The Way I Heard It

by Mike Rowe

  One evening—years before he died but long after he’d become a rock-and-roll legend—George Underwood’s former saxophone player called and thanked him for that punch in the face. He could not have been more sincere. The anisocoria, he said, had given him an identity he never could have cultivated on his own. Thanks to that precipitous blow, landed back when they were both teenagers, his left pupil would remain permanently dilated. As a result, his eyes appeared to be two different colors—and that gave George Underwood’s best friend a certain quality. A rock star quality. A quality that helped secure his appearance on countless magazine covers: Time, Esquire, GQ, People, Vanity Fair, and, of course, Rolling Stone.

  On January 11, 2016, George Underwood learned that Ziggy would no longer play guitar. The Starman who gave us Major Tom and Life on Mars would never get to enjoy his Golden Years. George was heartbroken. And although Carol Goldsmith’s feelings are not on the record, it’s safe to assume that she, too, misses the Rebel Rebel who studied Fame and went on to define it. A pupil who stood out above all the others. A best friend named… David Bowie.

  * * *

  April 1984. A young Caucasian male was spotted behaving erratically on the streets of Baltimore. According to witnesses, he was wearing headphones and carrying a Walkman, but the sounds he was making were less than musical. They were the sounds of a crazy person having a loud conversation with himself. The witnesses were my parents. The Caucasian was me.

  “You sound deranged.”

  “What?” I removed my headphones.

  “Your father said you sound terrific,” my mom said. “Better and better each time!”

  “Do you even know what it is you’re singing about?” my dad asked.

  “Sort of,” I said. “It’s called ‘The Coat Aria.’ It’s from La Bohème. It’s a love song about a guy who gives his favorite coat to a girl who’s dying of consumption.”

  “Tuberculosis, John. ‘Consumption’ is another word for tuberculosis.”

  “I know what consumption is, Peggy. I just don’t know why Michael is singing Italian love songs about jackets.”

  Over dinner the night before, I’d told my father about a loophole that would have enabled me to start making some actual money in TV and radio. He hadn’t understood that, either.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “You don’t even like opera. You don’t know anything about opera. Why are you auditioning for the opera?”

  “Because the opera is under the jurisdiction of the American Guild of Musical Artists,” I said. “If I can get into AGMA, then I become automatically eligible to join the Screen Actors Guild. If I can get into SAG, I can start making union commercials. And if I start making union commercials, I can start paying you rent.”

  “I like the sound of that. But if you want to be in SAG, why not just join SAG?”

  “SAG won’t let me join until I get work on a union job.”

  “Why don’t you audition for union jobs?”

  “Because the agents won’t send me on union auditions unless I have my union card.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No,” I said. “It doesn’t. But it does explain why people hate agents.”

  “It’s a Catch-22, John. Do you remember that movie?”

  “Yes, Peggy, I remember Catch-22. I read the book. It didn’t make sense, either.”

  My father went back to his meat loaf. I put my headphones back on and listened to Samuel Ramey sing “The Coat Aria” for the fiftieth time. I didn’t hear what my mother said next. It looked like “You’re going to be terrific!”

  The next morning, I drove downtown to an address on Charles Street where the Baltimore Opera Company rehearsed. My friend Mike Gellert was already waiting for me in his car.

  “I’ve got the melody down,” I told him. “The words are still a bit squishy.”

  “Hop in,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

  Gellert had sung in the Baltimore Opera for years. He was also a fellow barbershopper. He’d told me about the opera loophole and encouraged me to audition in spite of my absolute lack of experience.

  “They have open calls on the last Thursday of every month,” he’d said. “What do you have to lose?”

  I closed the passenger-side door and did my best impression of Samuel Ramey, the bass-baritone I’d been listening to for the last two days, singing the shortest aria I could find:

  Vecchia zimarra, senti,

  io resto al pian, tu ascendere

  il sacro monte or devi.

  Le mie grazie ricevi.

  Mai non curvasti il logoro dorso

  ai ricchi ed ai potenti.

