Leo Durocher once summed up the difference between success and failure by noting: "Nice guys finish last." If his maxim holds true for baseball, it should hold even truer for show business.  Indeed, show business is notorious for the rate at which it eats up talent. Particularly vocalists. Most particularly, male vocalists.  Today's heartthrob can become tomorrow's has-been while the golden record is still fresh in his hands. To paraphrase  Mr. Durocher: it's tough to survive, so you've got to be tough to survive. 

Then along comes a chap like Perry Como — and the law-of-the-jungle theory goes out the window. That Perry is a "nice guy" even his closest competitors won't take away from him. And that he "finishes first" is evidenced by a string of triumphs that stretches back for nearly two decades.

Perry likes to chalk up his success to luck. But luck's just a part of his story, a story so wholesome and simple that it could drive a biographer  —  or gossip columnist  —  to desperation. Como was born into a big, buoyant family of Italian immigrants who had made their home in Canonsburg, Pennsylvania. ( If you're superstitious, you might say this was his first lucky break, for he was the proverbially fortunate "seventh son of a seventh son." ) By the time he was 14, Perry was on his way to becoming the best barber in Canonsburg. If music had charms for this young shaver, it was strictly as a side line.

The years passed. The barbershop prospered. But just as the shop was turning into a tidy lifelong business, Perry succumbed to the urgings of those friends who had heard him sing. More for their sake than for his own, he auditioned for a bandleader in nearby Cleveland. A job offer followed; and after a lot of hard thinking, Como decided to give up his shop and take his chances as a $28.00-a-week bandstander. ( It was Perry's season for right decisions all around: he married his childhood sweetheart that same year. )

Then came a long apprenticeship, highlighted by a six-year stint with Ted Weems' orchestra. By the time the Weems band folded in 1942, Perry was tired of touring. He returned to Canonsburg and to what he hoped would be a normal life for him and his growing family. In fact, he'd even picked out the site of Barbershop No. 2 when the offer came through that plunked him squarely in the music business once and for all.

Again, his timing was perfect. For the next year was 1943  —  "the year of the singers"  —  an hysterical era when bobbysoxers sighed, screamed and swooned at the feet of their new crop of heroes. By the end of the year, Como had arrived  —  to stay!

Today, those bobbysoxers are themselves the slightly graying parents of another teenage generation. And most of the singers who rode to fame on the same tide as Perry have long since been forgotten. Yet the Como magic remains as binding as ever.

Luck? The has-beens had it too. Como's staying power can only be the fruit of a combination of gifts. For one thing, he's good  —  an explanation that's strictly superfluous to his millions of fans. For another, he's savvy. Probably no other singer in the business  picks his tunes with the same mixture of caution and know-how. A Como album is a once-a-year event, but when it comes out it's a winner. Perry exercises the same kind of rationing with his public performances. Except for charity benefits, he limits his appearances strictly to his TV show. Partly it's good business in a field where overexposure can be fatal. But mostly it's because Como's the kind of guy who'd rather spend his day at a golf club than his nights at a night club.

And that brings us to the biggest "plus" on the Como scoreboard: the man himself. Perry onstage is the same as Perry offstage  —  more concerned with being a husband, a father and a human being than in proving himself a star. In return, these enduring qualities invest his singing with a warmth that never wears out its welcome. It's good to know that in the rough, tough world of show business nice guys can finish first.

The recordings in this album  span nearly twenty years of Como's prominence in show business. The oldest, "Prisoner of Love", dates from 1945 and was among the first of Como's fourteen golden records. The newest, "I'll Remember April", comes from his most recent album. All of them are prime showcases of Perry at His Best.

Copyright 1963, Radio Corporation of America

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