Frank & Charli

by Frank Yandolino

  His spastic performance in reality was just his natural way of expressing his emotions, although on other occasions there were times he was performing dead drunk as well.

  Anyway, after drinking that delicious wine like grape juice, Joe Cocker had to babysit me. He carried me upstairs—imagine that—brought me into my room, and dropped me on the bed. I don’t remember anything, but later on that night, Frank apparently came up to the room, knocked on the door, couldn’t get in, knocked again, and again, and since the room was small he wondered why I was not answering, and eventually he brought the concierge up with the police and then he broke down the door. I kind of woke up and asked, “What are you doing?” Then immediately fell back asleep. I still have the lock from that door on my mantle with all our other memorabilia.

  In the hotel lobby in Florence you had to walk past a quaint little well-stocked bar dead center as you entered, and you could not get past it without having a drink or two, sometimes three. Who was counting anyway? One afternoon I entered the bar area and there was Joe sitting alone talking to the bartender when he spotted me and summoned me with his hands, followed by a soft, quiet, “Franco, Franco, come over. How about a little taste?”

  I walked over to Joe and requested a Myers Rum and Coke with extra ice, please. Anywhere outside the United States they treat ice like gold; you’re lucky if they give you two cubes. The bartender held up what looked like a bottle of rum and motioned with his face and hands as if to say I had to try this. Joe then told him to make it a double. I’m sitting on a stool and I down the double rum and coke like a kid at a candy store. This drink was smooth and tasted like dessert. After my second double I asked for another, but the bartender refused, holding up the bottle again and pointing to the label with a big “80” printed on it. I thought, What’s the problem, 80 proof? Why, I had 120 proof on Dominica every day. So I again asked for another drink. I was served reluctantly and by the time I was halfway finished I realized I was now slouching way down in my seat and my legs wouldn’t move. I asked to see the bottle. The label read Stroh Rum. Made from potatoes. 80 percent. Not 80 proof. 160 proof. What I drank was like having six drinks in three minutes. I was gone, out there floating, but not before I bought three bottles of the stuff from the bartender. What a trick I could play on anyone I gave a rum and Coke to back in New York. And I did. I even had my local liquor store import a case for me, and when it came in, a sticker was added to the label in red letters, Flammable.

  After the ’79 Woodstock tour and then Stuff’s performance at the Montreaux Jazz Festival, Charli and I decided to spend time at home in New York. We were not thinking much about whether we wanted to have children or not, just going with the flow, running around the world together, never practicing safe sex. Then one day out of nowhere I was changed forever; one of my greatest pleasures: Charli was pregnant.

  Several months later my daughter, Jaime, was born. I was ecstatic. Imagine I am a father. Wow. She was born on 8/8/80 and we were thrilled. I sort of took a sabbatical from work for the next year and I still bask in the joy.

  By 1981 I was gradually getting back to work. That’s when I met Tommy K, a crazy, out in space, very creative guy connected to New York’s underground club scene and actively involved in the city’s most happening discos and dance clubs. I was working with a band, VHF, with Richie Fliegler, Rich Tetter, and composer/keyboard player Bruce Brody. At that time we were in search of a lead singer and holding weekly auditions, often thinking we had found the right one but for various reasons they never lasted long, one reason being the core members were busy working on other artistic projects. Similar to Stuff, these guys were extremely talented musicians. In the late seventies they collectively recorded with Genya Raven, John Cale, Peter Bauman, and others. Bruce was Patti Smith’s keyboardist in 1978, recorded with Tom Verlaine, and he wrote the score and the band re-recorded the soundtrack album for Barry Levenson’s movie Diner in 1982. In 1984 Bruce performed with the band on John Waite’s multi-platinum song “Missing You.” But as a band VHF didn’t happen. Another classic case of doing more for other acts paying you rather than working on your own careers only to eventually end up as side men for life.

