My first brush with a celebrity
And the subsequent disenchantment of a young boy
(January 15th, 2008 / 0 comments)Growing up, I only listened to Christian music, mostly because it was what my parents listened to and there was little to no radio reception in the state parks we lived in.
In the late 80's and early 90's, there was no musician more popular in our house than the Christian artist Carman. I recall sitting for hours next to the tape player and flipping his cassettes over and over again, singing along with every word, even on the sappy slow songs.
A music career based on cheese
Looking back, Carman's music was a nauseating blend of everything under the sun. From one song to the next he would jump from style to style, changing his voice (badly) to what he thought might fit the genre. In one song he was a Jamaican screaming "Yeah, mon!" over some steel drums. In the next, he was a British soldier shouting to the sound of marching feet. Then he might be Christ himself, using some kind of cheap Jewish-mother accent with too much reverb.
But he was best known for his story-telling songs, in which he narrated some kind of conflict, usually between Satan and God, set to ridiculously melodramatic music. He seemed to take great pride in pointing out in the liner notes that "all voices performed by Carman" - even Satan.
The man himself
Despite his musical shortcomings (which at the time I was blissfully unaware of), Carman was apparently a wealthy and generous man. His stadium concerts were always free admission and featured elaborate sound and light shows and scores of dancers. From what I gather, he paid for it all himself, which had to be enormously expensive.
There were also rumors that he would stay late after his concerts for anyone who wanted to meet and talk with him. Now that's someone to look up to!
The live experience
In 1993, my older brother and I were invited by some of our pre-teen friends to attend a show on Carman's "Addicted to Jesus" tour. Wriggling with excitement, we all piled into a van and headed off for the venue, singing along to dcTalk, Newsboys and of course, Carman.
Mr. Woodson, who was our chaperone for the evening, told us that if we were up to it, we could stay late after the show to meet Carman.
Am I ready to rub elbows with fame?
I quickly realized what this meant. I was about to meet what was at the time the closest thing to an honest-to-goodness celebrity in my little world. I had never met anyone famous, and I began to feel a real nervousness about it.
During the show, I could hardly concentrate. I kept staring at the tiny speck running around on stage (we were in the nose-bleeds) and wondering what he would be like up close and personal. Would he be covered in sweat from his performance? Would I be meeting him in his glamorous dressing room? Would I be invited aboard the tour bus for a chat and some cigars? The excitement was killing me.
I didn't want to be just another fan to him. I wanted to be something special. I wanted him to remember me. I guess this is why rock-stars have groupies, eh?
Time to meet and greet!
I stressed about it until the concert was over and everyone began lining up to meet Carman. I was impatient and aggravated that there were so many people around. How was I going to have my moment alone with him?
Slowly, we filed down a small, smelly hallway and into a tiny office with a desk, glaring florescent tube lights and an odor similar to that of a gym sauna. As the line slowed to a crawl, I took a peek around the room, confused as to why we would stop in this awful setting on our way to the lavish back-stage.
The countdown begins
Then I saw him. Carman. He was about ten people in front of me, wearing a grey sweat suit with a towel around his neck. He looked tired and small and a little unkempt - probably from performing in front of hundreds of thousands of people just minutes before. I stared, slack-jawed.
Nine people left. He was signing autographs. I could see his mouth moving, but I couldn't hear anything he was saying. I wondered what people were saying to him.
Eight people. This is where he greets his fans? I have to talk to him in this line of smelly rednecks? At least the line was moving quickly.
Seven people. I'm starting to make out his voice. It's quiet - almost bored. He shakes someone's hand unenthusiastically as they shuffle past. I wrack my brain for something to say that will impress him.
Six people. I'm starting to wonder when the "real" meet and greet begins. This isn't right. I'm feeling claustrophobic from all the people pressed into this tiny room. Carman and I are going to need our space.
Five people. "Thank you for coming. Thank you." He signs another autograph and glances over to a man in a black shirt standing next to him, who bounces up on his toes and looks down the line, shrugging.
Four people. A woman tells Carman how much his music means to her, grasping his hands tightly. "Thank you for coming. Thank you."
Three people. The woman steps back in front of Carman to add something, but she's gently pushed away by the man in the black shirt. Another autograph is signed. "Thank you for coming. Thank you."
Two people. "Thank you for coming. Thank you."
One person left until I meet my first celebrity. I head is spinning. "Thank you for coming. Thank you."
Face to face with an idol
My brain buzzes loudly as I step up in front of Carman and take a breath. He grabs my hand and begins to shake it weakly. This is my big chance!
"Hey Carman, how would YOU like MY autograph?"
"Thank you for coming. Thank you."
I feel a hand on my arm and the man in the black shirt moves me towards the exit. Just like that, it's over. I glance behind me as I'm pushed through the door. Carman is shaking the hand of the person behind me in line. "Thank you for coming. Thank you" he mutters.
No, Carman. Thank you.
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