Andy Williams: The Bestest
Because my mother loves me and because I will always
be her little boy, no matter my age, I met Andy Williams more than 15 years ago
at his Moon River Theatre in Branson.
My mother was there for a show with about 2,500 of
her closest friends, and she handed a couple of books I’d written to a teenaged
usher and told him, ordered him, to get the books to Andy Williams. I’m sure
out of fear that his sweet older lady would hunt him down and beat him with a
switch if he didn’t, the kid must have delivered the books, because a week
later in the newsroom of The Times in Shreveport, my phone rang and it was
crooner extraordinaire Andy Williams, who asked me in his smooth voice of rich baritone
timbre if I would come to Missouri and write some jokes for him.
And I did. And he will always be in the Top Five of
the most genuine, kind, funny, professional, talented people I’ve ever met.
Played golf with him and the guy who dresses up as
The Bear for his shows, and with one of his agents/lawyers. Ate with him in his
dressing room – he put cottage cheese on his baked potato instead of sour cream.
Sat through several performances – the Christmas shows were the best -- faxed
him jokes from Shreveport, sent him pages and pages through the mail, and
sometimes just called and talked to either him or one of the nice ladies who
worked for him there and told them to pass this or that along, some joke
regarding the news of the day.
It’s strange now, thinking about it. It was sort of
like being in show business. Which I was not. But Mr. Williams most definitely
was. Recording artist. TV series and specials. Not just a singer but an
entertainer. Funny. Willing to make fun of himself. Crowd pleaser. Genuine as
baby breath.
He lasted because he was genuine in talent and in
his heart. Even when he talked, he sounded like he was singing, and he could
sing like a house afire. Listen to “Days of Wine and Roses” or “Theme from ‘The
Godfather’” or “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Face.” No lip-synching for my
man. He was about five feet six and it was all stud singer. He could belt WAY
up there and it came off smooth and rich and deep and full.
But more than that, he did something that even those
of us less talented can always do. He treated people right. A guy recognized
him on the golf course and said he was coming to the show that night. “Well
thank you and please applaud,” Andy Williams said. The guy loved that. His band
was full of young musicians and they all appreciated working for him because he
wasn’t temperamental or anything less than encouraging. Sometimes he’d call me
just to see how our Little League team was doing. He was a Big Star who made
you feel like one. He gave us all neat Christmas presents: I have a picture in
an engraved silver frame of him and Debbie and their dogs, and a killer blanket
on my bed right now with the Moon River Theatre logo stitched into it. He did
little things to make you feel like you mattered.
He actually crashed the golf cart when we played one
day – hit his brother’s cart and cracked the fiberglass fender – smiled, said
“Oops” and kept on driving. I dropped the sweater he gave me to wear and he had
to walk back down the fairway and pick it up. The ultimate indignity, seeing as
how this was a guy famous for wearing sweaters on his Christmas show. And I’d
fumbled one. Imagine dropping Tiny Tim’s ukulele or Henny Youngman’s violin.
But Andy Williams just laughed.
We’d be playing and I’d think of something and run
it past him. He wore a dress and fruit on his head in one song, some Carmen
Miranda number, and I told him to try saying this: “Sorry about my outfit, but
all my really good dresses are at the cleaners.” And I can hear him laughing
and repeating just that, a couple of times until he had the timing right, then
saying, “That’s funny. That’s funny.” Even when he laughed he sounded like he
was singing.
The audience asked questions and one was always, “Is
that your real hair?” And he’d point to his solid white hair and say, “Yes, but
I do dye it this color just to make me look a little older.” The jokes weren’t
cutting edge but they were handy and for Branson audiences and his timing made
most everything funny.
I hope he crossed the river in style, as he’d always
sung about, when he passed away Tuesday at 84 from the bladder cancer he was
diagnosed with a year ago. Most of his close friends, Merv Griffin and that
gang, preceded him, but people who know how to be a friend always have friends,
so he passed away with plenty of love around. I’m sorry for those who will miss
him most and got to be around him all the time.
I have a sense of loss and regret that’s profound
because I didn’t pursue a deeper friendship with Mr. Williams. This might have made
little difference to him but it meant a lot to me. Back a few years ago I fell
out of touch with him, lost his home address and phone number, was too
embarrassed to call the theater and pick back up. My priorities shifted and
things that weren’t important at all became important to me. I’ve tried to
learn a lesson from that, because I don’t feel he ever really knew how much I
enjoyed knowing him and being around him, or how much people enjoyed talking to
me about him. I should have driven up there, done something. I’d have kept
writing the jokes for free, just to hang around; it was that fun. And already
we’d planned to go up late this fall and see him…now it’s too late.
So, my word to the wise is, never wait. Find a way.
Everyone likes to know when they’ve made a difference for you; I wish I could
tell Andy Williams that now, about how just thinking about him or being around
him made me feel better, and how grateful I am that, at the rainbow’s end, he
left me and millions more smiling, and with a song.
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