  In late December Charli was on her way to the doctor complaining of a cold and aches and pains that would not go away, but the doctor said, “You don’t have a cold. You are pregnant.” Wow! Seven months later, 2/18/83, we had the second greatest moment of my life when our son, Frank Yandolino the Fourth, was born. Charli and I took the kids everywhere. Whatever I was doing, Charli and the kids were right there.

  CHAPTER 17

  Bahrain

  Over five thousand years ago the leaders of the caravans of nomads first settled the Island of Bahrain. In 1783 the al-Khalifa family, descendants of the Bani Utbah tribe, captured it from the Persians and ruled over the land. Initially, in the 18th century, they primarily traded silk on what is still called the Silk Road, which links Mesopotamia to the Indus Valley. This was later the road that led to the sea and the discovery of pearls, which transformed the Silk Road into the center of the pearl trade. At that time, the traders ruled the land. Now that road leads to oil.

  My first trip to the Middle East in the early eighties was, as with all my travels, an event. Charli was a little nervous about this trip since I arrived to Kuwait City a few days after a terror attack destroyed the city’s stock exchange. Special agents who were waiting for me met me at the airport, swooped me up, and walked me through without stopping at customs. I never showed a passport to anyone. I wondered how anyone would even know I was there. The next stop was a short flight to the Island of Bahrain off the coast of Saudi Arabia.

  While driving to Manama, the capital city, I couldn’t help but notice the smell. It was very distinct, a dry, hot air mixed with scents of the sea and crude oil. It was everywhere. The country had a barren feeling, with no color. Everything was sand-colored. I was on my way to meet my new partners, who were family members of the emir of Bahrain, Sheikh Isa bin Hamad al-Khalifa. We were meeting to negotiate and to discuss forming a company to produce and present live tours and music events throughout the Middle East, featuring major universal celebrities and recording artists.

  I was excited to travel to countries in Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, with their histories dating back thousands of years. When I travel, especially to ancient cities, I get a sense of being a part of their history. I see myself standing there and wonder how it might have been back in time, what it was like to stand on the same ground looking out at the same land as others thousands of years before me.

  During our first formal meeting I began to realize that this well-connected family was full of wealthy Sunni Arabs who didn’t actually work, at least not the ones I met. They never had to grab the ball. It had been handed down to them for thousands of years. They were all figureheads in charge of some division of power in government, important businesses, or private enterprises. Most jobs in their way of thinking were beneath them; they would never consider doing anything that was labor intensive. And of course the dirty jobs they left to foreigners and the Shia Muslims who represent two-thirds of the population but have no political voice or future. They are owned like serfs by the king’s monarchy and ruling party, who are the minority Sunni Muslims, yet keep most of the money. In fact, none of the Sunni Muslim women work or do anything. I never during my several visits ever talked to one woman. I can’t help but wonder that these guys and others like them still control countries—how long will it last without equality and freedom for the people? World history tells us this will someday fall and crumble that the people eventually win. A perfect example: while traveling abroad I visited Portugal, a country that once was a major leader, a conquering nation that ruled the sea. But today if you ask someone where Portugal is, most couldn’t tell you.

  On the way to the Ramada Inn Hotel, while looking out of the limousine window, I could see the flat, dreary landscape, no trees or green anything, hardly any color except the most royal tu
rquoise sea I have ever seen. My driver was quick to proudly point out the newly constructed modern Gulf Hotel. As we approached, I noticed an abandoned building resembling a large hotel right next to the new hotel. This, as it turns out, was the original Gulf Hotel, only a few years old. According to my driver, the first Gulf Hotel had begun to crumble and rust away. It seems the contractors, in order to save money—as if they needed to make more money—decided to cheat the hotel owners by using seawater in the concrete mix instead of more expensive fresh water. The salt water rusted and rotted the steel structure, so the building had been condemned. Not to worry. That didn’t stop the Bahrainis. They built a new Gulf Hotel right next door. It’s the same mentality as the Kuwaitis, who, just before I arrived in Kuwait, lost all their files, records, and documents after their stock exchange was bombed and blown to smithereens. One would think a financial disaster, but not so. They immediately built and started a new stock market and exchange across the street. These actions prove if you have the resources and lots of money, you can do what you want. So I say to those of you enslaved in self-inflicted bondage caught up in your entitlement mind and lifestyle, take off those shackles you’ve complained about for hundreds of years, get a job, make a lot of money, and set yourself free, and never get on those death trains and ships again. Fight and work hard for your freedom.

