by Tracey Davis
“I had to face the fact that the army vultures were going to prey on me daily. Try to eat me alive. I thought of my father, Uncle Will, the agents, the managers, the acts we worked with—nobody treated us this way. Or had my father just shielded me from it all? I knew we stayed in colored boarding houses made of wooden crates, but I didn’t realize we had to stay there. My father said we stayed there because people were . . .”
“. . . jealous of our act?” I replied.
“That’s right. And somehow, in my naïve, sheltered world, I believed it. All I knew was that when the Will Mastin trio got onstage, people laughed, clapped, were entertained. Talent earned us respect,” my father said.
“Talent shielded you,” I told Dad.
“Talent was my only weapon. Eventually in the army, I was transferred to an entertainment regiment in an ‘experimental’ integrated Special Services unit. But until that transfer, Sergeant Williams got me a few gigs at the service club, thinking it might help,” said Pop.
“After one show, Jennings appeared to be offering me his friendship. He handed me a beer. ‘C’mon over here, Davis, let’s get acquainted.’ He pulled out a chair for me. ‘You notice I ain’t calling you ‘boy.’ I thought my talent finally broke the ice. But sure enough as I picked up the bottle of beer, I realized it was warm, not cold. I smelled it. Jennings had replaced my bottle of beer with urine.”
Tears welled up in my eyes, then rolled down my cheek. It was just too overwhelming to hear. My father grabbed my hand. “Don’t cry, Trace Face. I only tell you these stories so you will understand firsthand the adversity our race endured. It only made me stronger.”
“Did Jennings and his guys ever let up, Pop?” I said choked up.
One hundred and twenty pounds was Dad’s “fighting weight.”
“Nah. I had a knock-down, drag out fight every two days. I can’t even count how many times I was in the infirmary for a broken nose. When we finished basic training, my physical turned me down, and I was put through basic again. I didn’t qualify for any of the army’s specialist schools because I had no education at all,” my father said.
“Sergeant Williams was my savior. He would call me into his office to offer his advice. ‘You’ve got to fight with your brains, Sammy, not your fists.’ Sergeant Williams told me I had to stop looking at comic books and learn to read. He taught me to read and write. God bless that man.”
“The first book I ever read was The Three Musketeers. Long, thick, and let me tell you, I am never going to read it again. But Sergeant Williams had me read all the classics. He would select books from Dickens to Twain to Abraham Lincoln, even The Complete Works of Shakespeare. I would circle the words I didn’t know. He would sit in the squad room at the end of the barracks and explain it to me. Sergeant Williams gave me hope that I could overcome this battle, Trace.”
“What you put in your mind, no one can take away from you, right, Pop?” I said.
“Listen to you, the philosopher! The latrine became my temple. I would read religiously after taps in that dimly lit latrine, and report back to Sergeant Williams. We would have our own civilized discourse on each book. I hungered for that time with him. He made me feel like a human being again. His office became my own sacred refuge, a retreat from the racism, hate, ignorance, and intolerance of my unit.”
“What became of Sergeant Williams, Pop?”
“I don’t know. But I owe him my life. He tempered all the humiliation I felt from my unit. He distracted me from all my rage, all my anger. I wouldn’t have survived the army without him,” my father replied.
“The last straw with Jennings was the worst of all. After I did a little Frank Sinatra number at the Officers’ Club, impressing a general, word was out that I might be able to transfer into the integrated Special Services unit. There I could perform on a professional level for the entertainment regiment. Jennings wasn’t pleased. He thought I was kissing butt to escape his abuse. I had to work out a budget for scenery, props, and costumes for a white female captain. This didn’t sit well with Jennings. The captain had all the power to give me something to offer the army: my talent,” Dad said.
“I can’t imagine what Jennings did next,” I replied.
“It was unimaginable, Trace,” my father said with disgust. “Jennings and his gang jumped me on the way to a meeting with the captain. They cornered me, dragged me into a latrine, and beat the crap out of me.”
