ALL THAT GLITTERS

The lights dim. Drums roll. Trumpets blow. A gold lame’ curtain opens slowly. There is nothing to see. The stage is a black cave. A spot light hits a statuesque blond in a white glittering sequin gown. Her hair is blond although the audience knows it is almost grey. Her body is lithe, alive. She can’t possibly be corseted. The orchestra and the dream woman attune perfectly. Her magic voice, the capable hands on the Steinway and the deep mellow sax become one. An angel begins with ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’. Melanie looks into the audience, real tears form in the corners of her eyes. She brushes them away and belts her song. Her arms go out as if to embrace each of the 1000 people in front of her. I feel it as if it were meant for me alone. Electricity is in the air. The concert is being shown live on CBS. Tapes will be grabbed up in a week. This show is her return to life and she is being devoured with admiration. A few loud whistles annoy me, lower the class of this long awaited special show. I let them fade away.

Melanie was a star by age 15. Her voice, stage presence, teen innocense delighted the young, the aging. Vaudeville was gone, radios went out with Charlie McCarthy and along came Ed Sullivan on t.v., a star maker, a ball breaker. Be good or die. The world was spinning fast. Melanie was more than good. She was great. Ed had found her by chance in New Orleans on a local talent show. The way this young thing could sing the blues astounded him. What did she know about broken hearts, illicit love? The blue light on her face emphasized her ability, sent chills down his spine. Six months later he presented her to the entire country, likened her to the Beatles. He made her–he slayed her.

Somebody let him know that Melanie was no longer a virgin, that she had tried pot, and maybe more. She was no longer wanted on his show and she faded like the last rose of summer. There were little gigs in hideaway lounges, restaurants where the clientele was hoity toity and impolite when she sang with a talented but groggy pianist. Giving up was a definite possibility yet her voice was unchanged and her desires still flamed. The circuit tightened, was choking her to death. It was all a fantasy erased when she had breast surgery, struggled keeping her food down, lie still for an hour while chemo dripped in her thinning arm. It took year, years, yet she still sang in the shower, kept that voice trained for a big coming out party some day. How she fought to keep going, live to perform again. That time came. A writer for the LA Times managed to get a 1/4 of a column in the Sunday paper, telling about Melanie, her struggle, her effort to make it again. That little insignificant article brought a flood of email to the paper, an interview by Matt Lauer on the Today Show. Her spirits were revived. Life had been worth fighting for.

Melanie was back on stage for a concert that was being televised live. DVDs would be on sale in a week. The old folks remembered her while the young felt superior finding such a gem.

And I, above all, sitting in the second row middle, have the privilege of going backstage to Melanie’s dressing room, hear her sing privately if I so choose but I’d rather watch that wondrous wife of mine from my seat, hear her sing ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’, know she means me and I stomp my feet, applaud like a f’n mad man and whistle thru my fingers.