“Hey, you're the director. You tell him.”
“You're the one who found it. You tell him.”
Frank arrived. I showed him the problem. He agreed, then said: “You're a writer. Change the lyrics.”
“But Frank, this is Oscar Hammerstein!”
“Oscar's dead. And Dick Rodgers'll kiss my ass for singing it. Let's go.”
I made the two changes. They were serviceable, if hardly inspired. The gentle “lips” became the gentle “love,” and “Angel and lover” (forgive me) became “Sunlight and moonbeams.” He sang it beautifully, needless to say. I sat off to one side, still having misgivings about altering the words of the great Oscar Hammerstein. Frank noticed. As he was leaving, he came over to me. “Forget about it. You're Adolf Eichmann. You just followed orders.”
“Frank? Eichmann's dead.” He grinned and left.
The lyric of the song was everything to Frank. Someone (Tony Bennett, I think) once said: “Before Bing Crosby, singers sang at people. Bing was the first who sang to them. Frank was the first to actually share the song with them. When he sang a sad song, you were sad with him. When he was happy, you were happy too.” His phrasing was unique. Unless you know his version of a particular song by heart, it's impossible to sing along with him. He holds on to certain words longer than you would, clips off others, extends vowels until he seems to be swallowing them. He's more than a singer, he's a wonderful storyteller.
Frank was thrilled with Nancy's show and invited me and Jack down to his desert compound in Rancho Mirage numerous times. It was brilliantly planned out. Frank's actual house was too small to entertain in, ensuring his privacy. The guest houses were circular turrets, most surrounding the pool and stocked with every kind of toiletry, robe, and different size of comfortable footwear to pad around in. Across the tennis court sat the Christmas Tree House, which had earlier been built specifically for President John Kennedy. There was a helicopter pad next to it and downstairs quarters for the Secret Service. Kennedy never stayed in it. When his brother Bobby was attorney general, he warned Jack that he might be indicting some Mafia types with at least social ties to Frank. It wouldn't look good for the president to be spending the holidays there. Frank never forgave Bobby for that. But no matter. When Kennedy came out to Palm Springs for Christmas, he stayed at Bing Crosby's during the day but spent every night partying at Frank's compound. Needless to say, any social secrets he had would be safe there. The building that saw all the action was a huge, separate structure, large enough inside to screen 35 mm films. It had several different spacious seating areas, AP and UPI news tickers, and a lengthy bar with a sign over it proclaiming: “Living Well Is the Best Revenge.”
I remember one particular party. Jack and I had been drinking steadily as we scanned the assembled guests. They included Sam Giancana from Chicago, then the Mafia “boss of bosses.” Giancana was talking to “Three-Fingered” Tommy Lucchese. We later looked him up in The Green Felt Jungle: multiple indictments for just about everything—no convictions. Frank came by and noticed us staring at them. He leaned down, smiled, and said: “Listen, if Vic Damone could handle a lyric, they'd be at his house.”
He was serious about Damone and lyrics, once telling me: “Vic's got the greatest set of pipes in the world and I'm crazy about him. But he's been singing for more than twenty years and doesn't have one great song he really owns, one that's identified right away with him. He sings the song great, but he doesn't tell the story.” Another time, I was walking out of a Vegas casino bar with Frank. Barbra Streisand's hit “People” was playing over a speaker. I asked him if he'd ever sung the song. He shook his head. “Three reasons: First, it's the girl's song. She sang the hell out of it. Second, it's got a great start and a great finish but it kind of falls apart in the middle. Most important, the lyric's a fucking lie. People who need people are not the luckiest people in the world. People who love people are. People who are loved. But people who need people are unhappy people, trust me.”
It's difficult to describe the aura that surrounded Frank in those days. He was genuine royalty and treated as such. I remember sitting in a large booth with him and several others at Sorrentino's in Palm Springs one night. When you were with Frank, if you ordered a drink, a whole bottle was brought to the table with your own bucket of ice. An inconspicuous bodyguard made sure you weren't disturbed. That night the place was packed. The manager came over: “Frank, excuse me, but the new sheriff of Palm Springs is at the bar. He wanted to know if you'd buy him a drink.”
