by Mike Rowe
The boy in the mirror sighed. His father was right. His face was not the face of a pop star. It was a flawed face. A swarthy face. A face that he could no longer live with.
In his mother’s makeup cabinet, the boy found a solution: a glass jar filled with white powder. He opened it, sprinkled some powder into his hands, and began to rub it onto his face, wincing as he did so. His wounds were still tender, courtesy of the man who wouldn’t tolerate a single mistake onstage or even in rehearsal. But gradually the boy in the mirror saw his complexion lighten. Would it be enough to mollify his violent and unpredictable father? Would it be enough to satisfy the people who paid to see him perform?
Over time, as the boy’s talent became more and more undeniable, those questions became less and less relevant. By the end of the seventies, the boy was famous. By the eighties, he was a national sensation. By the nineties, he was an international phenomenon. By the turn of the century, he was the undisputed King of Pop. But for all his popularity, he never stopped obsessing over the color of his skin. Even when his legacy was firmly in place. Even when his personal life began to unravel. Even when his unusual relationship with a fourteen-year-old boy led to scandal and a courtroom drama.
Even in the grip of depression and addiction, the King of Pop concealed his true complexion, right up to the day he died, alone in his bed.
If all this sounds vaguely familiar, perhaps it’s because you know the story of another battered boy who stood before another unforgiving mirror—two centuries later, in the nineteen-seventies—and considered his reflection. His split lip, swollen jaw, and black eye. Painful, but not as painful as the words that had accompanied the beating: “Look at yourself, boy. Your lips are too fat for your mouth, your nose is too flat for your face, and your skin doesn’t match your brothers’. I’m trying to run a business here!”
Funny how history so often repeats itself. Like his predecessor, the boy in this mirror was never comfortable with the source of his own reflection. He, too, was born with a skin tone that didn’t match that of his brothers. He, too, was raised by a violent, unpredictable man who exploited his talent at every turn. And he, too, left behind a collection of popular music unlike anything the world had ever seen. But unlike his predecessor, this tortured artist lived in the era of plastic surgery. If you google his name, you can see the evidence for yourself: a new nose, a new chin, new lips, new eyelids, another new nose, new cheekbones, new hair, another new nose, new eyebrows, new eyelashes, one more new nose—and through it all, a complexion that got lighter and lighter, right up to the day he died, alone in his bed.
It’s tempting to blame the father for screwing up the son, and in this case perhaps we should. By all accounts, Joseph Jackson did a real number on the brilliant, deeply troubled artist we know by a single name—Michael. On the other hand, the old man did train and manage and shape the career of the most popular musician of our time. As did Johann, two centuries before.
Like Joseph, Johann forced his son to perform and rehearse every single day of his young life. Like Joseph, Johann relied upon his son to pay the bills. A son with a complexion that he felt was simply too dark.
Yet if you google his name, you’ll find no visual evidence of his Moorish ancestry; no portraits that reflect his natural skin tone and no busts that reveal a single “non-German” feature. Thanks to a bottomless jar of white powder, Johann’s son was able to keep his complexion a secret—one that the Nazis were happy to reinforce a hundred years after his death by insisting to the world that his unique musical genius was proof of German exceptionalism and a credit to the Aryan race.
Happily, the most tortured artist of all time never knew that his music would make it onto Hitler’s playlist—a small blessing, perhaps, for the battered boy who was never comfortable in his own skin. The lonesome bachelor who never found his Immortal Beloved. The legendary composer who went deaf at the height of his powers, but kept on creating—even though he couldn’t hear the applause his many masterpieces inspired. Such were the burdens of the original King of Pop, the man we remember today by a single name… Beethoven.
* * *
I was reminded of Beethoven the other day as I was flicking around the TV dial. It was a rainy Sunday in San Francisco, and I had just stumbled across Steven Spielberg’s Band of Brothers.
