Written by Peter McGough
30 October 2014

Hanging Out with Kevin Levrone

High Jinks Back in the Day

 

 

In over 40 years of immersion in the subculture of bodybuilding I’ve met a whole spectrum of characters ranging from the peacefully spiritual to the psychotic. Let’s say it straight: bat shit, barking mad, crazy. But one of the more interesting individuals I’ve interacted with is Kevin Levrone. His pro career commenced in 1992 and concluded in 2003, during which he competed in 62 contests. Out of those he won 20 (including two Arnold Classics: 1994 and '96) and only finished out of the top five twice (8th at the ’97 Arnold Classic and 6th at the 2003 Olympia) while being Olympia runner-up four times (1992, ’95, 2000, and “02).

 Kevin Levrone, whom I dubbed The Maryland Muscle Machine, loved bodybuilding and he loved having fun. Going back 20 years here’s some memories of Kevin in action at the 1994 Italian Grand Prix, part of the post Olympia Euro tour of that year. The Italian event was the fourth leg of the tour; the first three having been staged the previous weekend.

 Dateline: Friday September 23, 1994; Hotel Blaise, Milan, Italy.

 “Oh Kevin, I'm so pleased to see you!” bellowed Milos Sarcev in overstated friendly tones as he spotted Kevin Levrone sitting in the hotel lounge. The deliberate sarcasm was understandable. Sarcev had joined the tour with only one goal in mind to gain a top three Olympia qualifying spot at one of the five contests compromising the 1994 European muscle jamboree. The previous weekend he had been thwarted with two fourth places and an eighth at the respective Spanish, German and English Grand Prix events. The top two at those three events, Dorian Yates and Kevin Levrone, were slated to leave the tour at the end of that first weekend. So with their departure, even with Charlie Claremont joining the tour, Sarcev reckoned he could grab an Olympia qualifying berth at either the Italian being staged the next day, Saturday, or the French affair-taking place 24 hours later on the Sunday.

 Sarcev confronted the interloper, “Why’d you change your mind, Kevin?”

 Kevin answered by way of crooning a line from a Frank Sinatra classic, “Call me un-pre-dict-able”, with an aplomb that would have had Old Blue Eyes asking for an autograph.

 The surprise addition to the weekend further stated, “Hey babee, my ancestors came from Italy – couldn’t let my fellow countrymen down.” He then explained that Milan was also the fashion capital of the world, “And I got to get me some cool duds.”

 At that the 260-pounder swept out of the lounge and made his way to the likes of the nearby Armani and Versace boutiques, where he delighted in entering those emporiums, whereupon the astonished assistants could only gape at humanity’s version of a walking sandwich board with a taper. Their slack jaws dropped even further (threatening to break their kneecaps) as our fun loving subject enquired, “Hey bro, anything in a size 56” chest?”

 The co-promoter of the Italian Grand Prix was Carlo Teani, who is one of the real characters of European bodybuilding. It being a holiday weekend in Italy (during which the hotel kitchen was unmanned), the resourceful Carlo cleared a local supermarket of all its chicken breasts, rice and potatoes before entering the hotel kitchen and cooking the whole lot and feeding the 19 combatants of the tour for the next 36 hours. One day Carlo will make somebody a lovely homemaker.

 BODYBUILDING ITALIAN STYLE

 The 1994 Italian Grand Prix was due to begin at 6:30pm, but didn't get underway until 90 minutes later, which for a bodybuilding show, and Italy, represented jumping the gun.

 If you've ever seen the Oscar-winning Italian movie Cinema Paradiso, you'll have an idea of the ebullient fervor and free moving atmosphere that attended this show. The crowd was said to number 2000, with some estimates putting the contingent of gatecrashers at 800. As for security, it was as tight as Rush Limbaugh's waistline. When the athletes were backstage, so were half the spectators. When the athletes were on stage, the backstage intruders poured back into the auditorium with the manic power of stampeding wildebeests on crack.

 When asking for an official press pass one received a look of such nonplussed intensity that I was forced to double-check the phrasebook just to see if I hadn’t in fact asked to sleep with the promoter’s grandmother!

 Backstage, Kevin was in his usual devil-may care mood and was surrounded by a throng of admirers who were engrossed in checking his musculature out from head to toe. This prompted Kevin to focus on one fan and begin looking him up and down, pointing here and there at the man's physique. As the object of his attention became embarrassed, Kevin laughed, “Yeah feels kinda funny when somebody looks at you like that don't it?"

 After Carlo Teani kitchen exploits of the previous day, proof that his hands were not made only to perform culinary chores came when he, in a crowded backstage corridor, delivered a left hook of Mike Tyson like potency to the jaw of an “Inefficient lazy bastard” identified as a supposed contest official. The thought crossed my mind that maybe Carlo should be put in charge of IFBB disciplinary matters.

 And speaking of Italian dictators, on the way to the hotel we drove past the spot where the corpse of Il Duce, Benito Mussolini, was publically displayed shortly after he was executed in 1945. Now there was an Italian who even if highly strung knew how to get cut up.

 The 1994 Italian Grand Prix was duly won by Levrone with Paul Dillett in second, Charles Clairmonte third and a disappointed Milos Sarcev fourth. At the contest’s near midnight conclusion, Kevin took the microphone and dedicated the victory to his Italian father. There wasn't a dry Italian eye in the house as the crowd flooded towards the stage to salute the winner who they firmly believed had really succeeded in, “Bringing it all back home.”

 KEVIN: THE LINGUIST

How best to sum up the unique craziness of those European Grand Prix tours of the late ‘80s and ‘90s? How about the morning after Kevin’s Italian triumph, jumping into a cab at 5:30am after three hours sleep, to get to the train station for a six hour journey through the Pyrenees to Lyon, France, only to discover the only cabdriver in Milan who doesn't know where the train station and thus finding Kevin resorting to hanging out the window in order to implore of early-morning travelers in his best Let’s Play Charades style, “Where… is… choo-choo?" Great days – thanks for the memories, Kevin.

 

 

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