“Tell him to go fuck himself. Tell him I never did a favor for a cop in my life. Tell him exactly that.”
We watched as the manager went back to the bar, swallowed, then gave the plain-clothed sheriff the message. The Sheriff laughed loudly, turned, and raised his glass to Frank, who returned the gesture, then said: “I knew it. That asshole thought I was making a joke.”
Nancy called me one day and asked if I'd like to come down to hear Frank record a terrific new song. I was having lunch with my friend David Hemmings, and she said it was fine if I brought him along too. The song was “My Way,” forever after identified as Frank's anthem. Don Costa was the arranger-conductor leading a full orchestra. I can't remember whether it was the second or third take, but when it was over, Frank turned to the booth, grinned at Costa, and said: “If you don't like that, babe, you don't like black-eyed peas.” He left without hearing it back. He knew he'd nailed it. David and I were astounded.
Frank really loved what he did best, singing, and worked hard at it. Music was his life, and he was the master. The same couldn't always be said for other creative pursuits. He had the talent to be an exceptional actor. When he worked for Fred Zinnemann, Otto Preminger, John Frankenheimer, or my father, he showed it. On many other films, like Tony Rome or the Rat Pack movies, he was a one-take wonder. He'd say the lines, tell the director to print it, and move on, often to the frustration of other actors, who had to do their close-ups without Frank reading his lines off camera. One day Jack Haley and I got the brainstorm idea of doing a Broadway musical of The Great Gatsby. We wanted Burt Bacharach to write the score. There was only one perfect musical Gatsby in the world—Frank. We mentioned the possibility to him. He agreed he'd be perfect casting but said: “You know what? I'd have to show up nine times a week, week after week, month after month, and say the same fucking lines and sing the same fucking songs every night. I love you guys, but I couldn't do that. I'd break your heart.”
I saw only the good Frank, the one full of humor, hospitality, and unbelievable charity toward others. A friend of Jack's and mine, a young actor named James Stacy, was costarring in a popular TV series called Lancer. Jim had his leg severed in a motorcycle accident. His career was effectively over and he was facing huge medical bills, some of which would continue for decades. Jack and I decided to throw a benefit for him. The Beverly Hilton Hotel donated their ballroom and agreed to eat the charges for waiters and food. Liza Minnelli and others, including Frank, agreed to get up and sing. But Frank insisted on at least fifteen musicians. He wanted Nelson Riddle to conduct. Only the Musicians' Union refused to perform for nothing, “lowering” their fees to between $15,000 and $20,000. Frank barely knew Jim, but when he heard about it he wrote out the check.
I once asked him what other singers he listened to, if any. He mentioned several females, starting with Billie Holiday. I asked about the men. Any male singers? “Sure. A little Tony Bennett, a little Mel Tormé, and a whole lot of Nat King Cole.” The line of his that still sticks in my mind? After Judith Exner published the exposé of her affair with John Kennedy, Frank said: “Hell hath no fury like an ex-hooker with a press agent.”
The Beat of the Brass
The second musical special Jack Haley and I did together, this one for A&M Records and Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. A&M stood for Alpert and Jerry Moss. The two of them met when Jerry was an independent music promotion man and Herb was playing the trumpet at weddings and bar mitzvahs, trying to pick up
“extra” work in movies. They decided to join forces in a fledgling company. Each of them put a hundred dollars into a joint bank account. They wound up owning the largest, most successful independent record company in the history of music. It couldn't have happened to two nicer guys. When they finally sold the company to Polygram decades later for an absolute fortune, they still had never signed a formal contract with each other.
Indeed, “trust” was the magic quotient, the real currency at A&M. I remember my first meeting with Jerry and Herb. I was getting $15,000 to write the special, which was top dollar in those days. In fact, a fee that size for an hour-long show was customarily split between multiple writers. At that time, I was in a small personal financial hole, having run through what money I had. At the end of the meeting I somewhat embarrassedly asked them if it would be possible for me to get half my fee up front—right then, that day. Herb smiled that mischievous little grin he has: “You're not going anywhere, are you?”
I said, “No.”
