Don't call me Richard

The clingy annoyance of a celebrity doppelganger

I first saw my doppelganger on a poster outside Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, in 1987, the name emblazoned in letters six-feet high: RICHARD MARX.

I had no idea why they had my name there and a photo of another guy. 

“Hey that’s your name!” my friend Lori said as we drove past, heading east to the Hyatt Sunset for the American Film Market.

I noticed, I replied, stifling the panic that went from my throat to the steering wheel, gripped ever tighter.

I’d never really liked the “Richard” part of my name, an inherited “R” from my father Robert and a nickname derived from those television icons of the 1950s, the two Nelson boys, Ricky and David.

The Nelson family: Ozzie, Harriet, David and Ricky.

I preferred “Rick” (as apparently Rick Nelson did too) or even “Ricky,” which is what my parents called me forever, along with a few old friends. Eve, my wife-to-be, thought the name Rick was “sexy.”

I didn’t brood about the Tower Records incident too long, as Richard (if I may call him Richard) was out of my orbit.

They didn’t play his music at Gold’s Gym in Venice, where I listened to the radio pumped through the speakers during my morning workout, which was always tuned to “Pirate Radio,” a station that featured the ‘80s big-haired bands of Guns ‘n’ Roses, Aerosmith, Van Halen and Def Leppard. 

While I wasn’t listening, millions were. 

Wikipedia tells me Richard is the only male artist in history to have his first seven singles reach the Top Five of the Billboard charts. 

It was no time before I would proffer a credit card or make a reservation that people would start to ask: “Are you Richard Marx”?

I would have been content to leave it alone, but my name double had key elements I couldn’t ignore. I’m a musician, he’s a musician. Marx, who is eight years younger than me, lived in the same Chicago suburb where I grew up. His parents sent him to the same tony private school down the woods in Winnetka. 

I was connecting way too many dots.

I was reminded of a moment in an accounting class in the early 1970s (what do you do when you’re clueless at 19? Take accounting at the local community college.) The teacher innocently asked, “Are you related to Dick Marx?”

“No,” I replied hesitantly. 

“He lives on the South Side. I grew up with him,” the instructor said. “He’s a musician.”

He certainly was — a phenomenal jazz pianist. I was much later to find he wrote commercials for Ken-L-Ration, the Chicago Blackhawks fight song and the film “A League of Their Own.” (Sadly he died prematurely in 1997 after a car accident.) Check out his jazz Mickey Mouse club theme on “Percussion for Playboys.”

“My father was a brilliant jazz pianist who later became the most successful jingle composer-producer in the world.” Richard wrote on Facebook.

“Rainy Night” Richard rode his wave of fame for several years, enough so that in 1993, when we had relocated to Westchester County in New York, a fan tracked “me” down and called the house. 

“The phone rang,” Eve recalled. “Giggling girls in the background breathlessly asked if Richard Marx was there. 

“I said yes,” she said. “I knew they were looking for the singer. It was right after he used the credit card at the Gap. I held out the phone and said, ‘Honey, sing a few bars and they’ll know they have the wrong number.’”

Did I mention that by that time, I had become “R.J.”? It set me a part with a mock studious label of indeterminate gender. 

Exactly what I needed after my bouts with Richard. 

I chose a new name, R.J. for my career in journalism. WVOX owner and character William O’Shaughnessy called me “T.J. Maxx” in citing my article in his eulogy for broadcasting pioneer Martin Stone. 

And if you ever need fire apparatus, R.J Marx Inc. in Appleton, Wisconsin, is undoubtedly the place to go. 

When my newspaper career ended in 2023, I toyed with becoming Rick again. I sometimes use RJ “Rick” Marx, but that does seem to be overstating the case. 

I’ve got nothing to complain about. 

There are two jazz drummers named Marvin Smith, who differentiate themselves by Marvin “Smitty” Smith and Marvin “Bugalu” Smith. There is no limit to the drummers named Joe, or Jo Jones.

I actually took a lesson from Bill Evans, the saxophonist, who has spent an entire career correcting people who think he is Bill Evans the pianist. And what about Joe Jones and Jo Jones?

Richard Marx made the oldies circuit a few years ago, and I’ve got to admire his performing tenacity. From what I can see of his social media posts, I like his politics. I enjoyed watching him in the video with Kenny G. Richard’s wife Daisy Fuentes seems nice. 

Author Naomi Klein discovered to her horror that she is confused with the writer Naomi Wolf, author of the “Beauty” in 1997. Klein, an author and reporter for the political progressive Guardian newspaper, is intertwined with Wolf. She wrote about it in her 2023 book, “Doppelganger.”

Naomi Klein, left; Naomi Wolf, right.

The two women saw their lives and careers intersect. Wolf went from author of the feminist manifesto “The Beauty Myth” in 1990 to the darling of Steve Bannon, Fox News and a voice as a “relentless source of Covid-related misinformation,” a conspiracy theorist embraced for her passion for gun rights and violent political action in a world threatened by the Chinese Communist Party, fear-mongering among migrant and casting doubt on election results.  makes the case that despite of — perhaps because of our doubles — we should not abandon our passion for principles, the power of collective organizing, “the possible ‘we.’”

Something changes when our actions begin to integrate with our beliefs, she writes, “when we are doing some of the work that we know needs to be done, we have less need for the various doubles our culture offers up disguised as a good life.”

I think the fear comes when we realize, at least by virtue of our names, we are not unique. My doppelganger is more a matter of circumstance: a common name, a common heritage and a common quest to make music and art. After all, it’s only a name.

I still run into people who hopefully believe that they are talking to Richard, especially medical assistants, reservation-takers and bank officers. They do love Richard and I sometimes wish I could make them a little happier by claiming his persona. And maybe singing a few bars to prove it.