Judy and I

by Sid Luft

  At the end of the month the Masquers, a famous L.A. social club, was going to salute Judy. On the evening of the affair, about halfway through the ceremony, one of the men on the dais keeled over and died of a heart attack. It was an eerie and sad event. Judy had prepared for a jolly evening of insider show business, but of course the death put a damper on the proceedings. Then Judy performed at a benefit in San Bernardino, staged by Sammy Davis out of gratitude for the local hospital that had been so attentive to him after he lost his eye in an auto accident. Other than these few appearances, she wasn’t working.

  At Mapleton, music would float from one room to another. My collection of records was minimal compared to Judy’s. I tended to listen to favorites over and over again. I’d grown up with well-worn Caruso records and the opera La Bohème—super romantic, impassioned music. The famous duet toward the end of La Bohème fascinated me as a boy. It was a revelation that love between a man and a woman could be at once so beautiful and so sad. I was forever gripped by the melodic strains of the particular melody in which the heroine is confessing. I’d play this part over and over again. It secretly turned me on, the play of voices locked in an eternal longing that somehow can never be fulfilled.

  Here and there Judy would join me when I played Italian opera; she favored classical violin if she played classical music at all. Judy loved Gordon Jenkins’s popular arrangements, which were always rich in strings. However, Judy’s tastes were eclectic—she appreciated jazz and, in general, held a far greater technical understanding of music than I did.

  But Judy agreed with me it might be pleasant to get away from the popular to the classic, so she accepted my invitation to see the Swedish tenor Jussi Björling sing La Bohème at the Shrine. Björling, offstage, had a drinking problem. One night during the run of the opera, Björling, who was a short man weighing over 250 pounds, got bombed. My friend Lee Siegel was the doctor on call. In the middle of the night, I received an emergency call from Lee to come to the hotel and help him with Björling. “I can’t handle this big moose!”

  Björling was so pissed he wanted to box with me as we attempted to get him to bed. Va va voom! It was a tense struggle. Finally we had to knock him cold with a barbiturate before we were able to haul him up to bed. The next morning he was fine, and that evening he performed beautifully. Björling was so grateful afterward that he called me up and apologized.

  Sometime later at a small birthday celebration at the 21 Club in New York, Judy arranged for Björling to come all the way from Sweden to sing “Happy Birthday” to me. He was still thanking me for putting him to bed that night.

  There were minor distractions but nothing exceptional on the professional horizon for Judy. I had several concepts in mind, but I was beginning to wonder if she could pull them off. I decided if it was important enough, she’d come through.

  Around this time, one of Jack Warner’s lawyers called me up and said that Jack wanted to “write off the $25,000.” At first, I had no idea what he was referring to. I’d suppressed memories of Warner and A Star is Born. I realized he was talking about the note I’d signed back in 1954 when Jack was convincing me to go to France, telling me I’d be a millionaire several times over and not to worry about the advance.

  I said, “I don’t owe Jack a quarter.”

  “Well, we have to sue you in order to write it off.”

  “Sue me.”

  “What would you settle for?”

  “Nothing.”

  “OK, give me $500 and I’ll tear up the note.”

  Again I emphasized that I’d give Jack nothing—and, further, if they continued to press me for that note, I’d sue them.

  “Fine,” the lawyer replied, “Sue me, but sue me without publicity.” I figured out that for their purposes they needed to show a suit before they could write it off. The conversation left me numb, then a wave of nausea washed over me. I was left in a rerun of despair; submerged feelings of disappointment and failure returned. I didn’t file the suit, and I never heard from them again.

  Judy had been sitting at home. She’d listen to her own recordings as though another artist were singing. And she began to have an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. She wasn’t hostile, just listless, out of gas. I suggested she might check out her increasing weight gain with one of the doctors, and for the first time in our marriage, she declined to see a doctor. The Ritalin had calmed her down but left me unhinged as to what was physiologically going on with her.

  Somehow, it didn’t seem to impair her ability to work. “Baby, your voice is so great you belong at the Metropolitan Opera House.”

  Judy came up to me and put her strong arms around my neck, “Stop it Sid.” She was childlike. “Don’t tease me.”

