Golden Girls Script. 1990.

 

 

The year was 1976 and schmaltz-television was king. Among the schmaltziest

programs on the air at the time was The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour, starring the singers Sonny Bono and his wife, the former Cherilyn Sarkisian. During the show’s popularity, my older brother, Richard, had become smitten by the duo and, in an age of Johnny Rotten & Sid Vicious, Sonny & Cher was definitely not a cool thing for a 16-year-old high school kid from Long Island to be into, coming second only to joining the glee club on the road to social suicide.  In spite of this, my brother’s devotion to his pop idols (and their schmaltz) was unwavering, and while the teenage world around him was rocking out to the Sex Pistols, Richard was busy planning a recording session to immortalize forever his favorite tune: "The Beat Goes On," by Sonny and Cher.  

The “recording studio” would be our parents’ living room, where Richard’s equipment consisted of a battery-operated tape recorder and a cheap Radio Shack microphone taped to the flat end of a hockey stick——an engineering set-up that was unlikely to be the envy of, say, a real recording studio. Since the song was a duet, Richard needed to recruit at least one other singer for the "session" so he enlisted the services my friend and me, aged 9 and 10.  

Perhaps unwittingly setting into motion the karaoke craze to come years later, Richard’s plan was to play Sonny and Cher’s original recording of the song on the home stereo while we all sang along into the tape recorder. Naturally, Richard would assign himself Sonny’s part, while my friend and I got stuck singing Cher’s (and the la de da de dee background bits.)  

On the day of the recording, my friend and I showed up at the appointed time with a large bag of potato chips and two front row seats to what was sure to become a once in a lifetime freak show.  Unbeknownst to my brother, we had no intention of participating, let alone singing.  We were only there to witness the train wreck for ourselves.  The afternoon would soon become worth the price of admission when Richard showed up wearing an oversized frayed leather vest, no shirt, and a strand of hippie beads dangling from his neck. Just like what Sonny would’ve worn.  After a few practice runs, Richard was feeling the vibe and was ready to begin recording.

When the song started, my friend and I watched with rapt amusement from the living room couch as Richard bobbed and swayed to the music like a white Sammy Davis Jr. impersonator onboard a budget-rate cruise ship cocktail lounge, seemingly keeping time to the beat of another song entirely.  As he grooved along, he directed the proceedings as though he was conducting the Boston Pops, violently gesticulating with his hands every time he wanted us to “come in” and, with an exaggerated finger to the nose when he wanted us to be silent.  The whole production was ridiculous and would have been more laughable had the scene not instilled a fear within my friend and me that inclinations of this kind might in store for us after we hit puberty.  Meanwhile, Richard began to realize that we weren’t going to sing a note and, as any diva would —— he had a melt-down.  “You’re gonna sing or else!” he demanded.  When we refused for the last time, Richard disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later brandishing a knife.  “You’re gonna sing this freakin’ song,” he repeated, “or I’ll stab you with this kitchen knife!”