  By maintaining this drive and coupling it with consistency and creativity, as I have personally experienced, you will find your phone will always ring, as mine has, with new opportunities and balls to grab.

  Make Sure the Light at the End of the Tunnel Is Not a Train

  Bahrain was a special place in the early 1980s. They were still in the 1950s, totally a man’s society. It was the only Arab country where you could drink alcohol. Somehow they decided even though alcohol was banned in all other Arab countries, in Bahrain it was OK to get drunk, pick up foreign women, and do whatever you want. You could even act as a Westerner, and act as if your Gods weren’t watching. There were private bars, dance clubs, and all-night restaurants, each one dedicated to a different clientele. In some locations, all the different cultures would converge: Bahrainis with Saudis, Brits, and Americans. Not a night went by that a fight didn’t break out between the power of the princes alongside their entourages and the foreigners and ex-patriots, who were maintaining all of the oil facilities and wells. The atmosphere reminded me of Vinnie’s Happy Landing, a bar in Bay Shore, Long Island, where there was a fight every night as well.

  When Charli read this she told me she actually went to Vinnie’s Happy Landing in the early sixties. Who knows, I might have even seen her there, subconsciously spurring me to look for her until we met again at the Chatsworth.

  After the fights, the little princes would drive off in their white—I mean white—Mercedes, Rolls Royces, and Bentleys. I never saw this before; everything on the cars was white, no chrome at all; everything painted white: headlight wipers, air scopes, wings, and stabilizers. The sheiks would stop their cars wherever they liked, sometimes in the middle of the street, not even closing the doors, just stop and get out and then go off to an all-night restaurant where the now-very-drunk Arabs and ex-patriots would meet again and continue to fight. Both cultures resented the other; the ex-pats who worked hard in the oil fields for their pay, living away from their families, versus the young, privileged sheiks who had many wives and never worked for anything.

  One night I was invited to a well-known Arab-only private dance club. Unbeknownst to me, I was the main attraction. The club was an amalgam of parts and pieces, the merging of New York discos and American Bandstand with a DJ. It happened to be Michael Jackson night, and since I was an American. I was assumed to be an authority and have great knowledge of Michael Jackson. So who better to judge the karaoke singing and dance contest? All the contestants were dressed like Michael Jackson, gloves and all. It was a sight to see, thousands of miles away in the desert, everyone dancing to and acting like Michael Jackson. That’s when you know you’re a huge star.

  The emir of Bahrain—my partner and owner of the Bahrain Cinema Company—turned out to also be one of the largest movie and music pirates in the world. My first meeting with the Royal Family in Bahrain was with Esam Fakhro. We were meeting to draft an agreement for our new endeavor. At that encounter the same image kept entering my mind over and over: that my shoe soles kept sneaking out to be exposed. Back in New York, I was warned by so-called experts not to show the soles of my shoes as it was considered disrespectful, along with several other customs I immediately forgot. But I never forgot the shoe soles. We Americans are ignorant and were never told or taught anything about Arabs, Muslims, and their traditions or beliefs. Most Americans don’t know shit from shine-o-la, nor about anyone except American movie stars and athletes who walk the Red Carpet; we are truly the leaders of the Red Carpet Society.

  Then I met Prince Fahrouk Nonoo, a direct blood relative of the ruling king’s family. We met at his office to discuss the terms and conditions of our contract to form a new entity that would organize, produce, and present live music events throughout the Middle East. In the middle of the negotiations, he paused dramatically and declared, “You are a very strong negotiator, but not strong enough. You see, we are here more than five thousand years. You Americans are only some 250 years old, with limited experience and knowledge. Mere infidels.”

  I thought, Who does this … this … desert camel-herding nomad think he is? They didn’t land on the moon. He must have felt my vibe.

  He got up from behind his desk, dressed in his whiter-than-white Arab dress, with his little gold-braided veiled head turban and black-and-white checkered scarf. I don’t know how they do that, get it and keep it so white. The Indians do it too; it hurts your eyes. While he’s giving me a braggadocio’s history lesson on communication skills relating to our negotiations, he walks over to unlock a glass cabinet, and continues, “You see, we Arabs …” He takes out a clear glass box, shows me its contents, boasting and prancing around like a proud rooster.

  “This is a four-thousand-year-old letter from my great ancestors negotiating the sale and fixing the market price for pearls. At that time we were one of the richest tribes in the world, trading goods and pearls we harvested. So you see, I come from a long line of strong negotiators, so we will split the company 60 percent for us, 40 percent for you.’’

  I almost shit myself. Forty percent, wow. I grabbed the ball. “Okay, plus all cost and expenses,’’ I answered.

  You know, he never finished the whole story. Yes, at one time they cornered the pearl market. But then along came the Japanese, who developed the cultured pearl, and that was the end of the Arab pearls. For a long time, many, many years of poverty followed, before they got lucky and found oil, just a relatively few years ago, and because of that no Arab of wealth and class to this day does any kind of physical labor. They hire others to do the actual work, and there aren’t many Bahraini bag ladies or homeless sleeping on the streets. The king pays all the citizens from the sale of oil and gives out key government posts and appointments to family members. So I let him win; it made him feel better to save face and all that jazz. They like winning. It gives them a sense of control and power; they are the winners, they are the conquerors.

  Two occasions strike me as good examples of this. The first one happened while I was there. I was invited to attend a royal family outing at the horse racetrack. When we arrived, there was no one there but the royal family, relatives, a small group of other close friends, and of course armed security. The racetrack was closed for the day to allow the royal family to bet and enjoy a private day at the races. After a few races, I realized something was strange. No matter which horse won, they would cheer. Why? Because all the horses in the race were theirs. They always cheer because they always win.

  The second occasion, years later, was while producing the Beach Boys Concert at Caesars Palace Casino, in Atlantic City. I noticed a commotion at the roulette table surrounded by onlookers fascinated at w
hat was going on. Several Arab men were placing bets, but what’s so special about that? Well, they were placing chips on 75 percent of the numbers, then seconds before the croupier would say no more bets, they paid no attention to him or the rules, and placed more bets to cover as many numbers as they could in a feeding piranha frenzy, so that lo and behold, when the ball stops in a numbered slot, they cheer with glee. And they kept cheering because they kept winning. Never mind the cost of it all.

  These are traits we Americans must realize when dealing with the Arab mentality. If not, they will pick up their marbles, go home and end the game. I’ve noticed that other cultures have their own versions of this kind of attitude. The Japanese, for example, don’t like to be backed into a corner when in negotiations, especially if it looks like they are going to lose. You must let them, as they see it, save face. Give them a hole to wiggle out; let them think it was their idea for you to win.

  During that initial trip to Bahrain, at a meeting with Mr. Nonoo, I requested to buy something gold for Charli and the kids. He recommended I visit his brother-in-law, a well-known money changer/washer and gold dealer in the Suk. The Suk hasn’t changed much in thousands of years. It’s an indoor/outdoor sidewalk market with narrow cobble and dirt streets, with no trees or vegetation at all, where they still slaughter lambs; you can see the blood stains on the ground. Most buildings are made of a combination of wood and cement. Many shops are filled with jewelry and gold displayed in giant Macy’s-type windows, full of gold bracelets, belts, chains, and necklaces. I walked past what seemed like hundreds of windows with more gold than you ever saw in your life.