Like Caddyshack, Jaws, and The Shawshank Redemption, Band of Brothers is something I can’t not watch—and the scene I stumbled upon on this particular rainy Sunday is my favorite moment in the entire series. It’s a scene I always rewind a few times, whenever I happen upon it. It’s shot in one take with a Steadicam—which I find more than a little impressive. But the mood it evokes is what moves me.
The sequence begins in the wake of an Allied attack, with the old, shell-shocked citizens of a bombed-out German town walking like zombies through the rubble of their neighborhood, pulling their busted possessions out from massive piles of debris. As a small group of American GIs observe the tableau, we hear what might be the greatest piece of music ever composed: the sixth movement of Beethoven’s Opus 131. It’s not just a soundtrack for the scene, it’s part of the scene itself. For nearly three minutes, four German men who have just lost their homes—an impromptu string quartet—stand in the ruins. As their countrymen pick through the rubble, they play this devastatingly beautiful movement—an amazing sequence that concludes when a GI opines, “I’ll say this much for the Krauts. They sure know how to clean up.”
“All you need is a little Mozart,” another GI replies.
At which point Lieutenant Lewis Nixon, played flawlessly by Ron Livingston (the guy from Office Space), corrects the soldier with two lines delivered with a perfect blend of authority and world-weary wonder.
“That’s not Mozart,” he says. “That’s Beethoven.”
Why do I love this scene so much? In part, I think it’s the juxtaposition of beauty and destruction. Placed so closely together, each magnifies the other. The combination makes me weep every time I see it. I sympathize with the German civilians. But I empathize, deeply, with the GI who confuses Mozart with Beethoven. As someone who’s publicly mistaken on a near-daily basis, I know the embarrassment of being corrected on camera. Indeed, when it comes to being corrected, you might say I am an expert.
On Dirty Jobs, I was corrected by hundreds of different bosses in every imaginable setting. As the perpetual new guy, I was corrected on windmills and oil derricks, coal mines and construction sites, frack tanks, pig farms, slime lines, and lumber mills. Today, I have a podcast that wades into history and biography and a Facebook page filled with legions of people determined to keep me honest. What I can tell you is, not much has changed. But I can also assure you: not all “correctors” are created equal.
Take my cantankerous field producer, David Barsky. Like my father, Barsky’s incapable of listening to a story if some stray fact seems to be out of joint. Both men will interrupt a joke if they think it’s being told the wrong way—or a lecture if they disagree with something the professor says. In fact, a few pages into this book, Barsky’s going to read about Mel Brooks and call me—immediately, guaranteed.
“Hey, Genius,” he’ll say. “The ‘vinyl’ record you mentioned couldn’t have been vinyl. It was shellac. It had to be, because vinyl wasn’t being used for record manufacturing in 1944.” This will be the highlight of Barsky’s week.
My dad—a former history teacher—will call immediately to ask me how I knew that Custer’s body was violated in the way I’ve described. “You don’t know that!” he’ll say. “Experts still argue about it!! Just because people claim it’s the case, that doesn’t make it so!!!” Those exclamation marks will be bouncing off satellites and entering my ears like arrows.
My mom is also a hopeless corrector—of the apologetic variety. At least, she pretends to be.
“Oh, Michael,” she’ll say. “I’m so sorry, but there’s a double negative at the top of this section. You said, ‘I can’t not watch.’ Sorry, Mike, it’s a great
story, but I thought that you’d want to know.”
Personally, I don’t mind being corrected, even when I’m right. It’s nice to know that people are paying attention. But when I am corrected, I prefer it to be in the style of Lieutenant Dixon. He didn’t scold the GI for confusing Mozart with Beethoven. He wasn’t haughty, pedantic, or disappointed. His words came with no apologies, no exclamation points, and no attempt to lord his knowledge over his men. In fact, if you YouTube the scene, you’ll see that he barely glances at the man he corrects. He simply rectifies the situation definitively while remaining focused on the final few measures of Beethoven’s movement.
