Mr. C sings for her - always

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

"Is he still handsome?" That's what people always ask. That and "How old is he?" and "Can he still sing?" and "Is he really as nice as he seems?"

Yes, he's handsome. He has thick gray hair, twinkley eyes, a great smile and a younger man's trim build.

How old is he? He's 30-50, my sister-in-law would say. Eighty is how the world translates it. But the number deceives.

Can he still sing? Ah, yes, he sings beautifully, hitting every note as cleanly and easily as he ever has. Last year, when he was 79 and on tour for a month, bringing his Christmas show all over the East Coast, he crooned dozens of his old standards plus his favorite holiday songs. "Sing to me, sing to me, Mr. C," a young chorus entreated, and he did, exactly as he used to once a week on NBC, sitting in center stage, on a stool, mike in hand, wooing an audience.

But is he really as nice as he seems, everyone wants to know? He is much, much nicer. Everything about Perry Como is nicer in person: his smile, his laugh, his smooth, easy voice, the flawless way he sings "Bless This House" and "Ave Maria." But it's his genuine niceness, his accessibility, the way he treats people, that you walk away remembering.

A few years ago, back stage after a sell-out show in Syracuse, after a performance that would have tired a much younger man, I watched Como put on another show, away from the lights, cameras and media.

A crowd had lined up to catch a glimpse of him, a crowd of adoring fans. Some clutched roses they were waiting to give him. Some had programs they wanted signed.

He signed them all. And accepted the roses. And talked to each person as if he had all the time in the world. "What's your name? Where are you from? You came all the way from there to see me?"

A young disabled woman who'd had tickets to see him in another city and couldn't attend that performance had traveled hundreds of miles to catch him this night. He escorted her and her parents to a special place back stage and came to talk to them after he was finished greeting everyone else. The show was long over, everyone was ready to call it a night. But Como gave this girl and her family his total attention.

He treated my mother the same way. She went to see him at the South Shore Music Center about six years ago, her big night out, her first night out in years. She was housebound, in a wheelchair, and didn't go many places.

But oh how she perked up at the thought of seeing him. She had a front row seat, but the wheelchair wasn't allowed up front. So she had to sit in the back.

She didn't care. She was in heaven. She had always loved Perry Como. Now there he was live, on stage, in front of her.

After the show, she met him. She shook his hand and told him how much she'd enjoyed his performance, not just this night, but over all the years. "You've always made me happy," she told him.

He made her happy that night. He didn't know a thing about her. He didn't know how important this night was. But he talked to her and joked with her and listened to her and spent time with her; and forever after, right up until the day she died, my mother said this had been the best night of her life.

Now he's 80 and still spreading his magic. Still making people happy. Still singing to sell out crowds.

Tonight and tomorrow night he's appearing at the Providence Performing Art Center. Next Tuesday he'll be in Portland, Maine, at the Cumberland Civic Center and next Wednesday he'll be in Lowell at the Lowell Auditorium.

Perry Como's Christmas show is far more than nostalgia. Nostalgia is a longing for something that no longer exists. Como exists. His holiday show is magic, but it's as real as the man himself.