From forty miles away in the neighboring state of Arkansas, the billboard with the portrait of Bobby Vinton, his eyes an eerie steely blue, beckons the roadside traveler. Soon the billboard faces are so frequent it is like watching an old-fashioned "movie" precursor, where you flip the pages of a book rapidly and it seems like the image is moving, the lady dances, the pinwheel spins. The long lost images of one performer after another ad infinitum applaud the wonders of the city ahead. Between the Lutheran churches and dusty flea markets on Route 65, hub of the Ozarks, home state of our president -- the enormous likenesses of people from a world you thought had long gone by decorated the highway alongside the proverbial dead skunks and other roadkill. Sidekicks from TV shows in the sixties, one-hit wonders of the early seventies, characters you didn't think actually existed -- except you keep hearing on late night commercials that they sold More Records than the Rolling Stones and The Beatles Combined (and no one could figure out where since no one in your neighborhood ever heard of them) names you thought you would never glance upon again, with the exception of an article entitled "Whatever Happened To..."; They are all here. You cross the state line. The celluloid roadside portraits reflect real people who are not only alive and well, they are stars here, replete with their names in huge, blinking, multi-colored neon lights. Welcome to Branson, Missouri.
I am from Boston; my family and I were city Yankees staying in northern Arkansas for the summer of l996. We had never heard of Branson, let alone had any awareness that it was the Las Vegas of the Bible Belt, the entertainment center of Middle America, with a strip to rival that of the infamous city in Nevada, albeit without the gambling, prostitution, or accepted consumption of large quantities of alcohol. This is, after all, a Christian city, and you will not forget that gambling and sex are still sins here. Although liquor is legally sold, you won't see anyone at a bar nursing their third martini without lunch. Many of the surrounding counties are dry, double shots are unheard of and alcohol is actually referred to as "booze." There will never be a movie called "Leaving Branson." The entertainment is strictly G-rated, suitable for the whole family. Nestled in between the numerous motels that line the highway (all of which feature pools with a view of the action on the Strip) are Go Kart tracks, miniature golf, skeeball joints, family dining with checkered tablecloths, Wal-Marts, waterparks, and theaters named after everyone you forgot or vaguely remembered died fifteen years ago of a disease that had foggy social ostracization capabilities even in trendy college towns.
There are no women with naked oversized breasts to appeal to your prurient pleasures. There are no same sex couples casually holding hands as they wait in line to bungee jump. A quick overview reveals there are no other races but the one that requires a minimum of SPF-15 sunscreen for protection. Diversity here means they have pancakes and waffles for breakfast.
Speaking of food, sushi is not an option. All-you-can-eat buffets (and it looks like many of the patrons did) with names like Dixie Stampede, are the norm. Danish pastries, English muffins, and French fried potatoes are as ethnic as it gets, with an occasional Chinese restaurant furnished with oversized Polynesian chairs and featuring exotic dishes with flames burning underneath the omnipresent eggrolls and spareribs accompanied by a scorpion bowl with six straws.
The local attitude is Southern Drawl friendly. No one will argue with your second amendment rights, although the fifth and eighth are subject to argument. The politics are definitely anti-commie and decidedly conservative. An eye for an eye, as the Bible says; the death penalty is big business in this territory (and abortion is not). Whether the defendants are juveniles or mentally incompetent is of no consequence. However an exception may be made for sports legends. The general opinion here is OJ was innocent, and justice was served; he was a great football hero which in Kansas City Chiefs country overrides the "problem" that he married a white woman and beat her for good measure.
The Confederate flag from that war -- etched in our consciousness by scenes from 'Gone with the Wind' but referred to here as "The War of Northern Aggression" -- the symbol of the Confederacy that was brought down by the surrender 131 years ago in Appomattox, the official banner of Dixie, lovingly referred to as 'Stars and Bars' here, still appears frequently on license plates and T-shirts. Indeed on the way up from Arkansas, past the towns with the confederate flag flying proudly over City Hall, almost a century and a half after that war was won by the Union (a fact which seems to have been forgotten), the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan adopted (represented by official state signs) part of highway 65 as part of their civic duty to clean up the litter.
