ABSTRACT
So he left, seventeen months into the century in which he didn’t belong. His timing was always pretty good. Perry Como saw it all, from singing through megaphones to sampling. A lot of history died with him. He was an unlikely cultural icon, and he’d dismiss the notion with a shrug. But a cultural icon is what he was. He reflected a culture back at itself. He was what they wanted to be, the millions who saw him every week: not just rich and successful, but decent, family-centered, even-handed, and quietly confident—an ideal neighbor.