By the way, I ran into Ron Livingston a few years ago in LA. He and some friends were eating sushi in a place called Katsu-Ya at a strip mall off Ventura Boulevard. I was a few tables away with my high school friend Chuck. Now, I’ve never approached a celebrity in my life—especially one with a mouthful of fish. But I couldn’t help myself. I walked over to Ron’s table and stood there quietly, making things awkward until he returned my gaze. I don’t think Ron recognized me, but he did raise his eyebrows in the universal expression that means “What the hell do you want?” As his friends and my friend looked on, no doubt asking themselves the same question, I leaned in, paused for dramatic effect, and said, “All you need is a little Mozart.”
For a moment, I thought he would leave me hanging. But he didn’t. Lieutenant Dixon swallowed his fish, took a sip of his beer, and with barely a glance in my direction said precisely what I hoped he would say: “That’s not Mozart. That’s Beethoven.”
Point is, the story that comes next doesn’t include a single mistake. But if you do find one, please drop by my Facebook page and tell me about it. And while you’re there, say hello to my dad!!!
SIZE MATTERS
Bill had a big one, no doubt about it, but Craig’s was bigger. Not by much, but in a contest where every inch mattered, Craig had more inches. So Bill made a few adjustments. Soon his was bigger than Craig’s—at which point Craig made some adjustments of his own. Now Craig’s was bigger than Bill’s again and more interesting to look at—thanks to the enormous tip on the end. But Bill had one more trick up his sleeve. When the measuring finally stopped, one of these men could proudly claim to have the world’s biggest erection.
When it comes to New York City architecture, size matters. No one knew that better than these two famous partners, who’d become bitter rivals in their quest to erect the Tallest Building in the World.
Their partnership had been legendary. Bill was the artist—a brilliant architect but mostly void of charisma. Craig was the consummate businessman—handsome, silver-tongued, and highly motivated. Together they had been a perfect team. Craig landed all the high-profile commissions. Bill designed the impressive, groundbreaking structures that made them both rich.
Unfortunately, their egos grew apace with their bank accounts. You see, Craig was an accomplished architect in his own right. He didn’t appreciate the constant newspaper articles that raved about Bill’s “artistic genius.” And for his part, Bill resented being seen as the boardroom lightweight, incapable of handling big deals. He hated the way clients looked at Craig whenever they talked about money.
Eventually, the artist and the businessman went their separate ways in a very public, very nasty divorce. Then, as fate would have it, each one landed the commission of a lifetime.
In 1928, Bill was contacted by a business tycoon who wanted him to design the tallest building on Earth. Bill agreed and submitted plans for a soaring tower in Midtown Manhattan, 809 feet tall.
Shortly thereafter, Craig agreed to design the Bank of Manhattan Trust Building, down on Wall Street. According to his plan, he would build a grand tower, 840 feet in height.
Well… when Bill learned that Craig’s design was thirty-one feet taller than his, he quickly added two extra floors to his blueprint. Craig responded by adding an extra floor to his. Bill followed suit.
Soon, both men were flirting with 900-foot designs. The public was transfixed. They watched as Craig gained the advantage. The base of his tower was broader than Bill’s and could support more floors. Then Bill found a unique way to stretch his upper floors, adding extra height and dramatically altering the aesthetics in a way that no one had ever imagined.
When the final designs were approved, everyone assumed the battle was over: Bill’s tower in Midtown would be the tallest building in the world. Craig’s tower on Wall Street would be a close second. But a man like Craig could never be second banana, especially to his former partner. Both towers were completed in 1930. Then Craig whipped out his secret weapon: that giant tip, which he called the “Lantern”—along with a flagpole that brought 40 Wall Street to 927 feet—two feet taller than Bill’s Midtown tower. 40 Wall Street was the tallest building in the world now, and Craig rejoiced in every glorious inch.
For about a month.