“Oh, Pop,” I said, holding back the tears.
“But that wasn’t the worst of it. They took a can of white paint and wrote the word ‘NIGGER’ on my chest. They beat me until I was bleeding from every part of my body. I thought my life was done—I was going to be beaten to death. Just to add some icing on the cake, Jennings ended his circus act with, ‘Now be a good little coon and give us a dance.’”
“Dear Lord, did you dance for him?” I asked.
“I danced for my life, Trace. After Jennings finished his finale, I wanted to crawl into the walls of the latrine and die. I thought to myself, I joined the Unites States Army to fight the enemy in whatever country at whatever time, but I never thought I would be sleeping with the enemy in my own unit, my own barracks.”
“Did they transfer you after that nightmare, Pop?”
“Luckily, yes—into the entertainment regiment. I was able to perform to larger crowds, even got cheers from those who previously mistreated me. Prejudiced white men admired and respected my performances. I saw Jennings in the audience once. He didn’t crack a smile, but I could tell from his expression I had won the battle, maybe not the war, but that battle. The spotlight lessened the prejudice. For me, it was a revelation. My talent was the weapon, the power, the way for me to fight. It was the one way I might hope to affect a man’s thinking. From then on, deep in my heart, soul, and spirit, I knew I had to be a star.”
“What about Grandpa and Uncle Will, did you tell them about the beatings in the army?” I asked my father.
“Not a word. My father and Uncle Will met me at the station in Los Angeles after I was discharged. After hugs and all that good stuff, my father noticed my treasured gold watch he had gifted me was not on my wrist. I just couldn’t bear to tell him the truth. Why would I put my father and Uncle Will through the pain and suffering of hearing stories about prejudice, beatings, and white paint smearing the word ‘NIGGER’ across my chest? I told my father ‘the watch got smashed on maneuvers.’ Luckily, he believed me.”
“That’s so sad, Pop,” I said.
“Heck. The army was in the past—history—and it was time to move into the future. I wanted to become a star, a shining star, a shooting star, a megastar, a legendary star—any kind of star would do. I needed to perform, entertain, sing, and dance. I was filled with sheer strength and determination to succeed, triumph, win the day.”
“So there we are standing in the Los Angeles station. I am discharged from the army, free at last. I ask my father the same question I always asked him as a kid: ‘Where we goin’, Dad?’ The melody of his refrain was music to my ears when I heard him exclaim, ‘We’re going back into show business, son!’ And off we went, full speed ahead.”
Once Dad’s star was on the ascent, nothing could stop him.
After the car accident in which he lost an eye, Dad often posed with more of the right side of his face showing. This is him in 1958.
CHAPTER 2
BREAKTHROUGH
It was an early spring afternoon when I got a call from Shirley Rhodes, my father’s assistant/manager since before I was born. Shirley was the wife of George Rhodes, my father’s beloved musical director for thirty years. “Your father’s in the hospital, you better come now,” Shirley announced. I thought my heart would stop.
I waddled down the hall, my pregnant belly bursting into the celebrity suites at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. I entered the outer chamber to the Sammy Davis, Jr. suite.
“How’s Dad?” I asked Shirley. “Is he getting better?”
“
Not exactly, sweetie.” Shirley prepped me: It turned out Pop’s second radiation treatment did not work. He was not in remission at all. The doctors were starting him on chemotherapy through an IV and fighting some other infection that was ravaging his body. “And don’t be alarmed, they have a trachea tube down his throat. He can’t speak unless he holds his hand over the trach hole,” said Shirley.
How could this be? I thought to myself. What kind of quagmire was this? I remembered the fights I had with my father when he was first diagnosed with throat cancer. I wanted him to have surgery, cut out the tumor. The doctors said if they cut out the tumor he would lose his voice box. Pop refused to have the surgery. We had two options: surgery with a seven in ten chance to live, or radiation that gave him a three in ten chance to live. He would never, under any circumstance, have surgery and risk losing his singing voice. “It’s my decision,” he kept telling me. Then there we were, two radiations and chemo later, and Pop has a trachea tube down his throat—his voice snatched from him anyway.
