Paul Anka singing his way helped me find my way
Many years ago, I was lost in Madrid seeking directions to a ratty rooming house when I met an Algerian fellow who took pity on my hapless Spanish. He tried his best to help.
His problem was simple. He spoke Arabic, Spanish, French, and possibly the Berber's native Tamazight. But he spoke no English.
Well, almost none.
The man from Algiers knew the lyrics to Paul Anka's "Diana."
In a bar next to the rooming house, the wine flowed and we pieced together a conversation. We managed to talk about families and jobs and even world politics. And every few minutes, when the lines of communication became tangled, he would punctuate his confusion with, "Oh, please, Diana!"
After a couple bottles of wine, we sang that refrain together in one of those moments in youth when you know you've learned something about the human race they do not teach in books.
• • •
Across the years and telephone lines, I picked up the receiver and heard that mellow voice of the man who as a teenager in 1957 wrote and recorded "Diana." I had to smile. Anka couldn't know his first hit held meaning for me.
Of course, his music holds meaning for millions. It's woven into the great American fabric, and the world tapestry, and helps provide the soundtrack to our collective memories.
An entertainer fortunate enough to log just one "Diana"-sized hit 51 years ago would have carved enough of an identity to tour in revival concerts and hear his catchy refrain in endless variations. But Anka wasn't a sprinter as a handsome teen idol. He was a marathoner in training. One half century later, he seems right in his stride as he approaches a weekend of concerts Friday through Sunday at the Orleans Showroom. This, after all, is a man who has recorded 125 albums in many languages. He owns a string of No. 1 singles, two dozen Top 20 hits, and wrote hundreds of songs made famous by others, including "My Way," "She's a Lady," and even "The Tonight Show" theme.
Anka still brings it 100 nights a year in venues all over the world. So, when I related my "Diana" story, he told an anecdote about playing to packed arenas in Algiers and Tunisia before enormous crowds that professed to hate most things Western but couldn't resist Paul Anka. Then again, who could?
Not the Chinese or Japanese. Anka is so popular in Tokyo he's recorded 10 albums in Japanese.
He likes to call himself a saloon singer, but that's like saying DiMaggio strung together a few singles. Anka sings, entertains, acts and writes.
He's working on his memoirs, and that self-exploration of the past includes fond memories of Las Vegas.
As a teenager he opened for Sophie Tucker at the Sahara in the late 1950s back when the Strip only thinly concealed its bent-nose heritage.
He was schooled in the ways of the Rat Pack by Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. He considers himself lucky to have had the experience, but also the determination to avoid the pitfalls of sudden celebrity.
"I was this young kid, but I was selling millions of records and making it as a performer and making money for them in the showroom," Anka recalls.
"I was too young for them to try to muscle me. Everything you read about those days prevailed. That was my college. I learned from everyone and was fascinated by it.
"I kept my eye on the ball all the time. I knew very early exactly what I wanted to do. I was the youngest to work the Copa, the youngest to work Vegas. To all those other artists I was a writer. I listened to them, learned from them. Unfortunately, some artists today lack the intellect, I feel, or the guidance, to realize how fortunate they are to be grateful and not get too caught up in it. I learned that lesson at a young age."
His songs and vocals are so omnipresent, we risk taking Anka for granted, but he remains an unabashed fan of his audiences -- and Las Vegas.
Las Vegas without Paul Anka would be like Tom Jones without "She's a Lady," Donny Osmond without "Puppy Love," Johnny Carson without his theme, and Sinatra without "My Way."
Come to think of it, where would I be without "Diana"?
Still lost on the streets of Madrid, I suspect.
John L. Smith's column appears Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. E-mail him at Smith@reviewjournal.com or call (702) 383-0295. He also blogs at lvrj.com/blogs/smith.
