by Mitch Albom
As they pulled out of New Orleans, only Aurora looked back.
In earlier days, they would have spent the ride holding hands. But the car was cramped with instruments and clothing and two very different ideas of the future. They drove for three days, from the American South to the American West, and when they reached the coast, just before dusk, Frankie noted that the sun looked like a giant orange.
38
1958
* * *
“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO PLAY YOUR GUITAR?” AURORA ASKED.
“Leonard doesn’t want me to,” Frankie said.
This was just before Christmas, in an undecorated apartment on a treeless street in Los Angeles.
“Why doesn’t he want you to play?”
“It interferes with my dancing.”
“But you’re a guitarist.”
“I sing, too, Aurora.”
“You sing wonderfully. But . . .”
Frankie held out his palms.
“What?”
“I like when you play guitar.”
“I play when I’m in a band.”
“Won’t you be in a band?”
“The band will be behind me.”
“Behind you?”
“Like Canada. I sang some songs without the guitar that night.”
“So?”
“It felt different. I liked it.”
“You weren’t being you in Canada. That’s why it felt different. You’re not him, you know.”
“I know.”
“You’re not Elvis Presley.”
“I know.”
“But you felt like you were.”
“Why do you say things like that?”
“Because they’re true, Francisco.”
He frowned. “Frankie.”
“Frankie. Another idea from Leonard. Or Tappy. Whatever his bloody name is.”
Aurora grabbed her bag and fished through it. “Why do people need more than one name?”
“He’s helping me.”
“What did your teacher call you?”
“ ‘Boy,’ mostly.”
“What did your father call you?”
“He wasn’t my father.”
Aurora found a pack of cigarettes.
“Do what you want,” she said.
“It’s not what you want?”
“Does it matter what I want?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s not what I want.”
Frankie’s leg tapped quickly.
“I won’t forget how to play the guitar.”
She plopped to the floor.
“No. I don’t imagine you could.”
“Leonard has ten shows booked already. With lots of people. The Drifters. The Everly Brothers. Big shows with big crowds. They don’t care if I play guitar. They want to hear me sing. I have the recording session coming, and—”
“All right.”
“A record could make a big diff—”
“All right, I said.”
Aurora’s voice had softened.
“All right?” Frankie asked.
“Do what you want.”
“Are you sure?”
“Can we stop talking about it?”
Frankie forced a smile.
“You’ll see. It’s going to be good. Fantástico.”
“How long is this tour?”
“I might get famous—”
“How long?”
“One or two months.”
Aurora lit her cigarette. “You mean three.”
“Why do you smoke?”
“I miss New Orleans.”
“This is a nice apartment.”
“It’s too new. I like old things.”
Frankie walked across the room and opened his case.
“Look. A guitar,” he said, trying to joke.
“ ‘Parlez-Moi d’Amour,’ ” Aurora said.
“That is old.”
“Please. Play it for me.”
“All right.”
Frankie strapped the guitar over his neck and picked the strings gently. Then he kneeled down and sang the song Aurora requested, written nearly thirty years earlier by a French composer.
“Parlez-Moi d’Amour,” the title states. “Speak to me of love.” But speaking of love is like sticking words to the wind. Aurora waited for the final stanza. A small tear formed in her eye.
Du Coeur on guérit la blessure
Par un serment qui le rassure
It means, “We heal the wounded heart, with an oath that reassures it.”
Frankie promised he would call when they reached the first stop.
But Aurora knew she would be gone.
39
1969
* * *
AT LAST, FRANKIE SAW THE WOODSTOCK STAGE. It lit up like a square in the darkness, illuminating a massive field of spectators.
“Hey, man, watch it—”
“Wuhh?—”
“Easy, brother—”
“Sorry—”
The green pill now had him swerving from side to side, bumping into people, things getting blurry then clearing again. He felt the guitar slapping against his back. When Frankie had been a student, El Maestro taught him to block out distractions by humming the melody he was trying to play, so that his mind and fingers would be one.
Now, as he lumbered down the long, sloping hillside, past tents and latrines and people sitting cross-legged or lying against each other, he repeated three words, “Aurora . . . baby . . . breakfast.”
He picked up speed, determined to make things right.
“Aurora . . . baby . . . breakfast . . .”
“Ow—”
“Aurora—”
“Look out.”
“Baby—”
“Easy—”
“Breakfast—”
Suddenly, he was running, or it felt as if he were running, the lights getting larger, the music louder, the comments blowing past as he progressed.
“Excuse me!”
“Aurora—”
“Did you see that guy?”
“Baby—”
“What guy?”
“Breakfast—”
“With the guitar. That’s . . . whatisname! Presto! Frankie Presto! That was him!”
