Danke Scheisse

“I can’t write about this,” I whispered to my cousin as we exited the theatre. “It might hurt your mom’s feelings.”

We had just donated an hour and a half of our dwindling lives sitting through the Wayne Newton show, and nobody was happy about it. My cousin’s mom, my aunt, had wanted to see Wayne Newton for her 70th birthday and so good sport that I am I went along with the group. And I dragged my long-suffering wife with me.

It’s too cheap and too easy to use this space to bash an aging showman who has, after all, spent the last forty years entertaining millions of people. So let’s begin. I’m just kidding but, if the truth be told, the experience had not been a good one. Not good at all.

Still, how could I write an article about how horrible the experience was for me, and apparently my wife and cousins as well, if seeing Wayne Newton had been for my aunt something of a dream come true? And then I saw it. We had only been out of the small theatre for about two minutes when my aunt abruptly removed the Wayne Newton pin my cousin had given her and shoved it into her purse.

“I’ve never been so disappointed,” she said. And I knew it was go time.

Peachpit had warned me before I even went to Vegas that Wayne Newton’s voice was shot. I didn’t particularly care because to me it didn’t matter. If Newton had the voice of a young Pavarotti I still wouldn’t have been interested in seeing him, especially at a cost of $90. Hell, that’s six visits to the movies, and that’s including the pretzel nuggets!

I’ve never been a fan of all that glittery, tuxedoed Vegas-style bullshit. That stuff belongs back in the days of Frank and Dino and Sammy and the rest of the Rat Pack; it was before my time and aren’t we glad that something was? I cut my teeth on rock music and, more specifically, during the golden age of the singer/songwriter.

It matters not a bit to me if John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Paul Simon, Neil Young or Bob Dylan had a “great set of pipes.” In fact none of them did. But they were songwriting geniuses and in my mind will always stand elevated above those who make their living simply singing songs written by other people.

Oh, Newton must be a talented person, to be sure. Nobody gets that kind of a ride for that long without at least a smattering of natural ability. And after over 30,000 shows you know he’s got the mechanics down to a science. Why then couldn’t I just sit back, shut up and enjoy it for what it was? Well, for lots of reasons.

I’ve already mentioned that I’m pretty much repelled by that hokey finger-snapping horseshit, but I never expected that I would notice that Newton can no longer sing. What do I know about singing? And yet I noted that he cleared his throat on several occasions, was strongly supported (not physically—not yet) by two very talented singer/musicians, and when the show ended I estimated that he had performed no more than four complete songs. He did spend a lot of time taking bows and talking about his career, including his seven Top Ten songs. (Quick—name the other six.)

And then there was the humor. Listen, I’m the first one to rebel against this current ethnic over-sensitivity that is costing people their jobs on a daily basis, but holy cow, did I really need to hear Newton again mention that he’s a “Native American” (he’s actually half) and then go on an interminable Vegas-themed routine that went something like: Walkum? Walkum on Stripum? Seeum hookum? Payum hokum?

This side-splitter was later followed by some banter with his Puerto Rican drummer who put on the thickest Latino accent this side of the Frito Bandito. At one point I had to stop and look at my watch, because I could have sworn that it was suddenly 1958. And the illusion that we had indeed traveled back in time was confirmed when the impressionist did his renditions of Jimmy Stewart, Archie Bunker and God knows what other extinct celebrities.

Newton played some guitar, certainly much better than I do after 45 years of trying, and produced a few notes from the piano and violin. And then he lost me completely. He announced that, although he was not political he thought we should get rid of all the politicians. What a rebel. If there’s a cheaper way to get a round of applause from an audience, I don’t know what it is.

Oh yes I do. Newton used one of the oldest showbiz tricks around by getting people to stand by singing America the Beautiful, and then he threw in some rant about “the godless terrorists.” And so he left the stage to yet another standing ovation, which was too bad, because all those people on their feet made it hard for me to see, firmly and stubbornly planted on my ass as I was.

“Oh, he’s old,” more than one person has said to me, as if that justified Newton’s poor performance. Listen, Shlomo, he’s the same age as Paul McCartney, and that guy is still rocking stadiums. Hell, I saw George Burns perform when he was ninety- five years old and it was terrific.

Danke schoen, my ass. Somebody owes me ninety bucks.