Paul shrugged. He looked through her. A summer camp? He didn’t know what she was talking about. “I never went to camp.” He turned away. But she had a snapshot; she’d taken it herself: of her little brother’s counselor playing guitar outside their cabin, beaming into the Brownie lens, a Brylcreemed teenager having a ball on a gorgeous summer afternoon. Yet a decade had passed, and things had changed. Different times, different values, a different Paul.
CHAPTER 4
NOWHERE TO GO BUT UP!
Together in the basement they spent hours sitting nose to nose. Paul strumming his guitar and the both of them singing, each matching the other’s notes and timing until both could focus on the micro-elements of vocalizing. Artie stared into his partner’s mouth to see where Paul’s tongue moved when he formed his consonants. Mimicking the shape his lips formed when he was singing “ooh.” They’d set up a record player and listen to how the Bronx rhythm and blues duo Robert and Johnny traded parts mid-song, switching the melody between the higher and lower voices. They listened to hit records until they could isolate the discrete vocal, melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic pieces. Once they had that worked out, they’d put them back together in slightly different ways, crafting their own words and melody until they had a fresh song that sounded like something you’d hear on that week’s hit parade.
Songs about dancing, about school, and about feeling like an idiot; goofy songs about girls; hushed songs about falling in love, about being in love, about breaking up and then falling for someone else—it didn’t seem hard. There were only so many chords and notes in the scale, and you didn’t even need to be in love to sing about it. Just figure out what everyone’s already saying and say it again, only with a catchy opening riff or a funny twist to the lyric. They slapped songs together like jigsaw puzzles—the bright blue skies up here, the reds over there, the squiggly lines where the lake is. Two hours later it’d be done and they’d upend another box and start again. If one song seemed a cut above the others, they’d get Louis to write it down in musical notation, drop seven bucks to get it copyrighted, and then spend an afternoon or two shopping it around in Midtown Manhattan. The first few times they went out more or less blind, like kids who thought they were in a movie about teenagers who stumble into stardom by accident. Since they weren’t in a movie, though, and had the rejections to prove it, they decided to bring their newest tunes to Charlie Merenstein so he could give them a listen.
Charlie, who rarely uttered a discouraging word in Paul’s company, didn’t disappoint. Yes, he could imagine hearing a few of those tunes on the radio. Better still, he knew a few guys in town who would give them a listen, too. So go see Sol Rabinowitz at Baton Records. If he didn’t like any of them, try Ben Kaslin at Hull. No go? Well, Charlie could call Morty Craft over at Melba Records. He was a good friend, so he’d give them a fair hearing. Charlie accompanied the boys to Craft’s office and stood by as they played and sang. When they were done, Craft nodded. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard the right song yet, but he did think they probably had it in them, so he offered them a contract—more of a holding deal, but don’t worry about that, he said. Just keep working. Whenever you’ve got a few new songs, come on in and we’ll see if we have a single. They signed happily and then got back to writing, but they couldn’t come up with anything that lit a fire in Craft’s eyes. Nine months later they were out of the deal with nothing to show for it.
Then they wrote “Hey, Schoolgirl.” It was the start of their senior year at Forest Hills High School, just a few weeks away from their sixteenth birthdays. The song’s theme was harmless at best—charmingly devilish classroom chatter from a boy who wants a cute girl to ditch class with him. At first she fends him off. She’s too young to date. She can’t skip school and, besides, she’s got too much homework to do that afternoon. But he keeps at it, and she thinks again. By the last verse, she’s got “that gleam” in her eye. When the period ends, they’re out the door and down the street, class and homework forgotten, romance in the air, and teenage fun already in motion. The song took an hour to write, they said. It was a quick-stepping tune built from tight guitar strums, tambourine slaps, and a jumping acoustic bass line. The opening vocal riff, a quickly repeated “Ooh-bop-a-lucha-bop, you’re mine!” is straight out of Little Richard (see “Tutti Frutti”’s “a-whop-bobba-lu-bop-a-whop-bam-boom”), but the harmonized lead vocals, along with the hop-skip-jump turnaround between verse lines, are pure Everly Brothers. The short instrumental break pairs the rhythm guitar with the bass, and once the final verse propels the young couple out of school and down the street, the “Ooh-bop-a-lucha-bop”s send them into the sunset.