This is Easy Rider country -- the End of Easy Rider country -- where one can imagine, even in l996, a freak with long hair and a red-white-and-blue-flag-painted vehicle -- especially if it had bumper stickers proclaiming tendencies toward and affiliations with social justice, environmentalism, Judaism, and Harvard -- could get you blown to smithereens by a Redneck in a pick up truck with a chip on his shoulder and a shotgun by his side. "Redneck" is not an insult here, but a label one wears with the dignity and respect the label "liberal activist" brings in the college-infested cities on the coasts.
Branson Missouri, population 3700. Each year this figure swells to accommodate 7 million middle-class patriotic tourists, from Texas, Arkansas and Oklahoma as well as those in terminal Misery (as Missourans occasionally pronounce it), who come with their families (as well as tour busses for which Branson is the number one destination) and spend their time and money on that annual extravaganza immortalized ˆ la Chevy Chase's Summer Vacation. And business is definitely thriving.
There are a total of five rush hours in Branson -- the usual commuter ones (the afternoon commute is made worse by the matinee traffic) -- as well as before and after showtime. Highway traffic is diverted down lesser traveled routes during peak jams at one-two PM, seven-eight PM and again at 10:30-11:30 when the last encore and jauntily-placed-straw-hat ragtime shuffle is finished and all the shows get out simultaneously. The traffic is bumper to bumper against the starlit sky and blinking neon for at least one third the distance of the Boston Marathon. Broadway move over! Branson has arrived!
The variety and number of shows is astonishing. In Boston, there might be three or four shows playing on any given night. In Branson, there are over fifty. Big names too. Remember Tony Orlando? He's here. (Dawn, however, seems to have been misplaced.) Ray "the Streak" Stevens? Yup. Steve Lawrence -- ex-husband-of-skier-killer-Claudia-Longet? Present. The Osmond Brothers play here every night with the second generation! Apparently even Wayne Newton has left Vegas for the glories and sequins of the midwest. Elvis, Marilyn, Roy Orbison, and Michael Jackson impersonators perform every night next to the wax museum and Ripley's Believe It or Not, and they are not considered Camp, but Respected Entertainers to be taken seriously. Anyone who ever got to say a line in a commercial, has a first name that is the same as a mode of transport (for example, Boxcar, as in Boxcar Willie) or scored big for what we thought was fifteen minutes of undeserved fame with the cultural ditty of the year, now has a nightly show and a theater named after them in Branson Missouri. Even those that never had that Andy Warhol prerequisite nationally, are enjoying fame and fortune. Jennifer (apparently so famous that like Cher, Madonna, and Eljay, she doesn't need a last name to be recognized) is back for her fourth sensational season with her fantastic band, the Prime Time Pickers. Frederick, unbeknownst to the rest of the country, is America's Newest Piano Sensation (his credentials include a stint with Bob Hope). He plays two grand pianos simultaneously at "Waltzing Waters" the "liquid fireworks" show guaranteed by the brochures to be the most spectacular attraction of your trip. And remember folks, feel free to light up. Every section of the theater is a smoking section. (In fact, smoking is OK everywhere here -- gas stations, restaurants, hotels, so if you have emphysema or a compelling urge to express your non-smoker's rights, just hold your breath).
Our first glimpse of Americana's answer to the West End was on a steamy Sunday night. Wayne and Tony (referred to as "Oh, Tony O!" on the billboards, since we all know the "O") were off so we went to see that icon of the early seventies AM radio where his one hit medley could be regularly heard every week in the summer of '73, on Casey Kasem's top forty countdown. Yes, I am talking about none other than Jim "Spiders and Snakes" Stafford. Jim plays seven nights a week at the appropriately and imaginatively named Jim Stafford Theater.
For those of you who are wondering, the years have been kind to Jim. He must be pushing 55 now and has gained about thirty pounds, but still has those dimples. His southern accent is more pronounced now than it was during his brief illustrious musical career (so much so that some of the jokes are hard to understand, much like when you try to understand what the Rolling Stones are talking about during an interview in what is presumably English). But, like those British rock stars, you can always understand Jim when he sings.
