worshipping warren
i used to sit in warren’s room at saybrook college (yale), a fire in the fireplace. we would drink and drink and drink. he was a sort of rock star there. i worshipped him. his beautiful soaring evocative singing voice — tenor. his depth of culture. he played ‘tristan und isolde’ all wagner. we talked late into the night. he had carved ‘excalibur’ on the wrist of the armchair I always sat in (not sure why. didn’t ask). he and his girlfriend, micaela, a total knockout, would listen to that slow, agonizing ‘death und libestod’ section of tristan and make love to it, trying to have mutual orgasm at its peak. ‘we always missed,’ he laughed. ‘we were always early.’ he majored in chinese studies and quickly mastered the language. he got me into the whiffenpoofs. he got me into wolf’s head (a secret society). he got me through my first year at yale by seeming to believe in me, or perhaps enjoying my belief in him. i looked up to him, but was never in love, beautiful as he was, a close resemblance to dylan in his early years. same wild hair, intense eyes. years later i ran into someone in new york when we were recording the orchestra luna record. someone who knew warren. he told me where to look him up. I went the next day, full of anticipation. his place was a walk-up on a tiny street in the village. i pushed a greasy ivory nipple buzzer. ‘who is it?’ it’s me. rick.’ he met me at the door, unshaven and smelling of booze. he hugged me, kissed me. our lips missed, like kissing grandma. unwashed dishes were piled in the sink. dirty clothes and newspapers were all over the place. tapes and ashtrays full of butts. says he’s giving up smoking, but rips into one after another. vodka and orange juice in a coffee cup. tells me about a famous vocal coach named richard, an old man in his sixties. an ex-met baritone with a huge rich voice. warren played me the tapes. this guy had loved warren. believed in his talent.
all this took place in san francisco. warren studied with him for a year when the old man suddenly died. it broke his heart. broke his spirit and his drive. he moved to new york to study law and to continue voice with one of his mentor’s students. he clutched at a broken pitch pipe. he would bleat out a note and attempt in a smeary drunken pathetic way to sing. one aria after another, with his marble eyes fixed on me. ’tell me, rick. do you notice the difference? how much freer the voice is?’ ‘yes,’ I lied. so sad and deluded. his voice was awful. his phrasing off. no life in it, only struggle. there was one note in particular that was giving him a hard time. he kept going back to it. ‘here,’ he said, blowing on the pitch pipe, ‘i’ll try again. no. don’t go. i won’t sing anymore. stay for dinner, rick. please stay. you are the only person from yale…’ ’no. i can’t. i really can’t. too much to do. i’ll call.’ ’no. you must stay longer. can’t you stay?’ he threw his arms around me. his breath was nasty. his desperation. all the miserable alcoholic phony emotional bullshit that I used to get from dad, and between me and whomever i was enthralled with at the time. love like days of wine and roses. but he repulsed me. i felt like a victorian spinster. i stood very still. ‘warren. i really think you should give up the booze. it can’t be good for your voice. at any rate, i’ll call.’ what an asshole i was. i prayed for him in my facile force-be-with-you gauzy hippie wishy washy way, but kept a safe distance. he hugged me pretty hard, pressed his cock into me. i froze. i walked out.
This is an excerpt from my book, The Paragraphs — Cutlass Press
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