by Mitch Albom
In time, he was released and he returned to New York City, but the apartment on Twelfth Street was empty, as he knew it would be. Aurora was gone. So was her yellow suitcase. And this time he did not try to find her. Instead, he sold most of his equipment—the electric guitars, the amplifiers, the tape machines—keeping only his childhood acoustic and its mysterious strings. He drifted for months, staying in hotels, sleeping late to avoid the empty hours of staring at his hand. He longed to drink, to lose himself in substance, but he knew that was how he’d fallen into this hole. You will have to start over many times, Maestro had warned him. But he’d always had me to run to before, to lose his troubles in the trance of his guitar. Frankie listened to cassette tapes in his car, songs by young composers named Randy Newman and Warren Zevon and guitarists Grant Green and Freddie Robinson. But listening was not the same. He missed playing. He missed practicing just as much.
After a while, he filled the hours watching television. He saw young people protesting the war overseas. Frankie hated war, yet he knew it was the army that had airlifted him to safety and stitched him back together. He felt indebted—particularly to the surgeon, whom he continued to visit, a muscular man in his midforties who kept reminding Frankie of great musicians with handicaps.
“Did you ever hear of a jazz guitar player named Django Reinhardt?” he asked. “He only had two good fingers. But his playing was amazing.”
Frankie looked away. “Django was unique.”
“He couldn’t sing. You can.”
“Mmm.”
“Would you consider singing your songs again?”
“No one wants to hear my stuff.”
“A certain audience might.”
“It’s a whole new scene now.”
“Maybe here.” The doctor smiled. “But I wasn’t talking about here.”
Phone calls were made. Introductions arranged.
Nine months later, Frankie Presto went to Vietnam.
The United Service Organization, or USO, had been bringing entertainers to American troops for decades, starting with the Second World War. Singers like Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters made the journey. Even my magnificent violinist Jascha Heifitz took part, and once played for a single soldier sitting in a rainstorm. Jascha called it his greatest performance ever.
Music and war have long been intertwined, from ancient trumpets to the fife and drum, and late in the calendar year 1970, Frankie Presto continued the tradition, joining a Christmastime USO tour with the comedian Bob Hope, the singer Lola Falana, a group of dancers called the Golddiggers, a baseball player, a beauty pageant queen, and a big band that Frankie helped arrange. He also sang two of his famous numbers, “No, No, Honey” and “I Want To Love You.” The tour played in various military bases. Trucks rolled out, stages were built, the show took place, then everything was packed up, moved out, and done again.
Wherever the tour went, Frankie befriended soldiers, and asked them to drive him as close to the front as they could get. The misery he witnessed helped diminish his own. He saw Vietnamese children on the side of the road, their eyes vacant. He saw large gun tripods that looked like tepees. He saw explosions from a rooftop, and a sniper who was killed and fell from a window.
But the day I must recount, for purposes of our story, came in the final week of his tour, following an afternoon show in Long Binh, a major United States army base. The crowd was large, nearly two thousand people, and soldiers climbed poles for a better view. They cheered and whooped—particularly when the women danced. The Golddiggers performed in the background when Frankie sang and some troops yelled out, “Lucky you, Presto!”
After the show, as the band was breaking down, Frankie heard a voice screaming his name.
“Mr. Frankie! It’s me, Ellis!”
A strapping soldier was at the edge of the stage, smiling and waving in his green fatigues. Frankie blinked in disbelief. Ellis Dubois had been the shoe-shine boy in the alley back in New Orleans (the one who had listened to Little Richard sing “Tutti Frutti”) who later served as best man in Frankie’s impromptu wedding to Aurora York. At the time, Ellis was six years old.
Now he was twenty-one.
“Ellis, I can’t believe it,” Frankie said. “You’re all . . . grown up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well . . . come here!”
They hugged and spoke rapidly, trading details and questions. Frankie asked about the young man’s health (good), his path into the army (drafted), and the old New Orleans recording studio in the back of the appliance store (moved to another location). Ellis asked about Frankie’s hit records (Ellis owned all of them), and The Ed Sullivan Show (he watched it both times), and, of course, Miss Aurora.
“We’re not together anymore,” Frankie said.
Ellis said he was sorry, because he remembered all the times Miss Aurora brought him sandwiches and beignets and sweet tea.
Then Ellis revealed that he was about to be wed himself. He had fallen in love with a Vietnamese woman, and he was marrying her before his tour was over in hopes of bringing her to America and providing a better life. The marriage process was long and drawn out, but there was a reception that evening with the woman’s family. Ellis begged Frankie to come.
“Please. Is there any way you could play a song for us?”
Frankie showed him his scarred left hand.
“I can’t play anymore, Ellis.”
“What happened?”
“Long story.”
Ellis was used to seeing wounds. But this one he found profoundly sad. His memory of Frankie was of a man inseparable from his guitar.
“I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Frankie.”
“Thank you, Ellis.”
“I got an idea . . . What if you sing and I play?”