  Passâr nelle tue tasche

  come in antri tranquilli

  filosofi e poeti.

  Ora che i giorni lieti fuggîr,

  ti dico addio,

  fedele amico mio,

  addio, addio.

  When I finished, Gellert said, “You’re right. Your Italian really is terrible.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You should do motivational speeches.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Gellert. “They’re desperate for young guys with low voices. You’ve got a shot. Just sing it like we rehearsed it, and don’t sass the piano player.”

  We walked into the rehearsal hall and joined the half-dozen hopefuls waiting nervously in the lobby. At the far end of the hall, a soprano was singing the bejesus out of something so beautiful it made my eyes water: “O Mio Babbino Caro,” from Puccini’s Gianni Schicchi. When she finished, the man playing the piano said, “Thank you so much for your delightful audition. We have all the sopranos we need, but we’ll keep your name on file and call if an opening presents itself. NEXT!”

  “That’s Bill Yannuzzi,” said Gellert. “He’s the musical director. He speaks five languages. He can play any aria from any opera from memory.”

  Next up, a tenor sang “Nessun Dorma,” also by Puccini. He, too, sounded amazing and when he was finished, Mr. Yannuzzi said, “Thank you so much for your delightful audition. We have all the tenors we need, but we’ll keep your name on file and call if an opening presents itself. NEXT!”

  The next four hopefuls—two sopranos, one alto, and another tenor—all sounded like seasoned pros. They all got the same speech from the man at the keyboard. Thanks, but no, thanks. The next “NEXT!” was me.

  Gellert handled the introduction. “Mr. Yannuzzi, this is my friend Mike Rowe. He sings bass in a barbershop quartet. He can’t read music, but he’s got a low D and he’s great onstage. I think he’d be an asset to the company. He’s going to sing ‘The Coat Aria’ from La Bohème. Sort of.”

  Mr. Yannuzzi started to play. I started to sing but stopped a few measures in.

  “Sorry,” I said, “that’s a lot higher than I rehearsed it. Can you play it in a different key?”

  “I can play it in any key,” said Mr. Yannuzzi. “What key do you prefer, if not the one Mr. Puccini intended?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “How about a manlier key?”

  Mr. Yannuzzi looked at the chorus master, a man named Tom Hall. Mr. Hall shrugged and looked at Gellert, who sighed and said, “Play it in D.”

  Mr. Yannuzzi started again, a few steps lower than before. When I finished, he looked at me with an odd mix of curiosity and contempt. “Well, your Italian is terrible,” he said, “and your phrasing is atrocious.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s a gift.”

  “On the positive side,” said Mr. Hall, “you sure do sing loud.”

  Both men looked more than a little skeptical as they weighed the pros and cons of letting an untrained barbershopper—a guy who couldn’t read music—into their esteemed organization. Finally, Mr. Yannuzzi turned to Gellert.

  “This man is your responsibility,” he said. “Teach him Italian, Mr. Gellert. Teach him diction. Teach him intonation.”

  “Teach him to suck less,” said Mr. Hall.

  Gellert promised to do that very thing, and just like that I
was in. The stage was set—for what, I wasn’t entirely sure, but if I could fake my way into a reputable opera company, it was hard not to wonder what other stages might welcome the likes of me.…

  OH, BROTHER!

  Ed and his little brother had a lot in common. Both were famous actors. Both were deeply patriotic. They both loved turkey with all the fixings. But unfortunately for those around them, Ed was a staunch Republican, his brother was a devoted Democrat—and that was not a recipe for a peaceful Thanksgiving dinner.

  Before the election the brothers had bickered over the economy, immigration, taxes, race relations, and, of course, the border. Their arguments had been heated but always respectful. It was frustrating for Ed, though, because during the runup to the recent election, his kid brother had been so damn smug. Like many in the entertainment business, Ed’s little brother saw the election’s outcome as a fait accompli. He not only believed that the Democrat would win—he believed it would happen in a landslide. All his friends said so. All the pundits said so. Besides, the Republican alternative was a buffoon. A dangerous, unpredictable buffoon.

