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Sept. 21, 1999 |
And who understands that better than Donny Osmond? He's been a walking Donny Osmond bio all his life. Wisely, the 41-year-old singer kicks off "Life Is Just What You Make It: My Story So Far" by disarming the cheap-shot artists with a description of what it's like to be considered a walking joke by anyone who fancies themselves hip. He describes an encounter with jeering teens at a gas station and lists alternate titles for his book, such as "One More Joke About Big Teeth and the Old Lady Gets It" and "I've Suffered for My Art -- Now It's Your Turn." Clearly, Osmond wants to break through the plastic laminate that has seemed to coat him since his heyday as a '70s teen pop sensation, and in fact it's surprisingly easy to sympathize with the guy. Read more than one Q&A; from the press kit and you can play Wince-Along-With-Donny as yet another wise-ass thinks he invented all those Goody Two Shoes jokes. In retrospect, the obnoxious Osmonds stack up rather well against other '70s acts in certain areas. They were genuinely talented singers and dedicated show business performers. I think by now most of us have figured out that, while it may make a screenwriter's job easier, the Jim Morrison life plan is no improvement on the Osmonds' strict anti-drug policy. Among public figures most closely identified with religion (or even just apple-pie wholesomeness), few proved so true to their principles in the end. While the family's Mormonism has always been the target of unmasked suspicion, it wasn't the Osmonds who ended up publicly betraying their faith with secret motel room trysts and/or misappropriated funds. (And as long as it's open season on religious faith, I've got a few pointed questions for the Presbyterians, too.) Donny Osmond, the target of as much innocent young lust as any teenager this century, was a virgin groom at 20. Say what you like, you can't call the Osmonds hypocrites.
Life Is Just What You Make It: My Story So Far And yet as Donny Osmond sets out to reshape his image yet again, he has his work cut out for him. To a generation of music zealots like me -- only six months younger than Donny himself -- that sweet voice represented the enemy from the very beginning. 1971 was, as they say, a dark time for the rebellion. Evil forces held Top 40 radio in a death grip, and not everyone had a readily available FM alternative. Osmond himself unwittingly re-creates the tenor of the time as he recounts one of the happiest stories in the book: the day the family returned from church and turned on Casey Kasem's countdown to find out if their first big hit would move up or down from its previous chart position at No. 3. "We'd missed most of the countdown and tuned in just in time to hear Casey announce the No. 3 record: Lynn Anderson's 'Rose Garden,'" Donny writes. "Disappointment descended over the living room as Casey announced, 'And now the second most popular record in the country today: "Knock Three Times" by Tony Orlando and Dawn ...' And then the big moment. 'This is Casey Kasem --' We held our breaths. 'And the No. 1 record: the Osmonds and "One Bad Apple!"' With the first 'Yeah ...,' the five of us jumped up and screamed so loudly, I can't believe the neighbors didn't call the police." A touching scene. So why am I covered with goose bumps? It's a neat trick when the squeaky-clean Osmond can produce a flashback more terrifying than any acid reflux, simply by recounting the top three hits of February 1971. A similar effect is created later when Donny describes a debacle in Houston -- a lip-synched Astrodome show with cutesy little brother Jimmy Osmond wearing an Elvis-style jumpsuit and riding a horse onstage to sing "Rhinestone Cowboy": "The music started and Jimmy's voice came over the speakers smoothly singing, and the illusion was perfect -- until suddenly the horse reared up and started bucking, startling Jimmy, who was hanging on for dear life. All this time, however, his voice came through the speakers sounding as relaxed as if he were sitting in a rocking chair." What a horrible story. Jimmy Osmond; an Elvis jumpsuit; the Astrodome; "Rhinestone Cowboy." You can keep your Farrah Fawcett-Majors posters, your KC and the Sunshine Band compilations. That anecdote, to me, is the dark side of the '70s in sum.
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