“Ellis, you play now?”
“Don’t you remember teaching me chords in the alley? You showed me D, G, and A. The rest I taught myself. I’d sneak in and listen to you all record. You guys were so good, you inspired me to join a band and everything.”
Frankie smiled. “Don’t blame me.”
“Please? Come and sing?”
“All right. I’ll sing for you and your girl.”
“Cool. Um . . . Do you have a guitar?”
A few hours later, they were in the back lawn of a Buddhist temple, in front of three tables filled with Vietnamese family members. There was food and drink and women in traditional dress and a few U.S. soldiers who had to leave their guns outside. Ellis strummed Frankie’s guitar (yes, Frankie still took it everywhere, heeding the words of Django Reinhardt) and played the chords to Frankie’s hit, “Our Secret.” And for the first time in years, Frankie sang that song, a simple, acoustic performance, much like the day he wrote it, with Aurora in mind:
One day our secret
Will not be a secret
Because everybody will see
That my secret,
Is your secret
I will love you
And you will love me, too.
The guests clapped politely. Frankie sensed the family was not happy about this union; he could see it in their faces. But they were cordial and Ellis and his bride-to-be seemed very much in love.
After several hours and many drinks, Ellis insisted on accompanying Frankie back to the hotel where the show personnel were staying. He arranged for a taxi and when it finally arrived, the two men got in the backseat. En route to the hotel, they agreed how nice it was to see a familiar face in a foreign war.
“This was the best wedding gift, Mr. Frankie.”
“I hope you two will be happy.”
“We will be. I’m gonna get her back to New Orleans and open my own shoe business.”
The driver began pointing and saying something. He pulled over toward a gas station.
“No gas. Hotel,�
�� Ellis instructed.
The man kept pointing at his gauge.
“No gas!” Ellis yelled. “Hotel! Straight!”
The driver was speaking quickly in Vietnamese, tossing in, “Short time, short time,” and he stopped the car and got out, waving his hands to reassure them that they should wait. He went toward the gas station.
“Man, I’m sorry, Mr. Frankie,” Ellis said, sighing. “The people here, you know?”
Frankie watched the man through the window.
“Ellis, why is he running?”
Ellis’s eyes, softened by alcohol, blinked lazily, then sprung open wide. “Get out! Get out! Get out!” he screamed and Frankie pushed the door open and they both started running, because Ellis remembered the times he’d been warned to never stay in a vehicle in Vietnam if the driver leaves it, as they sometimes wired cars with explosives to kill U.S. troops. As he and Frankie ran, they heard a lone voice screaming in Vietnamese and then a moment of silence and then a huge explosion that propelled them both forward. Frankie threw his guitar case over Ellis as they hit the ground and everything was dust and noise and their ears were ringing and their eyes burning and they couldn’t see anything for the smoke.
Then, just as suddenly, all was quiet. Someone yelled. Dogs barked. The car had indeed been wired. Perhaps someone wanted Ellis dead for taking a Vietnamese bride. I lack such details. I only know that Frankie helped Ellis scramble up against a building and when an army jeep came zooming in, looking for soldiers, Frankie flagged it down. Ellis was bleeding slightly from his leg but otherwise was all right, just scraped and bruised, as was Frankie. They got into the jeep, and Ellis screamed that Frankie was a VIP and they had to get him back to his hotel immediately. Both men were breathing hard. But Frankie was now looking at his guitar case, and when the vehicle passed under a streetlight, Ellis saw why:
There were small chunks of shrapnel stuck in it.
Realizing that the shrapnel might have hit him instead, Ellis touched the case. His voice choked.
“Oh, Jesus . . .”
“It’s all right,” Frankie said.
“That could have killed me.”
“Don’t think about it.”
Ellis started crying.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Frankie. Lord, I’m so sorry . . .”
“Don’t be sorry. You’re alive.”
He heard the words as he said them—Don’t be sorry. You’re alive—as if he were meant to hear them himself. He slid the case between his legs and opened it.
“What’s that light?” Ellis said.
Frankie stared. The guitar’s fourth string was glowing blue. He felt a lump in his throat and shut the case, then ran his hand over the shrapnel holes.
“It’s OK,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
But of course, it was not nothing. A future had been altered. Saved from the explosion, Ellis would go on to marry his Vietnamese bride, and they would settle in New Orleans and open a shoe business and raise three children and nine grandchildren, one of whom would become a famous composer.
None of this would have happened had Frankie not found Ellis again. The fourth string told that story.
Everyone joins a band in this life.
Sometimes they reunite.
47
1981
* * *
THE TEXAS BOYS REMOVED THEIR SHOES, LIFTED FROM THE BRUSH, and walked slowly onto the sand, approaching the guitarist from behind.
“Mr. Presto?”
Frankie looked up. His beard was full and his skin was tanned.
“We’re from America.”
Frankie squinted. His silence made them speak faster.