  Well, on November 8, conventional wisdom had gone out the window. The buffoon had won and now—after the most contentious election in US history—Ed’s little brother was still in shock. He wanted a recount. He wanted a do-over. Bits of mashed potato flew from his mouth as he announced to everyone in the room that the Republican was “not my president.”

  Ed held his tongue as his little brother railed against the electoral college, the new limits on a free press, the future of the Supreme Court, and, of course, the situation with the border. His face became flushed, and his voice rose higher and higher. It seemed to Ed that he was watching a performance—a series of talking points culled from a biased media, delivered with all the drama and passion he could muster, like a Shakespearean actor addressing the last row of a sold-out theater.

  “The man is a tyrant,” he said. “A warmonger. A dictator. And mark my words, he will destroy this country!”

  With that, Ed’s little brother stood up from the table, knocked his chair to the floor, and slammed the door so hard a picture fell off the wall. Ed sighed heavily and apologized to his guests. He turned his attention back to the turkey, and that… was that.

  The two brothers never spoke again.

  It’s always a drag when politics trump family relations. But there was more to this sibling rivalry than a contentious election. While both brothers were actors, only one was a household name. It was Ed who traveled through Europe and toured the United States to great acclaim. It was Ed who basked in the glow of critical reviews after performing one hundred nights of Hamlet on Broadway. And it was Ed who would have his statue erected in Gramercy Park—the first American actor to be honored in such a way. Ed’s fame cast a long shadow, and his little brother had lived in it for most of his life.

  Yet we barely remember Ed today. His statue is still there, not far from Broadway, but his memorial is dwarfed by the legacy of his younger brother. Just five months after that fateful Thanksgiving dinner, the aspiring thespian stepped out from under his older brother’s shadow and delivered his command performance. With just one line, delivered with all the drama and passion he could muster, Ed’s little brother addressed the last row of a sold-out theater, just like the Shakespearean actor he had always wanted to be: “Sic semper tyrannis!”

  “Thus always to tyrants.”

  It was an odd thing to say about a president whose most fervent hope had been to make America great again—by reuniting the North and the South and bringing an end to the civil war that had very nearly destroyed the country he’d served. But that’s exactly what the audience at Ford’s Theatre heard on that fateful night in April, just a few seconds after Edwin’s little brother murdered Abraham Lincoln.

  That’s why we barely remember the immensely talented and deeply patriotic performer named Edwin Booth. The great actor upstaged by his younger brother—a common murderer, whose full name is unforgettable… and not worth repeating.

  * * *

  Edwin Booth’s brother was twenty-six when he jumped onto the stage at Ford’s Theatre, wild-eyed, spewing nonsense in Latin. When I was twenty-six, I jumped onto the stage of the Lyric Theatre, wild-eyed and spewing Italian. At twenty-seven, I was spewing French and German. By the time I was twenty-nine, I was simply spewing.

  My opera plan had worked. But like all my plans, it had not worked in the way I’d intended. I’d gotten my AGMA card and my SAG card and started auditioning for union commercials that paid actual money. But I had not quit the opera as planned. I had stayed on—because Mike Gellert had been correct. The music was terrific. The orchestra was world class. The chorus girls turned out to be friendly. Very friendly. By 1990, I’d sung in nearly two dozen productions and even had a few solo lines. My Italian had gotten no better, but I had ingratiated myself into the fabric of the chorus and become a useful, if not entirely reliable, participant.

  One evening, during the intermission of something in German, Gellert and I slipped out the stage door and walked over to the Mount Royal Tavern for a couple of beers and a few minutes of the football game. We were dressed like Vikings, but the patrons of the Mount Royal Tavern were in no way surprised; they had seen us in a variety of costumes over the years, always during the intermission of some opera.

  Gellert and I took our usual seats at the bar. But when we looked up at the TV, the game was not on. Instead, we saw a fat man in a shiny suit selling pots and pans.