During the show, the fully packed theater audience, ranging in age from two to the omnipresent bus of senior citizens, enthusiastically responds to Jim's questions and hoo and ha appreciatively at his jokes. Many of the jokes are 'set up' and helped along by a carefully placed usher 'stooge' masquerading as an innocent dumb, loud member of the general public. Mr. Stafford's style of humor carefully avoids being political in any way -- "How many people here have been called Democrats?" (scant scattered applause) "How many have been called Republicans?" (general thunderous ovation) "How many have been called Independents?" (my fiance clapped alone) -- is as partisan as Jim gets. He did tell three or four jokes that made it perfectly understood that homosexuality was not OK in this wholesome atmosphere -- not that there's anything wrong with that... -- but keep your kissin' to those of the opposite gender and presumably to those of non-opposite races.
The show was very clean, not even a four-letter suggestion was uttered, except for "The Legend of Cow Patty" (which us city folk call manure). My six-year-old son found it hilarious and my five-year-old daughter clapped in rhythm with Jim's catchy numbers. My fiance, who fancies himself a worldly sophisticate, chuckled throughout the performance. (I, of course, adored every moment of the show, having been a teenybopper in love with Jim during his fifteen minutes of fame and for years beyond). A Very Big Deal is of course made of his megahit "I-don't-like-spiders-and-snakes-but-that-ain't-what-it takes-to-love-me-like-I-want-to-be-loved-by-you". It is now a multimedia extravaganza, with fluorescent puppet accompaniment and an elaborate laser-light show. (You can also, after all these years, finally purchase a T-shirt or hat with the reptilian and arachnid likenesses that appear in the song.)
During intermission, Jim signs autographs and poses for pictures with his loyal fans. Two rotating dancing chickens make balloons for the small fry. We even got a Lettermanesque brush with fame when Jim Stafford's wife's poodle chased -- and almost bit -- our children Spike and Coco, in the lobby. (Spike tried unsuccessfully to fend off the offending dog with his sword balloon).
The crowd seemed happy, sober and satisfied as their special night out ended and they merged with the Anita Bryant patrons in the parking lot (from the appropriately and imaginatively-named Anita Bryant Theater next door, which shares Jim's parking lot). There is no loud rock music blaring outside, nor is anyone angry (or unduly happy), as the drivers and their families patiently sit in their domestic manufactured cars on Route 76 amidst the kids on bumper rafts and kids-of-all-ages on Go Karts, on their way to what will be their home for tonight. Perhaps this is a prozac-induced scene of the nineties, or maybe it was the placating influence of one of those many Sunday morning Christian services that are advertised on each block as open to all.
If you're not up to Disneyworld and want a wholesome good-ol'-boy-tie-a-yellow-ribbon-round-that-old-American-tree experience, pack your family up in the paneled camper or hop onto that senior citizen bus, and head on down to Southern Missouri. Leave the crime and racism of the urban jungle behind. Here they call a spade a shovel and a Hoe is not a disgusting Eddie Murphy punch line, but a garden tool, one that tills the soil of our country, these United States of America.
It was impossible to resist the Oh Tony O billboard advertisements with that famous Geraldo look a like image pointing at us knowingly. Tony has finally gained that weight that he always threatened to gain in the seventies -- he looks excactly the same as he did all those years ago right down to the fluorescent teeth, blow-dried hairstyle and coiffed moustache. Now he is fifty three years old and “if you don’t have this by the time you’re fifty three, you’re not an American,” he proudly explains to the audience of his present balloon-like persona. Tony puts on quite an extravaganza, sweating profusely all the while (reminding movie buffs of the nervous anchor in "Broadcast News").
In his humble, subtle way, three representations of his three number one hits in the early seventies in the form of enormous forty-five-RPM records hang down above the stage. Below them, Tony fondly recollects those brief moments of fame when he was the toast of the towne and was on the music charts, had his own (brief) TV series and hung out with Jackie Gleason, Bob Hope, and George Burns. Today, he plays in a hall with many empty rows, to senior citizens and garrishly dressed overweight, pale, mid-American tourists with varicose veins. He recounts long, seemingly pointless, anecdotes of his salad days, and lip-syncs and bounces his way through the audience, posing for pictures and distributing sweaty hugs. The show is squeaky clean per the local community standards -- Tony even edits the word “damn” out of the final climactic verse of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” (on the radio, you hear, “the whole damn bus is cheering”; in Branson you hear “the whole... bus is cheering”).
