PERRY COMO ~
HIS SONG GOES ON
 Good
Housekeeping Magazine
December
1990
Just recently,
the singer says, he met a fan who ran up to him, hugged
him, and cried, ``You're still alive! I thought all these
years you were dead!'' Yes, Mr. C. confirms, he is very
much alive and still singing. And in our exclusive
interview, he talks for the first time about himself, his
triumphs, his regrets, and about the woman who has been
by his side for fifty-eight years.
By Alan Ebert
He was there at the
beginning of television, hosting one of the first weekly
variety shows. For almost a decade, Perry Como was the
weekly Saturday-night date at eight for millions. He won
a fistful of Emmys and a handful of Grammys, many for the
27 gold records he proudly owns. ``For the amount of
talent I had ~ and I couldn't dance, act, or tell a joke
~ I enjoyed a tremendous career," says Perry. ``I
worked with the world's greatest talents and then went
home to the world's greatest woman. It was, and is, a
great life.''
The smile creasing his
suntanned face says these are not just words. An
afternoon spent with Perry Como finds no evidence of a
sad, aging star living on memories of bygone glories, but
a man who finds his present every bit as enjoyable as his
past. He is that rarity, a happily married superstar,
father of three, grandparent of 11, and ``love slave'' to
his first great grandchild. Twice a year, for three
consecutive weeks each time, he performs throughout the
country in concert while ``the world's greatest woman,''
Roselle Belline Como, remains at home in Jupiter, Fla.,
keeping the hearth warm and that part of the Comos' lives
separate and protected, just as she has for the nearly 58
years the couple has been married.
Age has touched the
77-year-old Como gently, as if loathe to mark the man
known throughout his career as Mr. Nice Guy. Lean and
physically fit, Como allows he could work more often if
he desired. But home is where is heart is, and he doesn't
choose to leave it more frequently to swim in what he
terms unfamiliar waters. ``The business has changed
greatly since my day,'' he explains, ``and I no longer
understand or fit into it.''
To illustrate his point,
Perry, with tongue deeply buried in cheek, describes a
recent Friday evening when he and ``my girl,'' as he
often refers to Roselle, were watching a late-night music
video on TV. ``And there,'' he says, ``was Cher, letting
it all hang out, so to speak, parading bare-bottomed
on some Navy battleship. Since my eyes aren't the
greatest, I turned to the wife and said, `You sure you
got that thing tuned in right?' But the wife didn't
respond. She was sitting there wide-eyed as Cher gave way
to Madonna singing Express Yourself
as she exposed her tops and grabbed at her privates. Damn
near fainted, I did. This wasn't exactly television as I
once knew it. During the seventeen years that I had a
weekly show, if I had ever expressed myself in such a
way, forget about the censors, both my mamma and Roselle
would have slapped me silly.''
He laughs ``It sure is a
different world with different values today,'' he says.
``Sure, I still work in respectable concert halls and
theatres. But nobody is offering me a bundle of bucks to
dance around bare-bottomed at my age.''
This time Mr. C. laughs
so hard that tears come to his eyes. When composed, he
says seriously, ``That I can't relate to today's music or
morals doesn't make either necessarily bad. Just
different. I leave the judgments to others. Actually, I
would love to make a music video,'' he says, as his
tongue finds its way once again into his cheek. ``Maybe
it would finally put to rest those persistent rumors that
have followed me throughout my career particularly when I
was on camera performing that I had died.''
He is alluding to the
jokes made for years about his relaxed singing style.
Years ago, if a high strung or nervous individual asked
for a Como, they were requesting a tranquilizer. ``Just
this morning in the mall,'' Perry continues, ``a woman
stood nose to nose with me and said, `You're alive. And
here I thought all these years you were dead.' I didn't
know whether to thank her for what may or may not have
been a compliment.
It takes prodding for
him to reveal that the same woman also said, ``I love
you'' as she hugged him in delight. Perry is embarrassed
by the public's reaction to him today. When his entrances
on stage are greeted by standing ovations, he covers his
discomfort by quipping when the audience finally sits:
``You scared me half to death. I thought maybe you were
leaving.'' He diffuses such public displays with humor
partly because he has yet to realize his place in
people's affections and partly because he still mistrusts
such effusive reactions.