  “What the hell, Rick? Where’s the game?”

  “It’s halftime,” the bartender said.

  “Okay. But why are we watching a fat man in a shiny suit selling pots and pans?”

  “Because I’m auditioning for his job tomorrow and I’m trying to figure out what that guy does, exactly.”

  It was the first time I’d ever seen or heard of QVC.

  Rick explained it to me: The network was basically a twenty-four-hour commercial and currently engaged in a nationwide talent search. It had come to Baltimore and was holding a cattle-call audition the next morning over at the Marriott in the Inner Harbor. As he poured us another beer, Gellert nodded to the TV and said, “I bet you could do that.”

  “What?” I said. “Get fat and dress like a used-car salesman?”

  “You keep saying you want to work in television. That looks like television to me. You should audition.”

  “Last time you told me to audition for something, I wound up in a bar dressed like a Viking, watching an infomercial.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “Laugh all you want,” said Rick, nodding toward the screen. “That fat guy in the shiny suit makes $200,000 a year. Starting salary is $60,000, plus a bonus.”

  We drank our beer and continued to watch QVC. The thought of a twenty-four-hour commercial struck me as a sign of the apocalypse. A harbinger of doom. An end to Western civilization. That or a steady paycheck—something I had yet to experience in my chosen field.

  We got back to the Lyric in time to make our entrance, spew some German, and take our bows. But that night in bed, I flicked around the dial and found QVC. I watched a nervous-looking woman try to sell me a treadmill, a simulated diamond bracelet, and an eel-skin handbag.

  Amazing.

  I drifted off with the TV still on. When I got up to pee, I saw a sweaty gentleman in a leisure suit hawking unbreakable plates and stemware, followed by an electronic device that purported to keep mosquitos away.

  $60,000 a year? Plus a bonus?

  The next morning, I drove downtown to the Marriott. There, as you know, I talked about a pencil for eight minutes straight and landed my first job in television—the job that taught me “submissive posture,” among other things. What you don’t know is that I wound up forgetting the important lessons I learned on that job. For many years, I went out of my way to forget them. Later on, I’ll tell you about those years, too—a time I think of today as my years in the woods. A time that l
asted until I found a path that led me to the place I should have been all along.

  THE AMERICAN ROCK STAR

  The toilet had never done anything to Jason. Nevertheless, Jason was determined to blow it to pieces.

  His reasons were those of a moody kid plagued with enough teenage angst to fill the entire state of Washington. So Jason lit the fuse of the M-80, dropped it into the bowl, closed the lid, and walked out of the restroom. A minute later, the toilet was gone, as a deafening roar echoed through the hallways of his junior high school.

  Today, a stunt like that would have landed Jason in jail. Luckily, that was the early 1980s, and the school principal decided on a week’s suspension instead. Luckier still was Jason’s grandmother’s decision to take the boy to one of the most expensive psychiatrists in the state. And luckiest of all was the presence of several guitars in the psychiatrist’s office.

  Jason didn’t have much to say to the shrink. And so the psychiatrist invited him to pick up a guitar and start strumming. Before long, the two were jamming their way through their scheduled sessions, launching what his grandmother would later call “the most expensive guitar lessons in the world.” By the time he had finished high school, he still had some angst, but he also had a plan: Jason was going to be a rock star.

  His first band made a splash in the Seattle grunge scene. They showed real potential. But there was something in Jason that still wanted to blow things up, and that time it wasn’t the plumbing—it was the opportunity. Jason became difficult to work with and even less fun to be around. His friends and family watched in horror as the promising band was forced, however reluctantly, to replace him.

  But destiny wasn’t quite done with Jason. After some genuine regret and self-reflection, the rock star in waiting was given a second chance. This time, a band of older, more established musicians saw his undeniable talent and welcomed him into the fold. Overnight, Jason was playing to sold-out arenas, standing ovations, and glowing reviews from everyone. But again, he couldn’t seem to handle the success he thought he craved.