice was a shell of what
it once was, yet still worlds better than most. Sinatra didn't strut
the stage that night, he creaked. The lyrics to the songs he had sung
for decades glowing in the darkness off of four strategically placed
teleprompters around the stage. Sometimes he would stumble over the
words, sometimes he would hum while his brain played catch-up, sometimes
he would just let the music play while he looked for a spot to jump
back in, sometimes he would just shrug unapologetically and take a sip
from his Chivas Regal. It didn't matter, it was still legendary. And
that's what made it so brilliant - it was naked. He stood out there
with no pre-recorded backing tracks, no lip synching, no dancers or
backup vocalists to draw attention away from his diminishing skills,
no tricks to give the illusion that he was still near the top of his
game.
For his final encore, he launched into My Way. And the crowd erupted.
And promptly, Sinatra sang the wrong verse. And here is where you separate
the talented men from the manufactured boys. Sinatra, catching his mistake,
waved to his son who was leading the orchestra down in the pit. He took
a swig from his drink and said - and trust me, I'm quoting here - "I've
sung this song in front of a million people, thousands of goddamn times
and I'll be damned if I'm gonna go out this way. So turn those fucking
machines [prompters] off and, son, ring it in from the start."
He then proceeded to belt out his signature song as if it was 1964.
The chills I get telling that story now are just as vivid as they were
when I left the arena that night. I finally had gone to church. And,
yes, I was wearing a suit.
Enjoy the
issue.
RICHARD J. BOTTO
Editor in Chief, CEO
www.razormagazine.com
As always, we welcome your comments via e-mail to
letters@razormagazine.com
|
|