Because a man like Bill wouldn’t be second banana, either—especially when his former partner was the man in the number one spot. Secretly, Bill had constructed a 185-foot spire, code-named the “Vertex.” Its existence was known only to the small group of steelworkers who’d built the massive pinnacle and stored it in the building’s elevator shaft. And so, on May 22—just thirty days after Craig laid claim to the world’s biggest erection—Bill rode a private elevator to the seventy-first floor of his Midtown masterpiece. He looked out upon his former partner’s looming behemoth, six miles to the south. Then he gave the signal. A giant crane hoisted the Vertex into place—making Bill’s erection the biggest in the world and flipping his former partner the biggest middle finger ever raised over Manhattan.
Of course, erections are unpredictable things. Size matters, obviously, but by no means is it the only measure of satisfaction. Bill, for instance, in his haste to make his building bigger, overlooked something that Craig—the consummate businessman—would have never ignored: he forgot to get a signed contract with his client. Now the tycoon who had hired Bill to build a design he’d called “a monument to myself” was refusing to pay his full commission.
Bill took the tycoon to court. Eventually he got his money. But in those genteel days of boater hats and pocket fobs, a lawsuit was considered an ungentlemanly way to do business. By fighting over the size of his commission, this brilliant architect—Bill Van Alen—destroyed his own reputation. And even though his iconic tower is now considered by many to be the most significant structure ever to grace the Manhattan skyline, the tycoon who paid for it—Walter Chrysler—turned out to be his final client and the Chrysler Building his last public erection.
Unlike Bill the Artist, Craig the Businessman was well paid for his efforts at 40 Wall Street. His building is no longer the second tallest in the world, or the third, or the fifth, or the twenty-fifth. But it’s worth remembering that, for one glorious month in the spring of 1930, nobody had a bigger one than H. Craig Severance—an architect who relished the art of the deal more than the artistry of his chosen trade.
Something, perhaps, for the current owner to reflect upon. Another New York builder who, from time to time, has ruminated upon the importance of size. A man whose last name now appears on the facade of 40 Wall Street in big gold letters. Enormous letters. Maybe the biggest letters in the whole world!
T-R-U-M-P
Okay: They might not be the biggest, but they’re definitely… yuge.
* * *
Regarding erections, you know what they say: if it’s not one thing, it’s your mother.
In this case, my own. In her book, About My Mother, Peggy Rowe wrote unashamedly about her love for all things equine. As a teenage girl, she routinely slept in the barn, preferring the company of horses to people. According to my grandmother, she often missed meals and skipped school to dote on the ponies in her charge. Not much changed after she married my father and brought her three sons into the world. Our primary purpose, as best we could tell, was to pick up the endless piles of steaming manure that littered the modest pas
ture behind our farmhouse while she made sure that the horses were fed, watered, exercised, brushed, fed some more, brushed again, and tucked in for the night. Sometimes, after that, she would feed her children, but with far less enthusiasm.
When I was twelve, my mother entered me in an equestrian competition at the Maryland State Fair. She was determined to instill in me the same sickness that had infected her, and resistance was futile. “Mom,” I said, “I don’t want to ride English. It’s for girls.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Michael. The finest riders in the world ride English. Any fool can hang on to the horn and gallop around on western tack like a drunken cowboy.”
That sounded good to me, far preferable to the navy blazer (with black piping) that I was compelled to wear, along with creamy spandex breeches, a blousy pirate shirt, and knee-high black boots. Worst of all was the helmet, a rounded bowl of a thing far too small for my already bulbous head, covered in smooth black velvet and held in place with an elastic chinstrap. I was so appalled by the thing, I could only stand there while Mom affixed it to my head.
I looked like a Pez dispenser on a pony. A pony named Tammy.
The competition didn’t end well, the humiliation lingered, as humiliation often does, and to this day, I remain deeply suspicious of spandex, helmets, and females named Tammy. But those earlier memories have long since been eclipsed by a series of misadventures on various ranches and farms featured on Dirty Jobs. The first and, I suppose, the most memorable took place in Texas, with some assistance from a quarter horse called Paid by Chic—a beautiful creature whose ability to ejaculate on cue was far more humbling than falling off Tammy midway over the first jump had been.