Twenty five years ago men were being dragged to the movies by their wives to see a celluloid god named Valentino. Now the sons of those men, but in most cases these same men, are being driven to the concert hall to see the Valentino of the Piano, Liberace.

These same husbands are looking at today's Valentino and they're being thrown for a loop. They see their past middle aged wives reacting like bobby soxers... but they see very few girls of bobby sox age reacting. Liberace is playing to packed houses, but there is only a sprinkling of men in the audience, and most of them look very uncomfortable. Men look at Liberace and what they see makes them uneasy. They find his dimples too perky, his hair too wavy, and his personality too soft. the phrase "feminine appeal" is often used to describe him... but rarely the word "sexy." his name has never been linked with any woman... except his mother... and the chances are he'll keep it that way.

Many men suffer a feeling of embarrassment while watching Liberace because everything he does has a coy or cute quality. It's more a feeling of stumbling into a hen party than a boudoir.

Men have watched their wives create gods out of movie heroes over the past thirty years, and could understand these sublimation's, and even envy these brawny men with the dangerous look. Many men, after seeing Liberace, have said that their feeling is more like masculine contempt.

Collectively the critics agree... Liberace is the master of musical mediocrity. As Liberace says, he and brother George read the reviews, and weep all the way to the bank. While Mother Liberace is unusually much in evidence, her adoring son has been known to tear himself away for a night on the town that would quell some of those Freudian rumors. On those occasions he's left his candelabra at home.