The song had the spark. When they sang it for Charlie, he clapped and said he could imagine putting it out. Louis transcribed the music for the Library of Congress forms, and with all that in hand they trooped back to Midtown Manhattan to knuckle the doors, launch into their tune, and hope the skeptical-to-visibly-impatient man on the other side of the desk would let them get through at least a verse and a chorus before barking them back into the hallway. They shopped it around for days, and no one bit. Artie was too sensitive to let the humiliation roll off his back, but no amount of disinterest could dissuade Paul. He knew they had a good song. They owed it to themselves to give it all they had. In that spirit, they put together the money required to record a proper demo of “Hey, Schoolgirl.” With studio time booked at Sanders Recording Studio, on the corner of West Forty-Eighth and Seventh Avenue, they went back to Midtown on the afternoon of October 4. In the studio, they paired off at the microphone. Paul had his guitar on and miked, and when the red light ignited, they knocked off “Schoolgirl.” Then they stepped through the control booth to the lounge where others awaited their turn in the studio. That group was chaperoned by a balding fellow who introduced himself as Sid Prosen. “I wanna talk to you guys when you’re through,” he said. Called back into the studio to take a quick run at “Dancin’ Wild,” which they figured as the B-side to “Schoolgirl,” Paul and Artie then returned to the lounge and found Prosen waiting.
They were terrific, he brayed. The greatest thing since the Everly Brothers. He knew that; they knew that. Now they needed to let the rest of the world know it, and that’s what he wanted to do for them. Prosen owned a label called Big Records and a publishing company named Village Music. He could also produce, promote—the whole deal. He knew a hit when he heard one, and when they were singing “Hey, Schoolgirl,” that’s exactly what he heard: a hit, and maybe a smash. He could make them into stars, just like Phil and Don Everly, just like Elvis, too. He knew how to do it, and he also knew that starting with a sizzling tune like “Hey, Schoolgirl” would make it a sure thing. The boys looked at each other, then back at Prosen. They’d just been through all this over at Melba Records. It was one thing to get signed, but would he actually release the song? Yes, that was the whole point! He’d even write it into the contract: if he didn’t release “Hey, Schoolgirl” within thirty days, that would be the end of the deal. Not that he needed a contract to tell him to do that—he knew “Schoolgirl” would be a hit. And once they were high on the charts, anything was possible: TV shows, movies, everything. Now the boys were getting excited. This sure didn’t sound anything like the Melba Records deal. But they weren’t old enough to sign anything on their own; Prosen would have to clear it with their parents first.
A few nights later, Prosen turned up at the Pierre Hotel ballroom, where the Lee Simms Orchestra was performing, and when the band took a break he introduced himself to Louis and showed him the contracts he had written up for his talented son and his friend Arthur. Louis was delighted, and even more so when Prosen asked if he had a recording deal for his own terrific orchestra. No? Well, how about recording some sides for Big Records? Rock ’n’ roll was fine for the kids, but someone still had to make music for the grown-ups, right? So let’s toss in a deal for you, too. They shook hands on that, then read over the as yet unsigned agreement committing Paul and Artie’s servi
ces to Prosen as both recording artists and songwriters. As promised, Prosen would record a new master of “Hey, Schoolgirl” and release it with a freshly recorded B-side within thirty days. His song publishing company, Village Music Inc., would retain the rights to publish the boys’ original songs. In exchange for this, Prosen would pay a small advance on the eventual royalties for all copies sold. And make no mistake, copies would be sold. It was a terrific little tune, for one thing. And he knew what went into getting a record played on the radio, particularly when it came to winning friends and influencing certain disc jockeys. Louis took the papers home, Prosen cleared the deal with the senior Garfunkels, and on October 18 they all signed the contracts.