My father quite simply and honestly was scared when he was first diagnosed with cancer. He was scared to die, of course, but more scared to lose his gift: the Sammy Davis, Jr. voice, his God-given talent. That would bare him naked in a way. His talent, his voice, had gotten him where he was: 12,600 square feet smack in the middle of Beverly Hills, a lifetime of performing, dedication to charities, and still performing to packed houses. Without his voice, what would he have? He would be a superhero without a cape.
All I thought about was making certain that he would not die. Pop had us, his family, his friends, his fans, we all loved him and refused to live without him. Sam was going to be born, and Pop was determined to be the best grandfather ever. He was going to make up for lost time. He was going to learn to change diapers. All of the “regular” stuff parents and grandparents do every day. In short, my father was going to be “normal.” Ha! What the heck was I thinking? Pop normal? Pop was anything but.
I truly believed the radiation would work. The doctor said he was getting better. Now he was worse. It was a race to the finish line—would Dad die first or would I have the baby first? Everyone thought giving birth to Sam was going to be the miracle cure. The pressure was incalculable. Sam was safe and sound in my tummy, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was unfolding each and every day. Thank God for that.
My “Pop,” 1962
My father’s identity was so completely tied up with his ability to perform. As I watched him grow more and more ill at the end of his life, my mind often drifted to scenes like this of him solo in the spotlight, 1961.
As for me, I had no idea if Sam would be the miracle cure. I vacillated back and forth, swinging like a pendulum. On the one hand, I was begging my obstetrician, Dr. Karalla, to take Sam out early, so Dad would get that chance to hold his grandson. On the other hand, I was afraid for my baby to be born, for fear that Pop would die shortly thereafter. It was the best of times and the worst of times.
Shirley snapped me out of my hole of despair with a big bear hug. She tried to cheer me up by showing me the myriad flowers and cards from fans, family, and friends that encompassed the outer room of Pop’s private hospital suite.
Evidently, Denzel Washington had just left, having given my father a copy of his film, Glory. She mentioned that Bill Cosby, Eddie Murphy, Arsenio Hall, and a few other celebrities were planning to stop by to visit Pop in the next few days.
All I could think of was how much my father would hate having all those visitors. He liked to be seen in his glory, certainly not the way he was at the hospital.
A nurse came out of Pop’s inner room, announced that he was sleeping, but I could go sit by him if I cared to. I was terrified to go in, panic-stricken that this could be the beginning of the end for Pop. But I took a deep breath, hoping it would send a message to my brain to calm down, stood valiantly tall, and walked in.
I was greeted by an ominous collection of tubes that were attached to my father like living, breathing parasites. He had a trachea tube protruding from his throat, an IV in his arm, and machines everywhere. As I pulled up a chair next to my father’s bed, I noticed his face as he slept. It was hauntingly thin, but not quite as bad as I had expected. Unfortunately, the menacing odor from that tumor on his neck threatened to attack. During my pregnancy I was extremely sensitive to smell, and his tumor seemed to have a sinister odor all its own.
I picked up an old record a visitor had placed as a gift on a bed table next to him. It was one of the first singles Pop ever released, “The Way You Look Tonight.”
After my father was released from the army, he rejoined the family dance act, playing around the country, being singled out and praised by critics. Late in 1948, Dad was on a radio broadcast from Los Angeles and was overheard by Capitol Records executive Dave Dexter Jr. Dad signed a twenty-record deal at fifty bucks a side. The most successful single released was “The Way You Look Tonight.” Metronome magazine chose it as the 1949 “Record of the Year” and named Dad the year’s “Most Outstanding New Personality.”
