In the mid 1990s, Gina and John Larkin (AKA Scatman John) became friends, and she has continued his legacy ever since. This is the story of how their connection came about: an edited version of an article originally published for the International Stuttering Awareness Day Conference in August 2000, written when Gina was nineteen.
Gina is currently writing John’s authorised biography. She also runs John’s official website.
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You’ve all got one, haven’t you?
Role models: Sports players. Popstars. Actors. The list is tremendous. Anyone can choose a role model from any walk of life. Because I stuttered, my choice was immediate and easy. The hero I needed was uncomplicated, and John “Scatman” Larkin was mine.
I was 14 years old in 1995. If you stutter, picture yourself at that age. Feel good about yourself? I doubt it. If you didn’t get bullied, count yourself lucky. “Once bitten, twice shy,” and I was ripped to shreds. I was a redhead. A geek. I had braces too, which is bad enough when you’re trying to get the words out. Throw in a bully-magnet surname and a penchant for books and computers, and you’ve got a depressed, shy, isolated young girl on your hands.
That girl is listening to the car radio one morning when this insane noise jabbering “scabadabadiddlydobabopbop” suddenly blurts out of the radio. Cue a dance beat and the same weird voice starts singing:
“Everybody stutters one way or the other, so check out my message to you,
As a matter of fact, don’t let nothin’ hold you back,
If the Scatman can do it, so can you. . . “
Followed by more vocal acrobatics.
Did this guy just mention stuttering? I stared at the speaker grille in the car. “Dad,” I said, “turn this up.” He did, happy that I appeared to be enjoying the music for a change. That day would have been my mother’s 40th birthday, if she hadn’t died of cancer four years before. Dad had switched the radio on that morning in an unsuccessful attempt to assuage the heavy feeling in the car as he drove me to my grandmother’s.
The song ended, leaving an emotional residue that was so dramatic, I could still tell you today, nearly thirty years later, the exact stretch of road we were on when it happened. An arrow had found its mark. A three-minute song was about to send me on a three-year journey, but of course, I didn’t know that. I pictured this “Scatman” character to be a young black rapper.
Later that day, I saw the music video on TV. No young black rapper. Instead, a balding guy in his fifties, dressed in a suit, jumping around all over the place singing those unmistakable lines through a bushy moustache. My grandma asked why I was staring at the TV instead of eating my sandwich.
The programme said something along the lines of “Scatman” being a lifelong stutterer who had overcome the fear and shame behind it by becoming “Scatman John.” He did it with this music – a cross between jazz, pop and techno, which I had instantly fallen in love with. This man, I decided, was really something. I made a mental note to find out more about him. Goodbye socially acceptable music taste, hello role model.
Although John is almost universally adored these days, it might surprise you to learn that liking Scatman John in the 90s wasn’t considered cool where I grew up. At all. Not when Oasis, Blur and Nirvana were around. At a time when everyone else worshipped boy bands, Britpop or grunge, I was mocked for following a middle-aged stutterer making cheesy dance records. But I knew he had something to say. John’s lyrics were unique, speaking about triumph over adversity, facing problems in a chaotic world, and being friends with yourself. What other people dismissed, I knew was sincere and drew strength from.
In 1997, after much pestering, my dad let me sign up for the internet at home. Bored, I trawled around and came across a directory of users on the same network as me. One of them made me stare. It said, “John Larkin” (Scatman’s real name), based in California. Occupation: Jazz.
Could it really be him? I thought maybe some kid had just filled in a profile for a laugh, but I took a chance and wrote a long email to the address, talking about stuttering, my life, my fears, my shame, my isolation, and told John how his music was inspiring me. I sent it off, and being my usual pessimistic self, expected it to either be a hoax, or if it really was him, that he certainly wouldn’t reply.
How wrong could I be?
Hello Gina,
Your mail deserves quality time with a quality answer. I would love to give you both, however, I don’t have either right now. I am off to Frankfurt. I will answer your mail soon when things calm down. . . .
I will get back to you. . . .
Love to you. . . . . . .John
I was astounded. Why would an extremely busy, universally famous popstar take some time out of his schedule to help this 16 year-old, one of millions who were all trying to grab a piece of his attention? Later, John told me he had a gut feeling that I was “important.” I no longer have the first letter I sent him, but I think he sensed the cry for help it really was. I had, three years earlier, attempted suicide, and the ideation had returned. Whether I said it overtly or not, John felt it.
Well, boy, did he get back to me. The next day, I spoke to John. That first conversation was very intense, and I ended up telling him things I’d never really told anyone before. I trusted him. He listened and he never judged. Instead, he shared his own experience, reassuring me that I was no longer alone. The universal pain of stuttering creates a strange brother and sisterhood among disparate lives. “I think you know who John Larkin really is” he said.
One of the first things John asked me was if I was a member of the British Stammering Association (BSA). I said no, I thought I would be frowned upon because of my reasonable fluency. I’m covert, and my stuttering is very situational. Imagine a wheelchair user who can walk… sometimes. Then suddenly – bam! That’s what it’s like. I told John I thought I would only find a load of people crying on each other’s shoulders (yes, I know that couldn’t be further from the truth).
John took it upon himself there and then to make me go to a BSA meeting. He sang the not-unfounded praises of the US groups he was a member of, and pestered me until I gave in. The day came of the BSA’s National conference and off I went, a bag of nerves armed only with John’s notes he wrote for me to read on the train to stop me turning back:
“Congratulations. You are a miracle. You have moved into recovery and you are taking action for yourself. You are a brave human being. I hope you are taking time to give yourself a pat on the back. You are confronting some of the worst fears in your life. You will have a wonderful time at the convention. Again. . . ..YOU ARE A MIRACLE. . . ..DON’T FORGET THAT. . . . . . SAY IT TO YOURSELF.”