From that moment things happened with velocity. On October 29, Paul and Artie, with Louis and his bass in tow, met Prosen and a session drummer at another recording studio and recorded finished versions of “Schoolgirl,” “Dancin’ Wild,” and a new tune they called “Our Song.” At the same time, they set to coming up with a stage name for themselves. That made it feel even more real: this was the stuff of professional showbiz; they weren’t just playing the neighborhood anymore. They would need to choose a name that would make them flashy and, at the same time, beyond the reach of the disc jockeys and record salesmen determined to keep ethnic voices away from the tender ears of middle America. Prosen had already given the matter some thought. Did they know the Tom and Jerry cartoons, the ones with the battling cat and mouse? The show was on television every day; everyone had heard of them. Sure, Paul and Artie said. So Tom and Jerry it was. Charged with coming up with faux last names, Paul chose “Landis,” after his then-current girlfriend Sue Landis, while Artie played off his mathematical whiz kid reputation with “Graph.” With that settled, it took exactly a week for thousands of copies of the single, with a slight title alteration, “Hey, Schoolgirl (in the Second Row)”/“Dancin’ Wild” to be pressed and shipped to record stores and radio stations across the country.
When the first box of “Hey, Schoolgirl” singles got to the Big Records office in Midtown, Sid Prosen tucked a few copies into a manila envelope, added two hundred dollars in cash, and took it to the WABC-AM offices of star disc jockey Alan Freed. Just like Martin Block with his Make Believe Ballroom, the big band radio show that drew Paul’s attention to the Crows’ “Gee” in 1953, the rock ’n’ roll–crazy Freed* ruled the scene like a Mercury of the airwaves, a speed-rapping potentate made from equal measures of faith, flimflam, cigarettes, and whiskey. Getting his start in Cleveland during the early 1950s, Freed followed his taste for high-velocity jazz and jump blues to rock ’n’ roll, and as the music got louder and more popular, so did Freed. Launched into the New York City airwaves in 1954, the disc jockey was an instant hit. He soon went national, and by 1957 he had become the go-to radio man for any artist, manager, or record company owner hoping for a hit and willing to slip a little legal tender into a deejay’s back pocket. Once Prosen provided the wax and the dough, Freed jumped on “Hey, Schoolgirl” like a cheerleader, not just adding the tune to his influential playlist but also talking up its cheery rock ’n’ roll sound.
It worked. The national trade magazine Cash Box made “Schoolgirl” its Sleeper of the Week for its November 16 issue. Radio stations in New York, Philadelphia, Albany, Buffalo, and Pittsburgh added the song to their playlists soon after, and Variety made the song a “Best Bet” in its November 27 edition. “Schoolgirl” hit playlists in the Deep South (New Orleans, Memphis, Oklahoma), the industrial Midwest (Cincinnati, Cleveland, Detroit), the Southwest (Dallas, Denver), and the West Coast (San Francisco), and other regions. Prosen hired an agent for the act, while Paul and Artie asked Charlie Merenstein to be their manager. Soon the boys’ weeklong Thanksgiving vacation was filled with bookings for sock hops, record store appearances, and TV dance shows in Hartford and Waterbury, Connecticut, and in Cleveland, Ohio. Most thrilling of all, Paul and Artie got a slot on the biggest TV dance show of all, Dick Clark’s American Bandstand.
Can you imagine? Just six weeks earlier, Paul and Artie were one more rejection away from giving it all up. If that last-ditch demo session hadn’t led to anything, they would have been through. Now they were going to be stars—or rather, Tom and Jerry were going to be stars—so to help prepare the boys for their turn in the spotlight, Belle Simon escorted them to the Ivy League Shop around the corner from Forest Hills High School to find the flashy threads pop idols were supposed to wear. Attended by their classmate Norman Basner, who happened to be clerking when they came in, the boys bickered over colors and fabrics for only a little while before settling on fire truck red blazers made from a pleasantly nubby material, with white button-up shirts and black bow ties, black slacks, and white buck shoes. Prosen sent Freed another two hundred dollars for the next week of airplay and hired a more traditional publicist for his now very much up-and-coming duo—and when their Thanksgiving vacation started in late November, he bought train tickets and sent the boys off to conquer the pop music world.