40
NOT FAR FROM THIS CHURCH IN VILLAREAL IS A SMALL MUSEUM DEDICATED TO FRANCISCO TÁRREGA. Inside are many photographs, some of his guitars—and a large plaster bust of his image. That bust was once the prize possession of a poor neighborhood in Castellón called San Félix, nicknamed the “Gunpowder Quarter” for its tough, working-class citizens. Those citizens thought so highly of Tárrega that in 1924, fifteen years after his death, they made him their patron saint.
Every October, while other towns hoisted images of traditional Catholic figures, the people of San Félix marched Tárrega’s bust through the streets in a religious procession, surrounded by young women, horseback riders, and a cart full of flowers. Magic powers were attributed to that bust. It was even taken to the homes of sick neighbors to heal them.
Other towns disapproved. How could a guitarist become a deity? they asked. But is it much different from fame today? Your world is full of artists turned to gods, their very presence inspiring screams of devotion.
Once Aurora York disappeared from his life, Frankie Presto had his own such period. From August 1959 through October 1964, he sold over three million records, recorded five albums, and had four songs attain a top-ten position on the musical charts, including two that reached the very peak. “I Want To Love You” and “Shake, Shake,” both of which Frankie composed. The crowds at his concerts grew from hundreds to thousands to tens of thousands.
He performed on American Bandstand, The Ed Sullivan Show, and The Kraft Music Hall. His face was on the cover of magazines and billboard advertisements. He dressed in colorful suits and matching shoes, his dark, thick pompadour combed back and wavy. Sometimes locks of hair would tumble onto his forehead when he sang, and they would shake when he danced, causing young girls to scream, “Frankie! Frankie!”
In record stores across America, fans held up his albums just to stare at his handsome face. One of those albums, Frankie Presto Wants To Love You, featured Frankie in a convertible car, wearing a tan sports coat and a pink-collared shirt, as he leaned out the window to sign the hand of an ecstatic young brunette. It looked like a scene outside one of Frankie’s concerts, but it was actually staged by a professional photographer. The brunette, a shapely woman with almond eyes, was a model from the state of Texas, personally chosen by Tappy Fishman.
Her name was Delores Ray.
She was, to me, no different from the many other women who shared time with Frankie. No threat to his heart. Only Aurora York could rival my grip there. But Aurora, as I mentioned, was gone during these years, her yellow suitcase missing when Frankie returned to their California apartment.
At first, he’d been angry. Hurt. He’d tried drinking to forget her. Then Tappy put him back on tour and didn’t let him stop for two years. Aurora’s absence paralleled Frankie’s rise to fame, and while it may seem coincidental, I assure you it was not. She knew she was sharing Frankie’s heart now, not only with me (which she could tolerate) but with ambition (which she couldn’t). I admired the foresight with which she departed, knowing how success would soak Frankie like a wave, and its undertow pull him away.
So she left first.
Meanwhile, Delores Ray, thanks in part to that album cover, was cast in a television series called The Adventures of Dee Dee and soon became wildly popular on her own, with Tappy Fishman directing her career. She starred in movies and was romantically linked to more than one actor. But her passion remained strongest for Frankie, whom she kissed the night of that photo shoot, calling him “the most exotic thing I’ve ever seen.” She seemed infatuated with my beloved child (why not, given all of my draping?), and while Frankie did not love her, she was quite seductive. Tappy Fishman encouraged their involvement, knowing the public was always interested in the pairing of attractive, well-known celebrities. He even paid for meals they shared at restaurants, calling photographers to alert them to the couple’s whereabouts.
Eventually, he suggested they marry.
That was in late 1964. By then, Frankie’s popularity had begun to wane. His records sold less and less. Public taste is as fickle as a child’s attention span, and a new wave of popular music, this time from Great Britain, was now dominating sales. Frankie was no longer writing all his own material. Instead, he was forced to record songs written by others. When he objected, Tappy reminded him that it was part of a big contract he had signed with the record company, which viewed him as “a teen idol,” a title as fleeting as it sounds.
As for his guitar? He barely played it. His magic strings went ignored, the guitar itself shut away in a dark closet of a big new house, which, to my accurate count, had five bedrooms, two pools, and sixteen mirrors.
I would like to tell you that, as his star dimmed, Frankie did not care, that top billing was, to him, the same as second billing, that selling a million records was no different from selling half a million, that only one thing mattered, me, Music, my sonic deliverance. But fame is addictive. And without the guiding forces of his life, without El Maestro, Baffa, Hampton, or Aurora York, Frankie was adrift.
Once, floating down the river, he’d grabbed the leash of a hairless dog. This time, he grabbed for something else.
“A wedding?”
“Hawaii, on the beach!” Tappy said. “I’ll spring for it. My present to the happy couple.”
“But, Leonard—”
“What?’
“I’m married to Aurora.”
“Says who? You have a license? You told me yourself, you couldn’t get the paperwork. And when was the last time you saw her? Four years ago? Five? For God’s sake, Frankie. She’s not coming back.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s not like you’ve been a monk, kid.”
