SIX VIEWS OF DIONNE WARWICK'S "PROMISES, PROMISES" (LP, Scepter Records, produced by Bacharach-David, year unlisted)
IV.
My mother had just initiated divorce proceedings against my father when Dionne Warwick came to sing at our junior high. I was the last of the gang to die, so to speak: all my friends' parents had divorced years ago, when they were still in grade school or even kindergarten. For them, divorce was something they'd learned about early on. It had given them thick skins. I was not so blessed, and my whole world was breaking into pieces. I couldn't even say why it was killing me the way it was. What did I care whether they stayed married or not? All they ever did was fight, and dinnertime was spookier than a seance, all silence and stolen glances and ghosts of unspoken curses floating angrily above the chicken cacciatore. During the day, I went through my daily routine like a sleepwalker. And then Dionne Warwick came to sing at an assembly, and everybody who was in chorus had to go and see her. She was accompanied by a pianist, and she talked about how a career in the entertainment business required lots of hard work and dedication but was worth it in the end if you truly believed in yourself. She radiated sincerity; every word she said held out for me the hope that someday I'd be free of my ugly, horrible family and their petty, ego-crazed squabblings, and that I would rise above the tendency toward resentment that seemed to be gaining a foothold in my heart. The hope she gave me - can you imagine what it meant to me? I don't remember what songs she sang. I was crying the whole time. In a way I would really credit her with saving my life. I was drowning in my sadness and fear, and she threw me a life preserver.