``Years ago, I never
felt what was expressed toward me was real and so I shied
away from it,'' he explains. ``But today, I feel the
genuine warmth, the affection, and although I may joke
about it, I am touched. In many ways, that affection is
the real reward for 56 years in the business. Although
the money ain't exactly bad either.''
He is, of course, again
joking. Had money been Como's driving force, he might
never have left Canonsburg, Pa., where he was born and
raised, and where by age 11 he was contributing
substantially to the family income with monies he earned
working after school in a local barbershop. By 14, the
industrious seventh son of a seventh son, Pierino Como,
owned the shop; and was known for his hair cutting
expertise. Only his father's insistence that he complete
high school, which he did in 1929, made Como suspend his
highly profitable venture, and the only temporarily. By
1933, he was established as the Sassoon of his day and
had taken Roselle Belline as
his bride. A year later
it wasn't the lure of making more money but the fantasy
of singing with a band that prompted Perry to audition
for the touring Freddie Carlone Orchestra. When he won
the job, he took to the road, first with Carlone, then
with the well known Ted Weems Band, and always with the
support of his ``girl.''
Eight years later,
Perry's roadwork came to an abrupt end. His first son,
Ronnie, had been born in 1939 and by 1942, Perry deemed
the constant touring an unsuitable life for raising a
child. The trigger was seeing the eight-year-old son of
one of the musicians sitting alone in a New Orleans hotel
lobby long after midnight.
Returning to Canonsburg
and, he thought, to barbering, he was approached to sing
on a CBS radio show in New York before he could sign the
lease on a new shop. Only when assured that the job would
not require touring did he accept the offer, again with
Roselle's full support.
It was the age of the
crooners and Perry soon parlayed his success in radio to
nightclubs and recordings, where it is estimated he has
sold in excess of 100 million records. Although soon
signed to a seven-picture deal by Twentieth Century-Fox,
he found film work boring and secured his release before
the contract's expiration to explore a new medium,
television.
 His relaxed, intimate
singing style proved ideally suited to the small screen
and as television proceeded to grow in stature so did
Como. He graduated from his three-times-a-week, 15
minute, small budget songfest to the prime-time eight
o'clock hour on NBC Saturday nights. His task was to
defeat or defray Jackie Gleason's rating dominance on
CBS. To observers, it seemed like a very odd mission
indeed to give to the king of ease and relaxation.
``Make no mistake, I was
no reluctant Christian thrown to the lions, so to
speak,'' says Perry. ``I wanted to win. People have
always thought that I wasn't ambitious. They judged by
appearances and were fooled. I was competitive. I wanted
success and was willing to work for it.''
Was he therefore not as
relaxed on camera as he seemed? ``I was always relaxed on
camera when I sang,'' he states, ``mainly because I'm not
very high-strung or animated by nature. Acting coaches in
Hollywood were always telling me to use my hands and body
more. But that was never me. I just breathe and sometimes
it doesn't look as if I'm doing that.''
When asked to single out
a particularly memorable professional moment, Perry
cannot, pleading that there were too many such moments to
choose only one. But he doesn't hesitate when asked about
regrets and his response is surprising as it enters areas
previously marked off-limits to interviewers. Perry would
never discuss his marriage and family, which expanded in
1956 when the Comos, unable to have more children
naturally, adopted David when he was four, and Teri, a
year later, when she was six months.
``My only regret in life
is that I didn't spend as much time with my kids as I now
wish I had,'' says Perry softly. ``Although I managed my
schedule to be home by late afternoon most days,
basically, Roselle raised our children alone. And so I
missed out on a lot of wonderful moments, missed watching
my kids grow into the wonderful people they are today.''
``Roselle did a
spectacular job with the children,'' he continues. ``She
was there with them constantly. Although we could easily
have afforded a household staff, Roselle mostly did her
own housecleaning and cooking, as she never wanted
strangers in our home. And it was a home. Roselle made it
that. The world that fussed over Perry Como never made it
through our front door."
``Roselle set limits and
boundaries for our children,'' Perry goes on. ``Which
often made her the bad guy. But when they needed love or
help or had a problem of any kind, they could always go
to Roselle because she was always there for them. That
was not always the case with me."
