December 14, 2006

The Higgins Memorial: A Velvet Elvis for MTV

An awful passing that led to a wonderful night

John Higgins

Actually, Higgins would have loved the whole evening— certainly his brother and sister did, ditto his wife, Deborah. One of the most Higgins-esque touches, besides open bars and finger food, was the music from his iPod, blaring from speakers. The coup de grace came after about 60 minutes of fine speeches, when there was a lengthy schmoozefest followed by an after-party at Blue Fin on Times Square, hosted by cable operators and programmers. "Who ever heard of a memorial with an after-party?" Cable Positive's Steve Villano quipped before the festivities. "Only for Higgins," was his completely correct retort.

That soiree, which Higgins would have worked to perfection, lived loudly well into the morning, when just as it was subsiding the battle was joined by many of the evening's eight speakers, plus Deborah, who obviously received a transfusion of Higgins' stamina sometime before he passed.

The souvenir of the night? Lapel buttons, distributed at the after-party, with the visage of our boy front and center, a slightly impish grin under his mustache, worn by every reveler at the Blue Fin. A touch of fine kitsch in line with Higgins' reputation for being a person who frequented modern art museums, but adored Elvis painted on velvet (no doubt he preferred the bloated, drug-sucking version of the King, although knowing Higgins' preference for black clothing, I'm not sure about his thoughts on Elvis' white sequined jumpsuit).

"John would just be starting his night right about now," Deborah laughed at about 12:30am at the Fin. It was that kind of an evening, maybe the most upbeat memorial ever thrown for someone who departed at age 45. An awful passing that led to a wonderful night. Calling it a memorial would be inaccurate; a loving roast was more like it.

Each of the eight speakers mixed humor and pathos eloquently. It was not an inconsiderable miracle that, although there were some tears and dry throats on the podium, nobody broke down; there was sobbing in the audience although the night's atmosphere often swerved from nostalgic to a controlled rowdiness, starting with the walk to MTV's brick pile in Times Square, not the staid setting associated with memorials. Oh, yes, I forgot—this was a memorial for Higgins.

The night's tone was set at the start when moderator Max Robbins of Broadcasting & Cable noted that Higgins "wanted a mosh pit not a mass." He cemented things while telling of exasperating times editing the un-editable hack, whose work rarely needed revision. "Sometimes my young kids listen to me more than you do," he yelled at Higgins during a tense moment. Higgins' reply: "Max, your kids have to love you—I don't."

Although journalism was a constant this night, as Wall Street analyst Tom Wolzien said of the black-suited information-hound, "not a single person is here tonight because Higgins was a great reporter." Still, Deborah, to huge laughs, urged all to continue sending "scoops to B&C [pause]…not Multichannel."

And more than one speaker (and numerous attendees) retold stories of the famed Higgins phone calls, which could mean he wanted to gab or that he'd discovered something in your SEC filing that you didn't want in the press. Those calls had executives writhing, "Which way will it go?" recalled Marc Rosenthal. "To paraphrase Judy McGrath, 'Is the jig up?'" Fortunately McGrath had slipped out before Mark Robichaux mentioned the Higgins' folder labeled, "MTV=Enron." He also noted B&C would now be like "the Bulls without Jordan."

As is usually the case at memorials, the clichés and beatification came on thick. He was the best friend, the most generous, a true southern gentleman, a wonderful listener, a passionate reporter, a great raconteur; a ubiquitous attendee at "every press conference, bar mitzvah and bris;" he knew every inch of his beloved New York and every restaurant, particularly the out-of-the-way joints; he was a walking encyclopedia of the Big Apple and of pop music.

Had Guinness been there (the book, not the beer), surely it would have been said the night held the record for most use of the phrase "larger than life." Higgins recently missed a train to help an elderly lady up the subway stairs. It was relayed that even the cleaning lady at B&C, surveying Higgins' paper-laden desk that resembled the barricade from Les Miserables, said of its departed tenant, "I didn't talk to him much, but I could tell he was one of the good ones."

Thing is, as more than one attendee swore, the clichés applied. As did this one this night: "Life sucks!" "Yes, it sucks right about now," NCTA’s Paul Rodriguez, said, speaking of a Higgins-less horizon. But, "I'll be singing John Higgins' praises for the rest of my life. Not a bad career." It was left to Robichaux to return the night to terra firma. "Before we canonize Higgins, remember, I've edited him."

In a night of great stories, Robichaux had a gem, recalling how Higgins had influenced his sartorial splendor. During a Western Show break, Higgins and Robichaux, both clad in black suits, white shirts and dark sunglasses, ambled to a lunch joint. "And what would the Blues Brothers like to order?" the waitress asked them, tongue in cheek. Higgins' immediate reply: "White toast and four fried chickens, ma'am." 

And then there was Higgins' ability to cut through the clutter, asking the question that nobody dared utter. To Dr John Malone on selling TCI to AT&T: "You have some of the crappiest cable systems around. How did you ever find a buyer for them?" Or when Sumner Redstone had answered a Higgins question incompletely and another reporter turned to Higgins to fill in the details. Higgins' response, said loud enough for all to hear: "OK, thanks. Now why don’t we send Sumner and everyone else home and I can sit here and interview you?" Even Redstone laughed at that.

A treat was learning about Higgins' early days, before cable. The native Floridian learned to cook (and appreciate fine dining, no doubt) working as a dishwasher in a French restaurant, his wife told the crowd. "He learned Spanish," she said, "so he could date Cuban girls." Few of his cable cronies could picture the teenage Higgins leaping off a moving truck to save a stray horse. Even fewer knew of his penchant for art. His brother Bill told of a recent trip with him to NY's Museum of Modern Art. Resting their feet in the grand gallery, Higgins pulled a Diet Coke from his bag. He turned to his brother: "If you have a package of Mentos I guarantee we will be on the front page of tomorrow's paper."  Or his decision as a cub reporter in Milwaukee to cover the Polar Bear Club's annual New Year's Day icy plunge as one of them, running into freezing waters in a bathing suit. The result was his favorite lead, Deborah said: "This is no way to cure a hangover."

Fun, too, was learning of Higgins' "at work" persona. His reaction to getting a juicy bit of information: propping his feet up on Robbins' desk and sharing it with him. One of the de-motivational posters in his cubicle read: "When the winds of change blow hard enough, even small, insignificant things can become deadly projectiles."

Perhaps the only downer, other than the reason for holding the event, was the chatter about Higgins' stagnation in the trades. He wanted gigs with The NY Times, The Wall Street Journal, many of his colleagues noted. Certainly he didn't fit the image, but his journalistic skills more than made up for that, all agreed. On the other hand, can you imagine any scribe at those august papers getting a send-off equal to the one cable threw for Higgins?

A touching irony. When the speeches ended and the schmoozing began, Higgins' iPod resumed the evening's soundtrack. For all the talk about Higgins' penchant for tasteless tunes, the music heard was conventional and tasty—the familiar jazz piano score from A Charlie Brown Christmas, written by Vince Garaldi. A rising star, Garaldi departed before reaching 50.