  “I’m dead serious.”

  She giggled. “You mean it?” It was as though Dorothy were on her way to Oz. Her dark eyes turned to me with a shine. “Darling, I do need to look forward to something.”

  Roger Edens had sent over tickets for Maria Callas at the Shrine Auditorium. Judy, who admired Callas, bowed out. I went to the show without her, curious to see the great diva. And Callas proved magnetic, displaying her genius of acting and singing—not unlike Judy. I thought about Fred Schrang, an expert in booking classical concerts and operas, whom we’d met in Cannes. He adored Judy. I rang him up regarding my notion of Judy at the Met.

  Fred explained that a commercial tour was not allowed at the opera house; however, a nonprofit or charity event was permitted. This seemed silly—the proceeds would go to charity while the bills came to me—but I’d go along. I discovered unexpected complications. The Met’s unions were afraid of servicing just one performer, a small chorus, and an orchestra numbering thirty-five. They insisted on enough stagehands to accommodate the Bolshoi Ballet.

  We solicited the charity City of Hope for sponsorship, and were flabbergasted when the organization asked for $50,000 under the table to lend their name to Judy’s performance. Judy was ill but uncomplaining. It was, after all, the Metropolitan Opera House. We ultimately enlisted the Children’s Asthma Research Institute and Hospital in Denver instead.

  Not since the Scottish comic actor and singer Sir Harry Lauder made an appearance at the Metropolitan Opera House in the 1920s had a popular performer been featured. (Keeping it all in the family, years later Liza would appear for one season at the Met in a ballet, The Owl and the Pussycat, choreographed for her by the Martha Graham dance company.)

  On May 11, 1959, Judy made her Met debut. Alan King was the monologist, and John Bubbles the dancer. Judy made her appearance in the first act following King’s and Bubbles’s routines, which were designed to interact with the full all-male chorus. She backed onto the stage wearing a luxurious white fox stole over her gown, graciously acknowledging the audience’s reception before the chorus continued: “Are you the new Wagnerian soprano? / A new Mimi for La Bohème? . . .”

  Judy replied: “My name is Judy . . . But my children call me ‘Mama!’”

  Roger Edens proved once again that he was a master at writing for Judy, creating new numbers in the recitative, aria style that she projected, so similar to that of opera singers. Edens’s material was laced throughout with operatic themes from La Bohème, Pagliacci, etc. Judy also performed a version of Edens’s “Born in a Trunk” designed especially for the venue.

  In another set she sang “I Happen to Like New York” by Cole Porter. She continued with Lerner and Loewe and a Rodgers and Hart medley opened by Bubbles dancing to “Me and My Shadow.” Judy would come out in a tux and join him as the shadow. It was sensational. Alan closed the first half with the all-male chorus tapping their behinds off. Judy performed Gordon Jenkins’s special material from Judy’s album The Letter and danced “A Couple of Swells” with Alan taking Astaire’s part. She gave them the “Minstrel Girl” medley: “For almost twenty years, I’ve been a minstrel girl / Singing for my supper in the throngs / And in that time my world has been a minstrel world / And the history of my life is in my so
ngs.”

  She’d sit on the prompter’s box dressed in her tramp clothes and bring the house down with “Rainbow.” Judy told the audiences, “I’ll sing ’em all and we’ll stay all night.” Standees were lined up three deep along the aisles. Judy turned in a performance of bravura proportions.

  The newspapers echoed the audience’s response, the New York Times writing, “From the roars and bravos that echoed through the house it was evident that long hair or short the Metropolitan still was the haven of good company.” Jim O’Connor wrote in the New York Journal-American, “Her full, thrilling, throbbing voice welled up in the vast cathedral of vocal culture, filling every bit of space above the orchestra, the boxes, and family circle.”

  Judy performed one week at the Met to standing ovations, cheering throngs, and as many bravos as an opera singer would dream of. But her weight was an issue, and there were nights when she was not well. She was a trouper and gave her best. With two more grand opera houses on the tour, the Civic Opera House in Chicago and the War Memorial Opera House in San Francisco, I was still asking her to see a doctor, and Judy was still refusing.