But summer vacations
were different,'' he says, brightening. ``I had 13 weeks
off and I would pack up the family and drive to some
mountain retreat where we could be together and fish all
day. I loved it. I needed it. My family has always been
the main source of my nurturance and contentment. And we
were a hechuva family! We still are. Sure we had our
problems, but none that were all that serious. Just the
usual stuff parents go through with kids when they are
growing up. But those rough times brought us closer
together.''
Although the entire Como
clan is seldom together today, Perry is in frequent touch
with them all. ``They still come to their old dad with
their problems. I like that. I like listening and then
with the wisdom of age giving them my heartfelt advice. I
even like the fact that they then go out and do exactly
what they wanted to do anyway that's the way it should be
with parents and kids.''
Growing wistful again.
Perry says, ``Sometimes it's hard to realize they're not
kids anymore but adults. Not even the grandchildren are
kids anymore. Sometimes I sit and wonder . . .where did
the years go. Just the other day, it seems, the kids were
running through the house, slamming doors, breaking
glass, making noise. Time goes by so quickly. Sometimes
everything seems so fleeting.''
Except his marriage.
``It'll be 58 years soon and I told Roselle just the
other day that I think I'm getting a little tired of it,
that maybe we should give it a rest, take a break from
one another,'' he says. ``After all, there hasn't been
another lady in my life for 60 years. Maybe it's time
before I forget what it's time for.''
He chuckles, the idea as
obviously ludicrous to him as his dancing around
bare-bottomed on some video. Roselle Bellini has been his
``girl'' since high school. She was the first he ever
took to a dance and there is no doubt she will be the
last.
When asked what makes
Roselle and their marriage special, Perry replies,
``she's my best friend. Throughout our lives she has
always been so supportive. And honest. When Roselle felt
I was going in a wrong direction, she was never shy about
straightening me out. We have always had open and direct
communication. I respect her greatly. She's decent . .
.warm . . .loving.''
``She has been my
anchor,'' he adds. ``People forget that I wasn't always a
success. In the early years, there were some rough times
when I thought I'd quit this business. Roselle always
stood by me, never pressuring me to be or do anything
other than what I wanted.''
He agrees his marriage
is a show business oddity it not only survived but
prevailed. He also admits that temptations abounded
throughout his superstar reign. ``There were many
opportunities to have an affair,'' he says. ``There were
always women around willing to do anything to get close
to a star. And there were nice women, attractive women,
who found you nice and attractive too. Many men in my
position took advantage of these situations, but I
didn't. Not because I'm a saint, because I'm not and
never was, but because I always knew what I had with
Roselle was special, and that she
was special, and that no one could match the importance
of what I felt for her or replicate what I had with
her.''
``There was one other
factor,'' he says, his face filled with emotion. ``I
would never have risked doing anything that might have
hurt Roselle. I would sooner have died. People will find
this hard to believe but in all our years together,
Roselle and I have never had a truly rocky period.''
With most of their
friends living in the New York area where they spent most
of their adult lives, the Comos live a fairly solitary
existence today in Florida. ``I guess Roselle and I have
always been stay-at-homes, happy with ourselves and one
another,'' says Perry.
``But we do have a golf
course near by and I play fairly regularly,'' he
continues. ``Roselle used to, but not anymore. I should
quit too as my head knows exactly what I should be doing
on the links, but my body isn't willing. That also
applies to other things, but I ain't saying what. We also
own a little boat and I'm like a kid with it. I take off
early in the morning, fishing rod in tow, and just drift
about the ocean all day. I figure I've earned the right
to do as little as possible at this stage of my life.
Roselle seems to figure the same as she no longer boats
or fishes with me, claiming the sun and the smell of the
fish make her sick.
What then do the Comos
do together?
``We stare,'' says
Perry, deadpanned. ``We stare a lot. At one another. At
the ocean. At space. At night, when we sit on the sofa,
she stares at me; I stare at her.''
Do they talk?
``Listen, I've already
told her I love her and she's told me the same. After 58
years, there's not much left that's important to add.
Except every once in a while," he says, lowering his
voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ``after dinner, when
we are nestled on the sofa in front of the fire and the
TV, Roselle will lean over and whisper, with her breathe
hot in my ear, `Would you change the channel please?' ``
And again he laughs,
laughs so hard that I barely hear his final words. ``It's
been and is a great life. Just a great life,'' he says.
``Now if I could only make that video....''
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