Even though he’d had his first hit, my dad was hoping for greater success with his first record label. He began working with David Cavanaugh—“Big Dave”—at Capitol Records. Cavanaugh was known for composing, arranging, and producing records for my dad and others, including Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole. At the age of twenty-three, on January 13, 1949, Pop undertook his first recording session for Capitol Records, starting with the songs “I Don’t Care Who Knows,” “The Way You Look Tonight,” and “Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone.” Dad eventually recorded twenty sides for Capitol in 1949. It was not the successful turn he hoped for. Dad blamed his lack of success with Capitol on the poor arrangements of Cavanaugh, rather than the fact that he was just getting his foot in the door. According to music review journalist William Ruhlmann, “Sammy’s Capitol material was more of the work of a young artist trying to find his voice and doing so by trying out various different approaches. Sometimes he sounds like other singers of the day, perhaps unintentionally; other times, he is deliberately doing impressions with comic intent.” My father was clearly still finding his own voice—the one that would make him stand out from the crowd of stars.
In March 1951, my father got the praise he was seeking. It happened at Ciro’s nightclub on the Sunset Strip in Los Angeles. Ciro’s was packed with celebrities who had gathered after the Academy Awards. His much heralded performance at Ciro’s that night led the family act to the hottest clubs across the country, including the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco, the Beachcomber in Miami Beach, the Flamingo in Las Vegas, and the Riviera in New Jersey.
The Riviera is where Dad first met Morty Stevens, a clarinetist in the Riviera house band. Pop had been begging his father for his own arranger and conductor for years. Morty took the job and hit the road with my father. Morty later broke out on his own, winning two Emmys for composing the theme tune for Hawaii Five-O. Shirley’s husband, George Rhodes, took over the job as Pop’s musical arranger for thirty years. After George passed away, it devastated my father, and Morty came back again to arrange and conduct for Dad.
My father had an entourage of loyal, faithful staff—all turned into family members for life: Lessie Lee, Shirley and George Rhodes, Morty Stevens, Arthur Silber (his advisor and business partner for over twenty-five years), Charley, his driver, Murphy Bennett, his assistant, and others.
Frank Sinatra was his closest “lifelong” friend. He was a mentor when Pop was a teenager and his best friend until the day he died. Dad was “the Kid” to Frank; and later he affectionately called him “Smokey.” Their relationship was a rare precious gem only they could touch. Pop had a heart of gold and was truly beloved by those who got close to him.
Pop started to stir in his bed. I heard a faint raspy whisper. I leaned my ear in toward his lips. He covered his hand over a hole in the trachea tube and spoke again, “Hey Trace Face you get uglier every time I see you.”
“Hi, Pop,” I said, h
olding back the tears.
Dad and the man he called his best friend, Frank Sinatra, in 1967. Their friendship lasted more than forty years.
“I got this new gadget to play with, baby!” Pop tapped on his trachea tube.
“I see,” I said, choking up.
“Where’s that fine nurse?” Pop said, holding the trachea hole. I rang the buzzer for the nurse.
“Can I help you, Mr. Davis?” the nurse entered.
“I need to use the restroom,” Pop said. The nurse proceeded to pull out a bedpan, politely motioning me to leave the room.
“Darling, I’m a superstar, get me up, I’m not going in a bedpan!” Dad exclaimed.
No, Pop was not going in a bedpan. My father created his own rules his whole life. He was a pioneer, consistently breaking the color barrier as an African American entertainer.
In 1953, ABC Television commissioned a $200,000-sitcom pilot starring “the Trio,” as the Mastin Trio was commonly called. This was an unheard of achievement for a group of African Americans. The pilot was not picked up, but that did not stop Pop from flourishing in the world of television.
He was a guest on Eddie Cantor’s The Colgate Comedy Hour and Ed Sullivan’s Toast of the Town. Eddie Cantor and Pop were old friends and on the air Cantor had no qualms about showing off their friendship by hugging him and wiping my father’s brow with his own handkerchief. NBC protested the broadcast and threatened to pull their backing from the show. Cantor reacted by booking Pop for the rest of the season. God bless him.
The Mastin Trio, led by my father.
The Mastin Trio together in Mr. Wonderful on Broadway, 1956