“Actually, we’re from Texas—”
“We’ve got a band—”
“Sorry to bother you—”
“This guy, Kevin, told us—”
“He dropped us at the woods—”
“We didn’t even know—”
“That you were here—”
“We love your music—”
Frankie held up a hand, which silenced them, although he didn’t mean to do that. He was actually beckoning a little girl, maybe four or five years old, who came running across the beach. She had braided hair and wore no shoes or shirt and Frankie beamed as she entered his arm at her belly. He swung her up. She seemed to laugh, but made no sound. When she landed, she saw the three strangers and her expression changed. She went running back, silently, the way she’d come.
Lyle, Eddie, and Cluck looked across to her destination: a small house by the back of the beach, enveloped by trees, where a blond woman was now emerging, wearing a colorful wraparound robe.
“What’s going on?” the woman said.
“Uh, we’re sorry, ma’am, we’ll come back later,” Lyle stammered, as he and the others scurried back into the trees.
Tony Bennett
Singer, painter, Grammy winner, Kennedy Center honoree
WELL, FIRST OF ALL, THIS IS TRAGIC NEWS, HIS DEATH. It’s a tragedy for the entire music world. This was a beautiful man. Did you know him? If you did, you were lucky. I mean that. Frankie Presto was a true artist. Very gentle. Very thoughtful. And the most purely musical guitarist I ever met.
I’ll tell you why I say this. I’ve been singing since the late 1940s. Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Billie Holiday, these people were my influences. I loved jazz singers. That’s how I saw myself. But when it came time to make money, I was told I couldn’t do it as a jazz singer. Understand? That’s how the business worked. They once told Duke Ellington they were dropping him from his record label. He said, “Why?” And they said, “You’re not selling enough records.” And he said, “You have things confused. It’s my job to make the records. It’s your job to sell them.” Duke Ellington. Can you believe that?
Well, I hit a period in the early 1970s where I wasn’t selling enough records, either. And I wouldn’t do the music they wanted me to do. Under duress, I had recorded an album of rock songs. A terrible fit for me. Even making it, I got physically ill. It was a tough time. I felt like I was locked out of the thing I loved the most.
I left my label and went to London and wound up staying there for nearly two years. It was the greatest period of my life, because I just did the music I wanted to do.
While I was there, I stayed at this one hotel, and every morning when I got up, the drapes were opened in the outer room that looked out on a park. And there was always a man sitting on a bench with a guitar. He never played it. He just held it on his lap.
So after a few weeks, I got curious. On my way back from a walk, I passed him and I thought I recognized his face. I said, “Excuse me, I see you here every day—” and before I could finish, he looked at me and sang a verse of “Love Letters,” which was a song I recorded on my very first album. And his voice was beautiful. Perfect tone.
“Chuck Wayne was your guitarist,” he said.
“That’s right,” I said.
“That was a great record.”
“Thank you.”
“There’s another song called ‘Love Letters.’ ”
“Oh?”
“Django Reinhardt. It’s called ‘Billets Doux.’ ”
“ ‘Billets Doux.’ ”
“That’s the French. It’s an instrumental.”
“Can you play it?”
“No.” He looked at his guitar. “Not anymore.”
That’s when I saw his left hand, which was all scarred. And I said, “Is that why you sit out here every day, but don’t play?” And he looked at me and said, “I’m waiting for someone.” And I said “Who?” And he said, “My wife.” And I said, “Is she coming soon?” And he shook his head and said he wasn’t sure, he didn’t even know if she lived in London anymore.
Well, we got to talking, and I realized this was Frankie P
resto. He’d been off the scene for years. He told me his real name was Francisco, and I said, “Hey, my real name is Benedetto, maybe we’re cousins!” We laughed and had a good chat.
I always thought he was a rock and roll guy, but it turned out he and I knew a lot of the same people. Frank Sinatra. Bob Hope. He’d even met Duke Ellington when he was a boy, did you know that?
The next day he was sitting there again. I had a car picking me up, so I invited him to come with me to the set where we were doing a TV show called The Talk of the Town. It was a terrific experience, with Robert Farnon, the greatest arranger in the world (everybody called him “the Governor”), and we performed songs and talked about music every week.
Francisco—he liked that I called him that—came along that day and sat in the studio and listened. He never opened his guitar case. I invited him the next day and a few more times, and every time we got into the car to go, he took one last look around, as if his wife might be coming.
But she never did.
So about two weeks later, we were practicing for the show, and I was singing a Kurt Weill tune called “Lost in the Stars” with just a piano player accompanying me. It’s a beautiful but sad song. You know it?
Before Lord God made the Sea and the Land
He held all the stars in the palm of his hand
And they ran through his fingers like grains of sand
And one little star fell alone.
Suddenly, I heard the most beautiful guitar chords, one strum at a time. I looked over and Frankie Presto was playing. Every chord seemed to be a struggle. You could see it on his face. But the tempo was very slow and he had time to make the finger changes. I kept on singing. I didn’t want to stop, because I could sense this was important to him. We did a few verses and we got to the end:
