So why is it so dad-gummed sad?It’s been a rough few months for me. As of last night, I’ve lost my two favorite Andys — Williams, at 84, and Griffith, who died July 3 at 86.
Of the two, Andy Griffith had a much more profound impact on my life. I can scarcely imagine what my childhood and college years would’ve been like without Sheriff Andy Taylor’s calming and wise council, and the knowledge that Mayberry — in all its crisp black and white glory — was there when I needed it, never changing and never corrupted.
As a musician and songwriter, I even co-wrote an Andy Griffith Show parody song — “Nip It” — that has probably seen more airplay than all of the other dozens of “serious” songs I penned during the 1990s combined. This was not some crude attempt to cash in on the popularity of a TV show. It was a labor of love for two “Andy fanatics,” myself and my buddy, Bruce Frye. I’ve never had more fun writing a song. (Below is a YouTube version of Bruce and his comedy partner, Todd Yohn, performing “Nip It” on the John Boy and Billy Show. Some of the graphics are questionable, but fairly funny.)
And now, as a father of three, I often find myself making mental references to Andy’s parenting of his TV son, Opie, as I have discussions with my own children. As we’ve heard in countless tributes since Griffith’s passing, it wasn’t the comic geniuses of the supporting cast that made The Andy Griffith Show (TAGS) timeless. It was Andy Griffith himself. He was the father we wanted to have and the father we wanted to be.
So, to add insult to injury, I learned this morning that Andy Williams died last night at his home in Branson, Mo. Although I — like everyone else — also associate Williams with Christmastime, he invokes more than that for me. When I think of Andy Williams, I think of my parents’ record collection, their enormous oak turntable console, and 1970s variety shows. Almost like Mayberry, I think of a time when wholesomeness and consideration of one another was to be admired rather than ridiculed as it seems to be these days.
As a musician, I have very strong opinions about Andy Williams. Yes, he (and Perry Como) wore sweaters. Yes, he looked like a frat boy, with startling blue eyes and a mouthful of blinding teeth. Yes, he hosted variety shows and, later, owned a theater in Branson, Mo. No, he wasn’t dangerous and edgy like Sinatra, a bundle of burlesque talent like Sammy Davis, Jr., or Vegas-cool like Dean Martin.
But let me tell y’all something — don’t let the laid-back demeanor fool you. Andy Williams could absolutely sing his ever-lovin’ ass off.
For my money, he had the best pure voice of the lot, Sinatra included. His tone kept the same mile-wide breadth at its high end as it had at its low. Impeccable control, emotion, and interpretation of the material. And all delivered with a warm smile and twinkling eyes. Back then, you see, it was possible to be friendly, accommodating, and cool at the same time. Shocking!
So, I go back to my original question: Why does it hurt so much to lose these people who we never even met? Not even once!
I think it’s because our world — y’know, that place that is uniquely ours and inhabited by the memories and emotions that belong to us exclusively — is lesser without them. They were a living bridge to that wonderful, innocent, comforting moment in time, and without them, we feel adrift with nothing but a broken anchor line. Until recently, there was always the (slim) possibility that Griffith might make another episode of TAGS, and Williams might record a new, instantly classic Christmas tune. But now, we’ll have to be satisfied with the re-runs, films, and CDs.
The cage may be empty, but that’s OK. Thanks to Andy Griffith and Andy Williams, our hearts and memories sure seem nice and full.
Great memories. Thanks.