NEWS

BY CHRIS TOGNERI , TribLive, April 16, 2016

The man once known as Gerry Dorsey is dressed in black.

The only splashes of color come from the sparkling silver of diamond rings on his left hand — the one he uses to hold the microphone — and his signature red handkerchief, tucked neatly in his lapel pocket.

He takes the stage and sings:

“Love me with all of your heart, or not at all.”

Four rows and 20 feet away, a smiling lady does. She doesn't remember exactly when she fell in love with Engelbert Humperdinck, only that he has been the soundtrack of most of her adult life.

“He puts on, always, a great show,” says Dorothy Clemens, 87, of Bethel Park. “And it's not always the same show. He changes it up.”

On the stage before her, Wednesday night at Carnegie Library Music Hall of Homestead in Munhall, Humperdinck, 79, is blowing kisses to the crowd. The audience, mostly middle-aged to elderly women, cheers wildly.

This is the second time in a week Dorothy has seen him perform. The first was April 9, her birthday, in Atlantic City. She doesn't know how many of his concerts she has seen — at least 30, she says. She and her daughter, Carol Bykowski, travel at least once a year to see him.

It's not easy. She has to schedule her dialysis around the shows. But it's worth it, Dorothy says.

“He has a great voice,” Dorothy says. “Oh, he's always good.”

Tonight, Humperdinck is definitely on his game.

Accustomed to larger venues, he welcomes his audience to “my living room.” He jokes about Pittsburgh's seasons: “Winter, spring, winter, and under construction.”

The crowd eats up every word, as does Dorothy. She beams at the legend onstage. And she eyes that elusive red handkerchief still tucked into his lapel pocket.

It's a coveted object. At the end of every show, Humperdinck tosses red handkerchiefs into the crowd. Not many — but enough to let them know they have a chance.

“As many times as I've gone to his shows,” Dorothy says, “I'm dying to get one.” She motions to her daughter: “In Ohio, she almost got one. Then, this tall man grabbed it. What was he even doing there? … These women are like cattle. They rush to the stage! You take your life into your hands.”

If she ever gets one, Dorothy says: “I'll hold it in my hands when I'm lying in my coffin.”

Humperdinck removes his coat. He unbuttons the top of his shirt. He holds the red handkerchief to his forehead, then seductively tucks it into his waistband.

Again — the crowd goes wild.

To the outsider, the scene might appear absurd:

An aging crooner with a ridiculous stage name is prancing before screaming elderly women, many of whom hold up cellphones and repeatedly violate the posted concert rules of “no photos, video or flashes.”

What the outsider doesn't see are the memories, long dormant, suddenly rekindled. These aren't old ladies swooning to the antics of an over-the-top performer. They are girls listening with their mothers to vinyl records, scratched from overuse, in a long-ago living room — teens fantasizing over their first crush.

And the man called Engelbert Humperdinck summons those memories. He is not a relic. In this old theater in a faded rustbelt town, he is their fountain of youth.

“On Sundays, when I was little girl, she'd always put his music on,” Carol says of her mom. “She has a CD of his, and she plays it constantly. For Mom, it's about remembering the past, remembering when she was younger.”

Dorothy is not so young these days. Twenty years ago, she was diagnosed with kidney cancer; later, diabetes, which ruined her one good kidney. She has been on dialysis for 10 years, and doctors recently found blood clots in her heart and lungs that cannot be treated. Her cardiologist recently told Dorothy that she will likely have a stroke and die.

The news upset Dorothy. Not that she would someday die — “I've lived 87 years, and if I live to 90, I figure that's a good, long life,” she says. It's the knowing how that bothers her. Had the doctor said nothing, she told Carol, she wouldn't have to worry about it.

It is 9:30 p.m. when the show ends.

Suddenly, women rush the stage. They all know what's next.

Humperdinck tosses the red handkerchiefs into a sea of outstretched arms. One soars through the air, and two women leap. The woman who catches it is knocked to the floor by the woman who does not. The loser apologizes, then returns her attention to the man on the stage.

But the red handkerchiefs are gone. Once again, Dorothy misses out.

Half an hour later, the theater is nearly empty. Dorothy and Carol sit near a side exit, waiting for traffic outside to ease.

Dorothy is getting tired. She pulls her daughter's coat over her shoulders.

Then, 15 feet away, a door leading backstage swings open.

And the man once known as Gerry Dorsey steps through it.

Dorothy's jaw drops. She is a little girl again.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he says.

She tries to stand. He insists she sit. He pulls up a chair and settles in, because this isn't an impersonal, 30-second meet-and-greet. Engelbert Humperdinck wants to talk to Dorothy Clemens, the woman who has followed him to Florida, Nevada, Ohio, West Virginia and New Jersey.

She tells him that she saw him in Atlantic City four days before.

“I'm flattered,” Humperdinck says. “Happy belated birthday, my darling.”

He holds her hand and they talk like old friends reunited. He speaks of his 8-year-old granddaughter and her beautiful singing voice. She introduces him to her faithful daughter.

They talk about old age. “What's the problem?” Humperdinck says. “You can't avoid it. And you're lucky to get there. A lot of people don't.”

He describes to her the thrill of performing, as strong as ever, how he is “reborn” the moment he grabs the mic.

She doesn't need to tell him how she feels when he sings.

He kisses her. Then, he leaves.

Now, it's late. Time to go home.

Mother and daughter walk slowly to their car. As they drive down Eighth Avenue toward the Homestead Grays Bridge, Dorothy turns to Carol.

“I can't believe I actually met Engelbert,” she says. “I can't wait to tell the nurses at dialysis tomorrow.” 

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