  I came up with a seemingly casual situation: a doctor friend, someone Judy didn’t know, came backstage to chat while taking the opportunity to observe her. He took one look and subsequently proclaimed my wife “bloated,” not fat. He’d managed to “accidentally” touch her shoulder near the neck, and he explained she was filled with fluids—a sign that one of her organs was not functioning, either the spleen, pancreas, or liver. It was clear she needed tests. We had to finish the opera tour, and then I’d need a miracle to get Judy to a diagnostician.

  The rest of the tour went well; it was the kind of show Judy believed she deserved. But it didn’t provide the kind of money we’d have earned in Vegas. By the time she made an appearance at the Friars roast for Dean Martin, she was a zombie. She gave a mechanical performance without any spirit. I was now deeply worried over the state of her health. I contacted my uncle Israel in New York and made a plan. I told Judy I was going east on business and that I’d wind up in New York, where there was to be a big bash for my pal Charlie Wacker that we were all invited to attend. I mentioned that Freddie Finklehoffe was already at the Waldorf Astoria.

  Charlie was going to escort Judy to the fictitious party directly from Los Angeles. Freddie was prepared to help me in any way possible. And he certainly stood by me. He’d been privy to some of Judy’s escapades and dramas, and he’d ask, “How the fuck do you take this shit?” Now, Judy had hit bottom and was barely functioning. She was eager to go, but she was reluctant to fly. We persuaded her to knock herself out and get on the airplane. So Charlie delivered Judy, stoned, to the Waldorf Astoria. We had a suite at the Towers (which we really couldn’t afford), and Israel was waiting for me to confirm that Judy was in town. I had set up a consultation with my uncle and his daughter, now a practicing physician herself, for the following morning. I wasn’t wasting a minute.

  In the morning, the ride uptown from the Waldorf was nightmarish. Judy was insisting we have a cocktail. I said, “Certainly, darling, let’s take our martinis with us in the taxi.” I’d agree to anything.

  In his office Israel told Judy her life was in danger, that her liver was four times its normal size. The cause of the liver imbalance was obvious: liquor and pills. She’d have to be hospitalized immediately, and he told me he didn’t know if they could save her. “Your wife is critically ill.”

  Judy was checked into Doctors Hospital in Manhattan for treatment. I rented a small, cell-like room next to Judy. I couldn’t watch television, I was too anxious. I listened to music, the only thing that kept me calm. It was a day-to-day hardship.

  “Is she going to make it?”

  “We don’t know.”

  It continued this way for three months! Meanwhile, the children were home with the nurse while I watched and waited.

  Judy received a line of visitors at the hospital—Aly Khan and Elsa Maxwell, the Berksons, Bennett Cerf. Our good friends Dr. Lester and Felicia Coleman were in touch daily. Whoever was in New York came by to see Judy when it was OK for her to see people. They’d wish her the very best, encourage her. She was surrounded by flowers, gifts, and supportive peers. Later Bennett arranged a contract with his publishing company, Random House, for her autobiography.

  It was on the twelfth day of our three-month sojourn at Doctors Hospital that Judy was pronounced out of danger. It was the very day the children had viewed The Wizard of Oz for the first time. That night Joey and Lorna were on the phone to Judy crying, as they’d been frightened by the movie. They were terrified of the wicked witch, whom they thought was responsible for their mother being gone. Judy succeeded in pacifying them and assuring them she’d be home as soon as she was completely well. We found the best way to keep the children’s anxiety down was to speak with them every day. The stronger Judy became, the more intense was her desire to be with the children.

  Joyously, Judy was released from the hospital sometime in February 1960. On the train back to Los Angeles she genuinely relaxed for the first time in months. She seemed content. We sat up and watched the lights go by, slept easily and comfortably, and experienced a wonderful closeness. Once more we were happily on the Super Chief, which Judy loved. When we transferred in Chicago, Doris Day and her husband picked up the train. We had a delightful time all the way to California, playing cards and talking, the two all-American songbirds with their Jewish husbands/managers. Everything was good, but I wondered just how tough it would be on Judy not performing.