He turned to Jerry: “Hell, let's give him the whole fifteen thousand.” Jerry nodded. It was the only time in my life I would ever be paid 100 percent of my salary before I'd even put a ribbon in my typewriter. That's how they did business.
At the time I worked with them, Herb and the Brass were selling more records worldwide than anyone except the Beatles. It had all started with the smash single record of “The Lonely Bull.” The combination of mariachi music filtered through jazz proved irresistible to the public. This “mariachi” music was conceived, written, and marketed by American Jews. “The Lonely Bull” was written by Sol Lake. Herb was a graduate of predominately Jewish Fairfax High School in Hollywood, and Jerry was a smart young expromotion man from the Bronx. Don Rickles used to joke: “Have you seen this new Mexican group, the Tijuana Brass? I met them last night: Herbie Alpert, Julius Wechter, Sol Lake, Ken Kaplan…they oughta be called the Tijuana Briss.”
The Beat of the Brass album went gold, as did every album the Tijuana Brass ever recorded. The show got great ratings, and once again we shot nonstop musical numbers on location: on deserted, crumbling Ellis Island, where Herb's parents came through at the turn of the century; at a rodeo; at the annual Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans, in which Herb was the grand marshal; and all over the country.
Herb was an extremely handsome guy. He was also naturally shy. He performed wonderfully, but at the end of almost every show, his shirt was wringing wet from the tension he felt. I remember one night, after we'd shot part of a musical number in downtown Las Vegas. Herb, Jack, and I returned to the Sands Hotel where we were staying. We walked through the casino and decided to unwind by playing a little baccarat. The table was roped off, which made it easier on Herb in terms of privacy. We started playing. Jack had the “shoe” and couldn't win a hand to save his life. I, thank God, bet against him on every hand. Herb was backing him. He was betting modestly, but soon ran out of what cash he had. He asked the guy in the high chair how he could get some more money. The man “clicked” his clicker loudly. Jack Entratter, who ran the Sands, arrived instantly. “Yes, Mr. A, what do you need?”
“Could I get some more money?”
“How much?”
Herb got that little smile again. “How much could I get?”
Entratter paused. “Well, it's Saturday night, the banks are closed tomorrow so we can't check on anything…I'll give you a million dollars for now, okay?”
Herb blinked. “How about…a thousand?” Entratter smiled, pulled the money out of his pants pocket, and handed it to him.
A&M had bought the former Charlie Chaplin Studios on La Brea and Sunset. There was a huge gold trumpet over the studio gates. The former sound stages had been redesigned to become the finest recording studios in town. Herb and Jerry were on a roll. They'd already signed Burt Bacharach, Quincy Jones, and Sergio Mendes and Brasil ‘66, and the hits and new acts just kept on coming. Two young kids who won the All-American Talent Show became the Carpenters. Herb wanted to sing a song in the special. He had a musical voice, but with limited range. We decided on a song by Burt Bacharach called “Close to You.” At the last minute Burt came up with another idea. He'd written a ballad for the musical Promises, Promises, which he loved, but there wasn't room for it in the show. The song was “This Guy's in Love with You.” It was gorgeous, and Herb sang it wonderfully, playing on the record as well. “Close to You” was given to the Carpenters. Both were smash hits. Herb and Jerry couldn't lose.
Jerry had a house at the beach near mine. We'd play gin rummy at night, and he'd put on the new records they'd just cut at A&M. “Stuck in the Middle with You,” by Stealers Wheel, was later a particular favorite of mine. We were playing one night shortly after Jerry had just returned from London. He'd just signed two relatively unknown acts. Their names were Cat Stevens and Joe Cocker. The Mad Dogs and Englishmen tour added Leon Russell and Rita Coolidge to the list. It would continue that way for decades, right through Styx, Peter Frampton, Janet Jackson, and the Police and Sting, among many others. Jerry commonly signed the acts with a handshake, an absolutely impossible way to do business today. But his word was as good as his bond, and A&M was the place to be. They even dabbled in movies, and guess what? They were successful, backing such hits as The Breakfast Club and Birdy.
I've had a continuing relationship with Herb. Most important for me, Jerry Moss became as close a friend as I've ever had in my life. From 1968 to this day I don't suppose a week's gone by when we haven't talked or seen each other at least once.
