As in Clark and Valli.
My wife and I enjoyed a rare weekend in New York City that turned out to be a Sixties weekend.
(You: “She’s still alive?”)
(Me: “Yes, she is, and she still brings it.”)
Petula Clark is now 79. And she wears her years exceptionally well. (No Dolly Parton botox, no Cher facelift.) We sat five feet from the stage, and in 75-minutes, with wit, charm and humor, she guided us through a career that was much fuller than just “Downtown.”
Watching her sing, the thought crossed my mind that a 13-year-old boy listening to top-40 radio in 1965 couldn’t possibly comprehend he’d be seeing the same performer in a New York City nightclub 47 years later. (And to avoid any accusation of plagiarism, the exact same thought apparently occurred to a writer from the New York Times.)
Sunday, it was on to the August Wilson Theater to see “Jersey Boys,” the musical based on the career of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. The sentimental attachment was that the first single I ever bought was their first hit, “Sherry.” (For the record [no pun intended], purchased at Patruno’s Variety Store, next to Saxonville School in Framingham, MA.)
The show was much fun. And I chose to ignore that “Sherry” is 50 years old.
I look back on the Sixties fondly. It was a great time to grow up. And looking back, it was then I developed most of the bad habits and personality defects that make me so damn lovable today. (Right?)
Would I like to go back? No way! I’m having entirely too much fun now.
Besides, we still have the music.