“Leonard—”
“Hey, I make no judgments. But Delores is nuts about you. We all know you guys have a thing.”
“Who says she wants to marry me?”
“Trust me. Ask her.”
“I don’t even have a ring.”
“I got you all set up at a jewelry place. Go anytime this week. Go today if you want.”
What Tappy did not say was that the marriage, in his view, was more for Frankie’s benefit than Delores’s. He feared his singer was using up his spotlight, that the townspeople who once worshipped him would put down his bust and no longer scream his name. Frankie Presto was on the decline, Delores Ray was on the rise. Her light could replenish his.
“I don’t know, Leonard—”
“What’s to know? You have a problem coming home to that woman every night?”
“It’s not that—”
“What I wouldn’t give.”
“She’s all right, but—”
“Frankie. Listen to me.” He put his hands on Frankie’s shoulders. “It’s good for your career.”
I do not know who invented this phrase. I do not know who invented that word. I can only tell you I have been on earth since mankind’s inception, and have produced sounds for every stitch of life’s tapestry, sounds that invoke awakening, pain, love, the four seasons. But in my countless creations, there has never been a sound for “career.”
Why do you let it affect me so?
The marriage took place and created the headlines Tappy wanted. The couple honeymooned in Hawaii, where photographers were dispatched daily. Sure enough, sales of Frankie Presto records rose, albeit briefly. Delores was cast in another major film. She moved into Frankie’s large house, and put his guitar in a smaller closet. Frankie watched her do this. He thought about Aurora. He started drinking again. He took bottles with him to the patio or the swimming pool.
One day in the summer of 1965, Tappy called Frankie to his office. There was a man there he had never seen.
“Come here, kid,” Tappy said. Frankie approached and Tappy reached over and mussed his hair, until it filled his forehead with bangs.
“What do you think?” Tappy said to the man.
The man nodded. “He should wear it that way.”
“This is Allan Edgars. He’s a director. We’re gonna put you in a movie, Frankie. How about that?”
Frankie shrugged. He didn’t like his hair mussed up.
“With Delores. You and her together. Romantic leads. Beats working, huh?”
The director laughed.
“Here’s the best part. We’re shooting in London. It’s Allan’s idea. The hell with this British Invasion crap. We’ll invade them! How about that? You ever been to England, Frankie?”
Frankie looked down. He remembered his journey on the ship from Spain. He remembered being wrapped in a blanket, placed atop cargo, and rolled onto the Southampton docks, where he was instructed to “stay quiet.” He remained there for hours, listening to the sound of his own breath, too frightened to move. Finally, he felt something moving on his stomach. He shed the blanket and a seagull flapped past his face. He screamed as it flew up into the cloudy white skies.
“No,” Frankie said. “I’ve never been to England.”
“We leave in three weeks.
“I still have songs to record.”
“After the movie.”
“What about the next album?”
Tappy looked at the director. He looked back at Frankie.
“We’re gonna make the movie first, kid. It’ll
be good for you. Fun.”
Frankie said nothing, but he felt a burning in his stomach. He took a comb from his back pocket to fix his hair.
“Leave it,” Tappy said. “It looks better that way.”
Frankie put the comb back, the burning growing hotter.
Roger McGuinn
Guitarist, singer, founding member of the Byrds; inductee, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
MY BEST FRANKIE PRESTO STORY? WELL. I introduced him to the Beatles. That’s a pretty good story.
It was the summer of 1965. The Byrds were on our first tour of London, and Frankie was there shooting a movie. He saw one of our shows. Afterward he came backstage to ask about my twelve-string Rickenbacker. I had seen him in concert when I was in high school. I thought his hair was cool. I had no idea he was such a great guitar player. But I was about to find out.
The Byrds were really popular in ’65. Our record “Mr. Tambourine Man” was number one on the British charts, which is why we went to London. But it wasn’t a great tour. They were billing us as “America’s answer to the Beatles,” and that’s hard to live up to. The press was out to get us.
Anyhow, the night after Frankie came backstage, the real Beatles came to see us play. Our publicist, Derek Taylor, used to be their publicist, so he arranged the whole thing, and afterward, we were supposed to all meet in a room upstairs from the club.
We were really nervous. Our bass player had broken a string during the show—that almost never happens. He must have been hitting it so hard he didn’t realize it.
Anyhow, we go into the room and John Lennon and George Harrison are there, and John says, “That was a great show,” and I felt like I had to apologize. I said, no, it wasn’t very good, and he mocked me a little. Then he said, “What’s with your tiny specs?” meaning my round glasses. He tried them on. And as everyone knows, he started wearing glasses like that and made them pretty famous.
At one point, I mentioned that Frankie Presto had come around the night before, and John sang a little of “Our Secret” and said it was one of the coolest ballads he’d ever heard. He also said that Frankie Presto hadn’t made a good record since.