Then they were riding to Philadelphia to perform their song on American Bandstand—where the Everly Brothers had played, where Buddy Holly had stood, where Chuck Berry had duck-walked while still ripping those jet-powered double-stop solos from his gleaming Gibson ES-350 T, where they would stand together, singing their song into cameras that reached into every teenager’s home in the United States. They just looked at each other and laughed. Howled, more like it—until they got to Studio B in the WFIL-TV headquarters in downtown Philadelphia, from which American Bandstand originated every afternoon, where their giggles fluttered back into their stomachs. Ushered into the artists’ dressing room, they first noticed a tall, knobby guy channeling his cascades of blond hair into a high-and-tight DA. Was that really … yes, of course it was Jerry Lee Lewis. He was on the show, too. Should they say hi? Of course they should. He was a huge star (“Great Balls of Fire” and others), and now here they were, about to appear on the same show with him, based in the same dressing room. But, wait: wasn’t Jerry Lee a brawler? Didn’t people call him “the Killer”? On second thought, they kept their distance. When Artie went to the bathroom, he found himself peeing next to two of the show’s regular dancer/cast members just as one was asking the other about the day’s musical guests. Tom and Jerry? Who are those jerks?
The boys felt far more welcome when Dick Clark called them out to lip-sync their song while the show’s cast of teenagers danced and snapped their fingers along to the rhythm. The two got a big hand when it was over, and the members of the three-kid jury all agreed that “Schoolgirl” was both catchy and danceable and thus deserved a top-drawer rating of 95. When Clark stepped up to ask the still-trembling singers where they were from, Artie talked about Queens and Forest Hills High School. Bedazzled by the microphone and the cameras pointed in his direction, Paul could only think about the hometown of Little Richard, the flashiest singer of them all. “I’m from Macon, Georgia!” he piped. Artie shot him a curious look, but Clark, who had also worked under the named Dick Clay, nodded and smiled. As per union rules, Paul and Artie both earned $176 for their national TV performance, but before the show’s producer gave the boys their checks, he explained that the show’s policy required all guests to endorse the checks and then hand them back over to Dick Clark, who would keep the money for himself. The boys were crestfallen; they had already decided which clothes and shoes they were going to buy with their earnings. “But that’s what it was, the world of payola,” Paul said in 2014. “That was early rock ’n’ roll.”
By the time Paul and Artie got back to Kew Gardens Hills, they were both neighborhood celebrities. Kids and parents who used to walk by them without raising an eyebrow now waved and called out their names. The two made a special headlining appearance at their school, running through a few numbers, then climaxing with “Hey, Schoolgirl,” much to their schoolmates’ delight. Yet the thought that ordinary schoolkids could actually be on the radio struck their classmate Robert Lieberman as so far beyond the realm of
possibility that he nudged a friend to tell him what a great job Paul and Artie were doing on the school stage. “Man, they sound exactly like Tom and Jerry!” Lieberman’s pal could only shake his head and smirk. “Schmuck! They are Tom and Jerry!”
Meanwhile, “Schoolgirl” had danced its way into New York’s pop music Top 10, selling well enough in the Northeast cities to lift it to No. 49 on Billboard’s national pop chart. That level of success (50,000 copies sold within forty-eight hours of its release, and 250,000 sold during its first month, according to the fanciful statistics released by Prosen) attracted a flock of reporters and photographers from the New York newspapers. Thoroughly briefed by Prosen’s publicist, the reporters arrived with a hard focus on the boys’ high-flying academic records. The Long Island Star-Journal’s two-page feature came with the headline WHIZ KIDS ROCK ’N’ ROLL and, in tabloid style, a smaller subhead noting approvingly, BUT THEY STILL TUTOR CLASSMATES. Posed photographs captured the boys playing driveway basketball, studying in Artie’s room, joyously tossing records into the air, and sipping ice-cream sodas at Addy Vallens’s drugstore. The stories detailed the pair’s after-school jobs, tutoring skills, and plans for college: Princeton for Tom and Harvard for Jerry.
Homeward Bound Page 5
