This was old crap to us. We rejected it out of hand. We wouldn’t drink gas –whisky — because that’s what the old farts drank. We drank gin and beer. We didn’t want to hear any unelectrified instruments. No after shave. No Brylcream. A suit was for being buried in, and you were never going to die anyway, and the old farts entertainment couldn’t die fast enough. A variety show was a variety of ways to annoy you. You only liked Don Rickles, and solely because he got up on the same stage and called his co-performers names, just like you wanted to.
How hard could it be, you thought, to smoke a cigarette and drink a Cutty and Ginger and wear a ruffled shirt tux and have a camera six inches from your face and sing a little song? It wasn’t our mistake, exactly; Dean led us on. I blame him. If he’d have acted like a rock band, grimacing like he’s having a kidney out while simply making a barre chord and yelling, we’d have known it was hard to make it seem easy.