Although I had seen Ken in a Moliere play at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis in the 1980s, I was personally introduced to him at a concert at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music in 2015. From then on, due to our mutual love of classical music, especially opera, we went to cultural events together two to four times a month. He shared too many stories and vignettes of famous artists and celebrities to recount, but he loved repeating several of them:
• He somehow became responsible for “handling” Maria Callas (his favorite soprano) whenever she sang at the Chicago Lyric Opera. One of his primary duties was paying her in her dressing room. She insisted on being paid in cash before each performance. The company gave Ken a paper bag with her fee in it to give to Maria. They would talk as she counted it and then put on her makeup, asking his advice about some things and giving him tidbits about her private life, such as her long-time affair with the Italian tenor Giuseppe di Stefano and dealing with Giuseppe’s alcoholism.
• For many years Ken flew once or twice a year to Germany or Austria to attend operas, often in standing room. The box office staff often knew him by name. He would sometimes go to two operas in one afternoon and evening by rushing to and from nearby cities by train.
• When in Vienna, his most frequent destination, he usually stayed at the same little hotel. He had a relative, an ancestor, who had been a nun in Vienna, but she scandalized her family by leaving the convent and becoming the lover of a former priest. By talking with the elderly lady behind the front desk at the hotel Ken learned that the former nun’s convent was right across the street.
• Ken attended a party in New York to which Tennessee Williams had been invited. When the playwright didn’t show up everyone assumed he had cancelled. However, as Ken was leaving he went downstairs and opened the front door just as Williams was ringing the doorbell. All Williams said when he saw Ken was, “Well, aren’t YOU the tall one!”
• Ken became good friends with Charlton Heston when they appeared in “A Man for All Seasons” (1979) together at the Ahmanson Theater in L.A. As a result, Heston insisted that Ken be cast in one of his Old West movies, “The Mountain Men” (1980), written by Heston’s son, Fraser. Ken played a cameo of a French pelt trader, Fontenelle. You can see Ken’s clip on YouTube, and he is, of course, very convincing and likable. Still, he said he never had an interest in a film career.
• Ken recounted stories of many famous singers, authors, actors and playwrights. One that stands out in my mind resulted from his friendship with Dame Janet Baker, one of the greatest mezzo-sopranos of the 20th century. He was chatting with her over coffee, and she mentioned that she was going to retire soon. Ken politely asked, “What are we going to do without you?” Dame Janet responded, “Oh, but you Americans have Flicka!” (“Flicka” being the nickname of Frederica von Stade, a legendary American mezzo [and current Bay Area resident], whom Baker considered her peer, as do I and many other fans.)
I think everything Ken knew about the world, other than his own experience in theater and music, he learned from "Jeopardy!" He watched it faithfully every night when he wasn’t performing or at an event (especially if refreshments were served). He also occasionally watched "Wheel of Fortune" because he adored Vanna White and simply had to see what she was wearing.
Ken amassed thousands of CDs, DVDs, LPs, cassette tapes, VHS tapes, books, photos, newspaper clippings and miscellaneous media. (I’m taking his word for it, since he never let me or just about anyone else into his apartment. He claimed there was no room for anyone but him.) Almost every time we met he gifted me with a sampling of these “treasures.” However, his familiarity with modern technology ended with the CD, i.e., a 40-year-old medium. He had NO computer, NO cell phone and NO email and seemed keen to proclaim his Luddism. Somehow, being a reactionary to the end gave Ken a unique charm and quaintness befitting his gallant and theatrical character. Ironically, he made being old-fashioned almost hip.
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