Thomas and I had a wonderful time relaxing on Trelawny Beach on Jamaica’s north coast. We went horseback riding and visited the beautiful Dunn’s River Falls near Ocho Rios. I won the hotel talent show singing “Over The Rainbow.” I got a little trophy and a Rasta brother slipped me some superb ganja. By the time we got back to New York, it was clear that I wasn’t going to change for Thomas, and that he wasn’t going to stop wanting me to be someone else. So we broke up, but deep down inside we knew it wasn’t over.
I had auditioned for a show called Mahalia before I’d left for Jamaica. When I got home my girlfriend Yolanda Graves was on my answering machine screaming, “We got the part! We got the part! We got the part!” Three days later, I heard that Thomas had been hired as the stage manager for the show. Oh, Lord, now here we go again!
It had been ten years since Mahalia Jackson had transitioned, and I knew if anybody was running around heaven, it was her. In my book, and those of many others she is the greatest gospel singer that ever lived. This amazing songstress created the blueprint for twentieth-century gospel, building worldwide appreciation for the genre through her tours and many albums. I also admired her for her political activism. She was there with the Civil Rights Movement from the start and sang at the 1963 March on Washington just before Dr. King gave his famous “I Have a Dream” speech.
Mahalia was everything. Among all my mother’s albums, Mahalia Jackson was the one I would play over and over and over. This woman was so embedded inside me, I felt her joy was mine and that her sadness played into my own. I listened intensely and began to mimic her voice. But Esther Marrow, not I, was given the lead, and I was tapped to understudy the role. I was thrilled and honored to be a part of the production, which included Danny Beard, a singer I became friendly with, the fierce Keith David, and my close friends Tucker Smallwood, Ebony Jo-Ann, and Yolanda Graves.
To my surprise, during rehearsal one day, Danny became unnecessarily rude to me, commenting snidely while I was at the piano, mocking me in the funeral march scene. I’d heard he’d been doing a lot of coke. I stepped to him and warned him about karma. My spiritual studies with Phil had inspired me, and I was working to get the rage out of my soul.
A couple of hours passed, and Danny was all up in my face again. I broke and said, “That was some fag shit.” Y’all, that boy slapped the pure shit out of me! I didn’t return the slap, because deep down, I probably knew I deserved it. Plus, fighting with my hands is not my thing. Instead, I turned the other cheek, smiled, and went to put cold water on my face. Ow, that shit hurt!
When I told Mark Brown about the incident, he said I asked for it for using that awful slur. Mark’s response cut deep because I wanted his respect. I didn’t intend to be homophobic; a “faggot” in my mind was a nasty person, not a homosexual. Poor excuse, I know. It sickens me that I once said that terrible word in anger to someone I loved.
The next day, with my eye swollen, I was pissed. I planned to head down to Centre Street to get a summons against Danny’s ass. Just in time to avoid that drama, Danny called with apologies. I was silent.
I went to the rehearsal studio and warmed up as normal while the vibe among the company was as tense as I was calm. Some women in the cast laughed at me as they gathered around Danny. That made me vengeful.
Miguel was furious when he heard about the confrontation. He immediately assembled several bad-ass Dominican friends he’d made in the underground movement to kick Gulf and Western out of the Dominican Republic. They were prepared to fuck Danny up. But then Phil Valentine said, “You don’t want that kind of karma, baby.” I swallowed my anger and pledged to just forget the whole thing.
The show premiered at the Hartman Theatre in Stamford, Connecticut. I had decided that in order to get through the run of the show, I just wouldn’t speak to Danny or Thomas. But on the show’s third night, an hour before the curtain went up Thomas burst into my dressing room, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “Esther’s been in a car accident. She’s all right, but do you think you can go on?”
Even though my stomach turned inside out with anxiety, I looked at him with the confidence of the great Helen of Troy and proclaimed, “You know damn well I can do it.”
He knew better than anyone that understudy rehearsals always begin the day after opening night, meaning I had a total of forty-five minutes’ rehearsal for the lead role. The challenge would be huge. When Thomas gave me a brilliant, heartfelt pep talk just before I took the stage, I knew he still loved me.
