I felt the rumbling of Harry Chapin spinning in his grave as I viewed that Super Bowl ad using his most well-known song, Cat's In the Cradle. I hate that song. But I loved Harry Chapin.
In junior high and high school I had a good friend, Pat, who, like me, had some peculiar and beyond-our-years taste in artists and celebrities. At 13 or 14 she was really into Rod Stewart and Anthony Hopkins. We also, weirdly, had a shared appreciation of Harry Chapin. Harry played the old Stanley Theater in Pittsburgh every year, and we went to see him without fail.
Call his music cheesy, call it schmaltzy -- I won't argue with you in hindsight. But his storytelling was so engaging, and his band was cool and super tight, and he sure knew how to work his audience. And the man did have a gift for poetry when he relaxed and wasn't trying too hard. Those concerts had the happy feel of a family reunion.
His dedication to eradicating hunger is well-known and was honored both in his lifetime and posthumously. His regard for his fans may be less well-known but it touched so many people. After every show, Harry hung around to sign autographs and take photos, but also to liberally share handshakes, hugs, kisses, and conversations.
For an anxious, outsider kid who loved SO MUCH MUSIC SO MUCH and just wanted a peek through a tiny crack in a window into that world, this was -- oh Jebus this was salvation, plain and simple. This was the lightbulb that these stars I heard on the radio, whose records I bought, were actual mammals like me, sometimes sticky and sleepy and burpy, sometimes inspired and superhuman and plugged into the cosmos. A few years later, when I found myself actually working with musicians and singers who I admired/adored/lusted after/revered, or those who I found irritating beyond words and wanted to throttle, it was memories of shaking hands with Harry Chapin -- who always remembered me and Pat, year after year -- that grounded me.
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