  The doctors had advised me Judy would be “semi-invalid” for the rest of her life. After we returned home, Judy was indeed partially bedridden, with nurses around the clock. For the time being, there could be no work, no pressures, no socializing. How was I going to support a famous wife and three children in the lifestyle they were habituated to? There was no income and no health insurance. Doctor bills had to be paid. I was dejected, mad as hell. I was running out of money. Luckily, Rainbow Farms owned a gray mare, Queen of All; I’d bought her from the razor blade king of Ireland. She was cow hocked, and she was rushed on the track. Queen of All injured her hind legs, but I knew she’d make a superb brood mare. A trainer who understood bloodlines offered to buy her for breeding. I sold her on the spot. Not too long afterward Queen of All threw a great racehorse, Papa’s All.

  I’d prepared myself during those long days and nights at Doctors Hospital for the realization that Judy was not going to have a future career. My uncle’s words would ring in my ear: “semi-invalid.” Judy was in a wheelchair, then she was moved to a regular chair. After several months she was walking about the house and asking to go out. She’d progressed to the point where she was functioning, not with full stamina but certainly not a “semi-invalid.” In my mind I switched the phrase to “semi-retired”—that sounded more hopeful, not a death knell. However, I was certain if she were to fall back on the crutch of chemical abuse that it would be disastrous for her. Nonetheless, the truth was Judy was not going to be the megastar she’d once been; she was simply my wife, and that was fine.

  An acquaintance of mine had come to see me at the hospital with an invention: a little box about twelve inches square and ten inches high. He put the attached plug into the wall socket, then he took a small plastic cylinder and shoved it into the slot. It was an early tape deck. The box was made by Viking and played music but did not record. (Ampex was the only company for recording purposes in those days.) This struck me as the beginning of a new era. I remembered that when Judy worked with Bing Crosby in 1951 his agent, Rosie Rosenberg, had given Judy a present of the first tape deck I’d ever seen, made by the Lake company.

  I was inspired by the device, because I immediately thought of hardware that could play on airplanes, soundtracks that would distract and entertain the passengers. Such devices could especially help individuals like Judy who were fearful of flying. I knew Howard Hughes had developed inflight movies for his company, TWA, but at the
time there were no headsets for audio programs, no music-player-in-the-air for each passenger.

  I contacted my old partner, Eddie Alperson. My skills as a producer and a pilot, along with Alperson’s experience introducing sound to independent theater owners, could make us a viable team again. And Eddie fell madly in love with the project. We formed a company: Aerophonics Electronics Corporation.

  I believed I was on to something. Judy was slowly feeling better; her stamina was returning. I’d asked if she would perform a lead-in for an Aerophonics tape I was producing for the premiere program when she felt able. She balked at the suggestion, but she came around.

  In the early 1960s everything was monaural, but Sony had developed a stereophonic machine that played out of two speakers. I wanted our box to feature stereo sound as well. For that to be possible, we’d need to build dual amplifiers and other new hardware. I located a man named Rudy Stoklos who made these heads for professional machines that were not yet recording in stereo. I found Rudy in Santa Monica and I asked him if it was possible to build a tape deck and change the configuration; he said yes, he could do it. The stereo sound would come from a Möbius strip, a single-sided, continuous loop. The technology wasn’t patented, so various people were manufacturing these cassettes.

  I went next to Capitol Records and presented the box. “I think this is going to be the future of selling music.” They looked at me like I was an extraterrestrial. I decided that the continuous loop had many disadvantages and that the prototype should be redesigned. A contact I knew at American Airlines introduced us to a father-and-son team, “Davis Engineering,” in Coral Gables, Florida. When they came to California, Judy and Eddie and I discussed the project with them. It seemed feasible that Davis could build precisely what I had in mind.

  As I built the foundation of Aerophonics, I kept an eye on my wife. Judy was the healthiest she’d been since we married. It was a rerun of when we’d first met in Manhattan. She looked wholesome, and her behavior was that of the normal, beautiful woman I’d fallen in love with. But I was wary of her newfound verve and energy. I didn’t trust that her recovery would last. I spoke with Uncle Israel, and he said to take it very slowly.