Liza Minnelli
When I first met Liza, she was a frenetic cocktail of talent about to explode, Krakatoa before a major eruption. She'd been a minor sensation on Broadway in Flora the Red Menace and was about to perform in Las Vegas for the first time at the Riviera Hotel. She asked Jack Haley and me to help her out with any ideas we could come up with. We all went up to Vegas together. The entertainment world was waiting to see just how much of an entertainer Judy Garland's daughter really was. There must have been enormous pressure on her. The brass at the Riviera didn't consider her a “head-liner” as yet—she'd have to share the marquee with someone, preferably a comedian. An old Vegas warhorse, Jack Carter, was selected. His name was just big enough to advertise without distracting the audience from Liza's debut. Carter proved to be a problem. He'd been a Vegas fixture. He wanted top billing on alternate days. They had to flip a coin to see who would close the show on opening night. Liza won, thank God. The entire audience had come to see her anyway. Carter performed interminably. I thought he'd never get off. There were even audible calls of “Liza! Let's see Liza!” She finally came onto the stage and knocked ‘em dead. When one fan yelled out, “Sing ‘Over the Rainbow'!” Liza yelled back, “It's been sung, pal!” Clearly, this was a young lady to be reckoned with.
We got to know each other well in those days. After she'd won the Oscar for Cabaret, Bob Fosse put together a show called Liza with a Z, which may have been the best nightclub act ever. It was beautifully paced and brilliantly choreographed, an hour and a half of singing and dancing with one show-stopping number after another. She toured Europe with it. When I was writing the screenplay for The Eagle Has Landed in London in 1975, I flew to Hamburg, Germany, and hooked up with Liza and her troupe for the final few European concerts. Hamburg was famous for its Reeperbahn district—reportedly the most sexually free-fire zone on the continent. After her concert we were taken on a private tour. I remember the two of us being taken to a club where a naked woman did strange and wonderful things onstage with a python. It was followed by live intercourse between two attractive people which never seemed to end. At one point, the man (extremely well hung) lifted his partner in the air with his penis still inside her and carried her down into the audience. They must have been tipped off about Liza, because they headed straight for our booth. They sat down next to us, naked, with the coitus still uninterrupted. Liza remarked, “Oh, dear, this is more than I expected.”
I said to her, “We don't see en
ough of the Schmidts, darling. We should do this more often.”
The last stop on the European tour was Barcelona, a toddling town, complete with all-night flamenco dancing, great fun. Then a flight out of Lisbon to New York. The pilot invited Liza and me into the cockpit and let her fly the plane for a while before kicking us out as we reached the eastern tip of Long Island. God, flying was fun back then. Believe it or not, people actually dressed up to get on a plane, and you could walk right on without taking off your shoes or handing over your eyedrops.
Liza had a steel backbone and a dedication to performing that was unshakable. I remember staying with her in Vegas for a few days while she was playing the Riviera. We'd eat at McDonald's around five o'clock in the afternoon. She'd devour orders of french fries and milkshakes, anything loaded with carbs. She had two shows to do, and Liza with a Z was so exhausting to perform that she sweated away several pounds a night. After the late show, her dressing room was packed with well-wishers and celebrities. Liza would shut herself inside her private makeup area to wind down. I joined her in there. She'd whap back a triple brandy, check herself in the mirror, then go out and join her guests.
Liza married Jack Haley Jr. at the same tiny church in Santa Barbara where her mother had married Vincente Minnelli. The wedding party consisted of five people: Jack, Liza, me, the great lyricist Fred Ebb (Cabaret, Chicago, and many more), and Sammy Davis Jr. Fred was Liza's semiguru and her “best man” for the day. Sammy and I shared the same duty for Jack. We drove up together in a limousine. When we got to Oxnard (about halfway), Sammy had to take a piss. We stopped at a gas station. He got out dressed in a psychedelic Indian blouse with multiple strands of love beads, something of a culture shock to that community. As he exited the men's room he caught the attention of a young couple in a convertible, getting gas. “Hey! Are you Sammy Davis?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Really?”
My Life as a Mankiewicz Page 12