A critic for the Greenwich Times was in the audience and wrote, “Although [Miss Lewis] carried the script throughout, she handled it with such grace that after a while it went unnoticed. What became noticeable was the reaction of the audience and the outburst of applause, coupled with a standing ovation . . .”
When the show moved to Boston the next week, I was just about ready to try to make formal amends with Danny, but as we stood backstage in the wings, where it was very dark, Danny started taunting me again. I ignored him until he deliberately stepped on my foot. Rage welled within my soul as I reached for a broken steel pipe leaning against a nearby wall. Raising up to swing the pipe against Danny’s head, I somehow violently banged my own head against an overhang and immediately blacked out. When I woke up a few hours later in Boston Medical Center I knew Phil had been right—karma is a bitch.
The cabaret scene in New York City was heating up with many new piano bars and small nightclubs that offered fertile ground for Broadway gypsies to take the spotlight. Yours truly was the first headliner when the New Ballroom, a trendy restaurant located at 253 West 28th Street, recast itself as simply 28th and 8th.
Who Is Jenifer Lewis? HOT! was a campy hour of original songs, jokes, and connective patter. Otis Sallid produced the show. I knew my show would be good, but would people come? If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s empty seats. Therefore, I worked as hard to promote my shows as I did rehearsing. I printed at least a thousand flyers and addressed and stuffed the envelopes. I licked the stamps and then carried it all to the post office. And y’all, I did not have anywhere near one thousand names on my mailing list, so I sent flyers to random strangers I found in the telephone book, too! (Yes, I was a twentieth-century spammer!) I made a huge effort, although most cabarets hold only about one hundred people.
I took to the streets and avenues of Manhattan in my gym shoes and sweat suit (remember those ’80s nylon sweat suits?). If you were human and had a heartbeat, I put a flyer in your hand. I went through Bloomie’s, Macy’s, and I hit all the street fairs and tourist attractions from the Statue of Liberty to the Empire State Building and Rockefeller Center. The most fertile spot was the TKTS booth in the middle of Times Square, where I belted songs Merman-style and did high kicks for the folks waiting in line for discount Broadway tickets.
I’d spot a couple and say, “Where y’all from? Oh, honey, you guys are so far back in line, there’s not gonna be any tickets left for a GOOD Broadway show. You might as well come see me.”
I’d sing eight bars of “Don’t Cry Out Loud,” do a shuffle-step ball change, three high kicks in succession, a lay out, and snap my fingers in the Z formation.
“Y’all come on now. And my show is cheaper, too.”
And damn, if I didn’t spot fifty percent of those tourists in my audience.
Even though I had performed in two Broadway shows and to adoring audiences across the nation, I was not prepared for the opening night response to HOT! Every seat was filled. When I ended my final note, my vision went into slow motion as the audience began to clap and rise from their seats. I left my body for a split-second, and when I refocused, the roar of the crowd’s applause and shouts grew incredibly loud, even louder than in that watershed moment back in First Baptist when I was five years old. It was more deliberate. It was my first electrifying ovation. Not unlike the one I received at Carnegie Hall in 2014. (What, you haven’t seen my Carnegie Hall performance? Be-yotch, have you heard of YouTube?) My show was proof
of the wonderful magic Quitman and I created together. Without a doubt, the creative genius of Quitman made HOT! a hit. He devised fun moves such as accentuating my high kicks by clanging a spoon against a skillet. Word spread, and almost every performance of HOT! sold out immediately. I felt happy, rewarded, recognized.
During the summer, Quitman and I both got parts in Pennsylvania Stage’s production of Ain’t Misbehavin’, the Tony-winning musical tribute to African American composer Fats Waller. I won the role that had made Nell Carter a star. Rounding out the cast were Tonya “sings her ass off” Pinkins, Lynnie Godfrey, and George Bell.
It was a great summer gig at the J. I. Rodale Theatre in Allentown, and it was close enough to easily bus home for our off days. The summer was a hot one, and Allentown reeked of sweaty, obese people eating massive amounts of food. I was sitting in a restaurant with Quitman, and I couldn’t help but stare at a man who was emptying half of the salt shaker on what seemed like eight eggs and dumping an entire bottle of syrup on his pancakes.
Quitman saw my face and suggested I build a tunnel from the hotel to the theater and stop judging people. “We’re all God’s babies and doing the best we can.”
Quitman and I fought and laughed, as best friends do, the entire run, though I took time out to have a short affair with a skinny, sweet white local named, wait for it, Dick.
About halfway through the run, we got news from New York that Danny Beard had died in a fire at his home in Harlem. I mourned. Although we had our fights, the truth is I had really loved Danny—that boy could sing his ass off!
In the fall, I was excited to be cast in my third Broadway show. Rock ’N Roll! The First 5,000 Years was directed by Joe Layton, a two-time Tony winner who was best known for a series of critically acclaimed television specials starring Barbra Streisand. Layton loved me when he saw my Graziella-inspired kick into layout, but little did he know that was my best dance move. What made Layton so good, however, is that he zeroed in on every performer’s forte. He made the most of my athleticism and flexibility, including having me straddle two pianos during a David Bowie song while Hula-Hooping two hoops around my neck! I was thrilled to have a solo in “You Keep Me Hangin’ On,” a song made famous by her highness Diana Ross. It was extremely rewarding to perform alongside talented artists including Ka-ron Brown, Lillias White, Marion Ramsey, Carl E. Weaver, and Lon Hoyt. Unfortunately, following terrible reviews, the show closed after only nine performances. We called it “Rock ’N Roll! The First 5,000 Minutes”!
SEVEN
A DOLL NAMED “KILLER”
Lester Young was a hugely influential tenor saxophonist who came to prominence with the Count Basie Orchestra in the 1930s. “Prez,” as he was known, was a close friend of the legendary Billie Holiday and accompanied her on several recordings in the late 1930s and early 1940s. Soon after reuniting with Billie for a CBS special in 1957, Young’s alcoholism caught up with him, just as Holiday addictions would soon catch up with her. During the final two years of his life, his companion, a woman named Elaine Swain, took care of him. Elaine wasn’t a musician, but she was well known in jazz circles and dated several high-profile musicians during the heydays of jazz. She also was a good friend of Holiday.
When I met Elaine in early 1983 at the Red Apple grocery store on 54th and 8th, she was probably in her late seventies. We were standing in the checkout line, and she was telling jokes to the cashier, cracking me up in the process. Seeing that I was amused, Elaine took the opportunity to ask me to go back and check the dairy section because she believed she had left her half-full wine cooler there. I was so entertained that I carried her groceries home for her. She lived in one room above Possible Twenty, the bar on 55th between 7th and 8th Avenues. I remember having to stop at the bar for a key, walk through the nightclub, and up the stairs and down an unlit hallway to knock on her wooden door.
I was enraptured by Elaine’s tales about Billie and all the other famous jazz musicians she had known. For instance, she told me that during Billie’s later years, she had become fed up with white people and refused to sing “Strange Fruit” to predominantly white audiences.
Here was someone from the golden era living in one room, and I wanted to take care of her in the name of all the musicians who paved the way for people like me. Elaine had her own struggles with alcohol, and once, when she opened her front door butt naked, I saw that her body was covered in liver spots as a result of years of drinking.
Before visiting Elaine, I’d usually stop at the Red Apple and pick up a few staples for her. I spoke with her about my life, hopes, and career. When I asked her advice about my messy love life, she leaned over in her armchair, looked at me sideways, and, twisting open her fourth wine cooler, slurred, “Don’t trust no niggas!”
I continued to build a name for myself through a series of one-woman performances. Toward the end of 1982, I was asked to do my show at Don’t Tell Mama, the newest cabaret in the city.
Don’t Tell Mama, located on Restaurant Row, the eatery-laden block on 46th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues, was owned by Erv Raible. Erv was perhaps the most successful cabaret owner in New York City history, with three other high-profile piano bars—the Duplex, Brandy’s Piano Bar, and Eighty Eight’s.
I first met Erv at the Duplex on Christopher Street in Greenwich Village when I was playing in Sister Aimee and would hang out there with director David Holdgrive. A few months later, I performed in a small revue produced by award-winning lyricist David Zippel and his sister Joanne Zippel called It’s Better with a Band that opened at Don’t Tell Mama before moving to Sardi’s. My performance caught Erv’s eye, and he invited me to bring my solo act to Don’t Tell Mama, which was quickly becoming the hottest cabaret in Manhattan.
Of course, Quitman helped put together my show, which had no title. I asked Mark Brown to write monologues and some lyrics and enlisted Lon Hoyt as music director. The show was a huge hit, and after the first performance, which was standing room only, I went to Erv to get my portion of the door proceeds. Erv, a seasoned and compassionate nightclub veteran, gently shook his head at my shocked face when he handed me about $33. The slight reprimand delivered in his nasal whine was a lesson: “You comped your whole dance class, Mary.” As was the fashion among gay men of a certain age, and showbiz types at the time, Erv called everybody “Mary.” I loved that!
One of the songs Mark and I wrote for my first show at Don’t Tell Mama was “Come Along with Me,” a musical rant filled with my observations on the changing world—yuppies, vegetarianism, Madonna. With Lon Hoyt on piano, my performance of the song exemplified the Jenifer Lewis of 1983: fabulous and manic as hell.
The Saturday after my Don’t Tell Mama debut, Mark and Bobby came to my place at the La Premiere to watch What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? for the hundredth time. I was in heaven sitting with my friends, all of us talking to the screen and offering commentary. (“. . . But cha are Blanche. Ya are in that chair!”)
The phone rang and I thought, How dare someone assume I would be home on a Saturday night? Nevertheless, I picked up. It was Bonnie Bruckheimer, calling for Bette Midler to say they wanted me to be a Harlette, one of Bette’s back-up singers, and could I be in LA on Monday to start rehearsing for a three-month tour? Through my shock, I managed to tell her that I had a sold-out show at Don’t Tell Mama on Monday night. Bonnie said she would call back shortly.
I had worshipped Bette Midler since I was in college. I had been walking down the hall of my dormitory freshman year when I heard somebody blasting this fabulous gospel rendition of “Delta Dawn.” I didn’t recognize the voice, thinking, “I know every black singer. With an album, anyway.”
So I knocked on Henry’s door and asked, “Who is that singing?”
He said, “Oh, honey, that’s the Divine Miss M.”
Henry turned the album cover around, and I was shocked to see the singer was white. I went out and bought every recording of Bette’s I could find. She was fabulous. She had personality and sass
and was funny as hell. She was now a member of my personal Pantheon of Idols, which around this time included Aretha (of course), Judy Garland, Josephine Baker, Pearl Bailey, Ethel Merman, Lena Horne, and, believe it or not, Mae West, Fanny Brice, and Sophie Tucker.
Wide-eyed and shaken, I squeezed in between Mark and Bobby on my little loveseat and the three of us looked at the phone for ten minutes until it rang again.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Bette Midler. Nice to meet you. We really need you out here on Monday. Can’t you get your understudy to go on for you?”
Her clipped tones sent a shiver through me. I had only heard Bette’s voice on albums and on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show. As I gathered my response, I could feel the tension and excitement emanating from Mark and Bobby.
“Ummmm . . . it’s a one-woman show, Bette. There is no understudy.”
Her answer was one letter: “O.”
Not “Congratulations for having your own show at the leading New York cabaret,” or “I’m so happy for you. I heard you are great.” Just a curt “O,” followed by an unsaid, but clearly implied, “So you all that, huh?”
And it started from there, the dynamic of mutual admiration combined with sheer competition between me and Bette.
I agreed that I would arrive in LA on Tuesday. My farewell show that Monday night at Don’t Tell Mama was perfect. John S. Wilson, the esteemed critic who had covered jazz for the New York Times for four decades, attended. When I announced I was leaving to become one of Bette’s Harlettes, every fabulous queen in the club lost their damn mind!
The Mother of Black Hollywood Page 9