I’m a miracle, I’m a miracle. . . . yeah right. . . I’m scared, I’m scared.
John also had a Plan B, which I only realised later – he had emailed me four or five times that same day to make sure I had set off. This is what I loved about John. Not only could he make you feel good about doing something for yourself and praise you, he could also give you a swift kick up the backside when you needed one. He called it his ‘footwork’ (pun probably intended).
However, disaster struck. I didn’t get to the convention because of major train problems. I came home feeling very sorry for myself and found my PC clogged with John’s messages, the last one saying “Welcome back! I know you had a great time!” I unplugged the phone in case he tried to call me because I didn’t want to explain I hadn’t been, I was so disappointed with myself. Stupid me, because when I explained to John by mail the next day, he immediately brought me back up again:
The compliment of giving yourself a pat on the back applies immediately!!!!!!! You are looking at your stuttering straight in the eye. You are confronting it. That is what matters. You are in the process of “owning your stuttering” instead of “stuttering owning you”. . . ..You are moving out of being a victim of stuttering.
Your genuine attempt to get to the convention is every bit as meaningful as getting to the convention itself.
You are into recovery now. You are doing this for yourself and no-one else. You are taking charge of your life’s direction. . . .this is the bravest thing that a human being can do. You know in your heart that you did your best. . . ..and the best is all you can do.
STAY IN TOUCH WITH ME. . . .this stuttering business is a little too big to handle by yourself.
You can do it for yourself. . . ..but not by yourself. . . . I would ask God to bless you but He already has.
Keep in touch Gina. . . . . . ..John
I felt much better. I even began to find it funny in retrospect and my disastrous journey became my first BSA Magazine article (and constant source of teasing at every meeting afterwards).
That kick-started my involvement with the BSA. The first meeting I ever attended was in Birmingham, requiring me to get up at about 4:30am, go on the trains again, and try to get there in one piece. The ever-optimistic John told me that getting up at 4:30 wasn’t necessarily so bad, because it meant I could watch the sun rise. I reminded him that this was England, so he quickly told me that I could watch a “fog-rise” instead. This joke, however small and trivial, made me get up and go. Only one short note from John this time –
“DON’T LET THE LAST TIME STOP YOU – IF YOU DON’T MAKE IT THIS TIME I’LL GO CRAZY AND COME GET YOU MYSELF.”
Good job I got there, then. It was fantastic. I opened the door of the meeting hall to find fifty or so voices talking and laughing, and every one a stutterer. I was overwhelmed. John explained what I would find. “You will feel like you are home for the first time in your life. The love may even shock you, but let yourself embrace it.” I did, and talked, laughed and listened and had a great time. I returned home and immediately got talking to John. He went nuts, telling me how proud he was and how much he loved me for making that step. He’d launched me into “recovery” and since then I’ve never looked back.
John remained in my life the next few years, as a friend and confidante, a hero and role model. I had more ups and downs – being fired from a job due to stuttering, career worries, family conflicts, spirituality, inferiority, depression. . . he took me through everything.
His impact on me and his tireless selflessness brought me to the stage where I am comfortable with stuttering and the person I am. Stuttering has never been pleasant, but it didn’t stop John – and now, I’m not letting it stop me.
But then came the day when the sledgehammer that was pounding my life into shape stopped swinging.
Towards the end of the summer in 1999, John and I were having one of our telephone conversations where we’d talk for ages about anything and everything. Suddenly he turned and started telling me he thought his life was “falling into a black hole”, and that he had to tell me, before it was too late, that I was special, a darling, his soul-daughter, and thanked me over and over for coming into his life. My suspicions and fear then became a reality. Just over a month later, I was told that John was dying of terminal cancer.
I was in my first week of University – and I made the decision straight away to use all my university money to fly from the UK to Los Angeles to see him.
Judy, John’s wife, was absolutely great and made me feel okay about being there at such a tough time. I owe her so much for her kindness and patience during my visit. I don’t think John knew I was coming, because I remember walking in the door, both of us catching sight of each other at the same time, me taken aback because John looked so different from when I had last seen him, and him astounded because I was supposed to be in a lecture theatre nearly six thousand miles away, not standing in front of him.
He responded to me better than I could have hoped. He was slipping and had stopped recognising people. But as soon as I walked in he started saying “Oh my God, it’s you, it’s you!” He had me sit next to him on his bed and we began to talk. I told him about my decision to come, and between the bouts of pain he kept having, he got hold of both my hands and said “Well, I love you, honey.”
I managed to tell him I loved him too, and thanked him over and over before I started fighting the tears. At one point he turned around and told everyone in the room – “This girl loves me one hundred thousand percent for saving her stuttering life!” – and he was right.
I was there for four days, each day spent at John’s side. The best conversation we had was when neither of us said a word. Thinking John was asleep, I patted his hand, and without any warning he turned his over and grabbed mine, squeezed it, and wouldn’t let go. We sat like that for a long time. When he finally did let go, he had started to cry. He told me then that he wished I could stay, but I couldn’t. When I left, I cried so hard in the airport taxi that the driver didn’t charge me. I was heartbroken knowing I would never see or hear from John again.
John died peacefully on the evening of the 3rd of December 1999.
Three years of his direction, friendship and support have given me a design for life that will never fade. Although I miss John terribly, in a way, he’s still around. I still see young kids hearing his music for the first time and for them, the message is as fresh and inspiring as it was for me nearly thirty years ago. As role models go, I couldn’t have asked for anyone better than this remarkable and special man. It almost makes me feel good to be a person who stutters.
Every kid should have a John Larkin. I hope you find yours.
Gina Waggott
20th August, 2000 (edited in 2024)