To Yacht Rock or Not Rock? Unfortunately, That Was Never the Question
One day in the first grade, during Show and Tell, fellow student Christine Whitcomb told us she was a direct descendant of President George Washington.
After class, I did what any self-respecting first grader would’ve done: I went immediately to my dad’s office (the band room on the other side of the school) and asked him pointblank who was someone famous we were related to.
He mumbled something about “I think….well…there was a story that we might be related to Ben Franklin,” and I was off. That was all I needed. With this story in tow, and thanks in part to the family’s aged encyclopedia collection, the next day in class, I proceeded to lecture twenty fellow children and one dubious Ms. Ree on how I was a proud descendant of Ben Franklin, the statesman, publisher, and kite-inventor.
In the intervening years, I have come to regret this experience. Not—mind you—because in hindsight it has become apparent my real motivation in propping up this flimsy genealogical connection to Franklin was pure, childish envy. No. This is America. Blind competition is inbred. No, the real reason I regret this episode was because I didn’t tell the class the better and more immediately impactful story: that I am actually related on my mom’s side to the notorious smooth rocker Christopher Cross.
For starters, we need to clear a few things up: Christopher Cross is actually not his real name. It’s Christopher Geppert. And he’s from Texas. But his father (Leo Geppert) was born and raised in Vermillion. Yes, THAT Vermillion. And Christopher Cross’ grandmother (Tillie) is in fact my Grandma Delores’ aunt, which makes Cross my Mom’s second-cousin, and that means I’m third cousins with Christopher Cross’ children. See, we’re practically brothers.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. It must be difficult being the second-cousin-once-removed of one of the early 1980s leading adult contemporary pop music stylists.
But, sadly, it hasn’t been. This is likely because to tell you that I’m a shirttail relative to Cross has about as much “wow factor” as it would’ve likely been to tell those first graders (had I even gotten around to it). The kids, at the time, would’ve generally appreciated such a reference to Raffi or perhaps Garth Brooks, but not to Cross. (Wells Elementary, circa 1991, was what you could call an artistically “gated” community).
But let me defend my kin’s record for a moment: Christopher Cross struck sonic gold with 1979’s eponymous debut album. Behind the strength of singles “Sailing,” “Ride Like the Wind,” and “Never Be The Same,” he not only won the Triple Crown at 1981’s Grammies (the only categories he didn’t win was ones they hadn’t invented yet), Cross also pulled in an Oscar for co-writing duties on his “Arthur’s Theme (Best That You Can Do).”
Furthermore, he practically engineered the Yacht Rock movement, which is kind of like Glam Rock or Grunge, just more slicked-back hair, Miami Beach musical vistas, and the lushest pop chords and harmonies this side of Leo Sayer.
Of course, none of this would’ve mattered to the first graders. And even if it would—even if we lived in a perfect world where Christopher Cross’ celebrity would maintained its zenith outside of that tumultuous week in late August 1980 when “Sailing” topped the Billboard 100—well, my failure to let my class know of my connection to greatness meant that I was never properly humiliated. And I believe this has stunted my growth.
This failure to admit to the world that my Mom shares the same Great-Grandfather as a Michael McDonald protégé has left me feeling more normal and pedestrian than I always thought I deserved.
You see, “Yacht Rock” wasn’t a four-letter word to me. It was never hell being chased down the streets by wild middle-aged women wanting my autograph. No one on the playground in elementary school mockingly yelled “Ride Like the Wind, Christopher” at me while swinging. Certainly, as a 20-year-old, when I visited the Big Apple, there was no one there to good-naturedly rib me about “not getting lost between the moon and New York City.” And when in seventh grade I got hit in the face by a fly ball that I should’ve theoretically caught had I not been daydreaming about why Chicago’s Robert Lamm couldn’t have written more hits (this is a proposition I still am troubled by), my baseball coach, while wiping the blood off my face, never even thought about saying something like “the canvas can do miracles.”
I guess I can deal with that. You know everyone takes their fair share of lumps when growing up. I guess, I just wish my lumps were a little more accurate to who I was—the son of a woman who was one of many estranged South Dakota “cousins” to a 5-time Grammy Award winner.
You know what. Forget it. It’s obvious you can never really know what I’ve had to deal with. How about this? If you see me in the hallway, don’t speak about Christopher Cross. It just hurts too much. Let’s talk Benjamin Franklin instead. Kites were always a little easier for me to deal with than sailboats.
The Revolution will not be lost between the moon and New York City. Now lost between a cow and a Spink County Courthouse—that’s another issue entirely.