The number one songs, the aforementioned Tie a Yellow Ribbon, Sweet Gypsy Rose and Knock Three Times are pure American pop at its most brainwashing, mellow, Valiumlike, elevator-music style, and the crowd’s response is medicated acceptance. (Because I respond to all stimuli in a way opposite from the rest of the world, I was extremely excited to be in the presence of this former superstar who contributed so much to American culture, to the America we are so proud of today.)
The lyrics of Tony’s songs are simple and make as much sense as apple pie. For example (for those of you who forgot) “Knock Three Times” is about a man living in an apartment building who is smitten with the woman living one floor below him. Every night he “hears her music playin’, and feels her body swayin’.” How does he tell her? — and more importantly how does he get her to come upstairs and presumably consummate this obsession? He creates a profound, nearly unbreakable code whereby she is to “knock three times on the ceiling if she wants him, twice on the pipe, if the answer is no”,(“knock knock knock if you’ll meet me in the hallway, twice on the pipe if you ain’t gonna show” it continues, in case she mixes it up). One might think: Why doesn’t he just call her? Do they live in a tyrannical county? Why not just ring her doorbell and ask her out for coffee? How about a letter? Aside from those obvious questions, the main problem is, How does he convey this code to her in the first place and if he must convey the code by some traditional communicative method, why not just ask her out at the same time? Is he planning to continue to communicate with her only through code? (“Stomp six times if you want to go to dinner/ A paper out your window if you want Chinese/ Drop a rock if you prefer Mexican/ A flapping flag means you’re not hungry.”) It’s all a very romantic notion, and has a catchy beat, but like many of Tony’s songs, it falls apart upon closer examination.
"Tie a Yellow Ribbon ’Round the Old Oak Tree" has similar faults of logic. The song, you’ll recall if you have an ounce of American blood, is about a man who just got out of prison and doesn’t know if his true love still wants him. He writes her (another code) to tie a yellow ribbon around a particular tree if she still wants to hang out with him. If he doesn’t see it as the bus goes by, he’ll “stay on the bus, forget about us, put the blame on me.” He is putting his life and dreams at the whim and reliability of the US postal service!? What if she never recieved the letter? What if she didn’t know how to identify an oak and put a ribbon on the other tree, the maple in the back yard? What if the store only had red ribbon? Why weren’t these people corresponding prior to this fateful latter? Does she know where he has been these long three years or was it normal for him to wait a long time between dates? If she knows and hasn’t been writing, doesn’t that tell him something too? Did the ex-con singer actually announce to the entire bus his predicament? As in all Tony songs, of course there is a happy ending: she tied not one, but 100 yellow ribbons around the old oak tree, thus sending her own code of sorts to him. Don’t these people speak English? Do they continue their life together in code using the oak tree and colored ribbons as the means to convey whether they want milk or bread or lots of cake for dinner? Is it more effective to communicate this way than face to face?
Perhaps we should all learn a lesson from these songs and use sounds and symbols and not our own words to convey what we want. Perhaps that will lead to a simpler, less harsh way of life, that which existed only in Jimmy Stewart movies and the minds of 1950s advertising executives, a world where no one argues, and the options are as limited as the number of colors of ribbon they sell at the local Wal-Mart.
This is “The way America Should Be” proclaim the posters and postcards of Branson. Every show in town has a tribute to veterans and the US of A, and Tony is no exception. His has lights and stars, mood music and the New York City skyline. Tony has been, of course, a true patriot since l990 when anyone who did not have a yellow ribbon out to welcome our boys home from the Gulf, was looked askance at and thought to be a commie. (God is the other neccesary tribute, and Tony spoke of him too and of his many prayers, not for peace on earth, but that of the hope that people will still come to see him for many years).
The show ended and the lights went on and the audience quietly filed out and into their busses and cars. No one lit matches, there was no encore, and no voice came over the PA system to inform over excited fans that “Tony has left the building.” An official Tony O surveyor asked me if I heard of the Tony O show before coming to Branson. “I never heard of Branson”, I replied honestly.
All material copyright 1997 by Lisa Jayne and Jesse Gordon.
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