Then and Now

by Barbara Cook

  Wally did try a couple of times to stop drinking, but he was never really willing to give up control. He decided to detox himself at one point, a very dangerous thing to do. He convinced a close friend, a woman who was in love with him, to help him detox. He had had several seizures by this time and at the hospital he had been told he had a vitamin deficiency. I brought in a doctor friend of ours to see him, and the doctor gave him tranquilizers, not knowing that Wally would use them to detox. So, armed with vitamins and tranquilizers, Wally set out to detox himself. How he decided that this constituted a rational course of medical treatment I have no idea. I waited four or five days before I went over to his apartment; one of the reasons I needed to see him was to decide if he would be able to play a date we had coming up, and when he came out of his room I was horrified. He shuffled out of his room all bent over, and was so drugged he could hardly speak. I had to tell him I would have to find somebody else to play for me. “No, no. I can do it,” he mumbled over and over.

  The situation was made worse by the fact that his partner loved wine, and even though two doctors had said to get all the alcohol out of the house, Wally’s partner kept the wine. I said to him, “Get this out of here,” and he replied, “Wally doesn’t drink wine, so it’s okay.” I was stupefied, because I knew—when you’re desperate you’ll drink anything.

  Working with Wally the last few years of his life often became a nightmare. He just wouldn’t or couldn’t stop drinking. I told him a number of times his drinking was going to kill him. I believed that, but at the same time I don’t think I could really imagine him dying.

  Ultimately cirrhosis of the liver killed him, though what he really died from was hemorrhaging from his esophagus, which I understand is common with cirrhosis. I was so angry with him for not stopping the drinking, but I could never get through to him. His feeling was, in essence, “Look, I’m here, I’m doing the work, so leave me alone.” The reality was that he couldn’t always do the work properly. When it came time to record Barbara Cook’s Broadway!, it was decided we’d record the show live at an evening performance at Lincoln Center. That afternoon, Wally came in for the sound check so drunk that he could barely find the piano, let alone play. I was thinking, “What the hell? We’re going to record and you can’t even walk straight?” He went home, took a nap, and when he came back he was somehow okay. He was still drunk, but the sort of drunk where he could play. I could never be entirely certain which version of Wally would show up. Toward the end of his life, things got so bad that several times I toyed with the idea of working with someone else, but I never took that step because Wally impaired was still better than most sober. Barbara Cook’s Broadway! proved to be a big success and Wally was a big reason for that triumph.

  One day I went to Wally’s apartment to rehearse and he was simply too far gone to work. I said, “Okay, Wal, I’m going home now. I’ll be back tomorrow. Please be ready to work.” Several times I would have to go home, so when we were able to work, I felt I wanted to “reward” him, and in a lighthearted way, I would say, “Today you get a bluebird on your paper.” Day by day, the bluebirds accumulated, and on opening night, Wally gave me a real blue parakeet. Wally’s way of telling me he loved me.

  When he was drinking, Wally could display a terrible temper, yet at the same time he was one of the most generous people I’ve ever known, particularly with his time. He was always ready to assist young talent in any way he could, helping the Tony Award–winning lyricist David Zippel (City of Angels) when he first came to New York from Harvard. And together we first heard Michael Kosarin playing in the lounge of a nightclub in North Carolina when he was still at Duke University. Michael has now been music supervisor, arranger, producer, and conductor for composer Alan Menken’s theatrical, film, and television music worldwide since 1993, and it was Wally who paved the way for him in New York.

  I’ve often thought that Wally was disappointed in himself—disappointed that he hadn’t been able to compose a show for Broadway, because when he came to New York that had been his greatest ambition. He did some wonderful work on shows with Tommy Tune—A Day in Hollywood, A Night in the Ukraine, My One and Only—but those were never his shows. He had arranged but not composed. I think as much as Wally admired Stephen Sondheim, he was jealous of Stephen’s extraordinary career. Back in the early 1980s, even before the Follies concerts, I had run into Stephen on the street, and he said “Barbara—why don’t you ever sing my songs?” Needless to say, I was thrilled to hear Stephen say that, but Wally was, at first, very reluctant to include Sondheim songs in our repertoire. After the Follies concerts, Wally finally gave in, overcame his jealousy, and we placed Sondheim’s music throughout our shows.

  We celebrated Wally’s sixty-third birthday in London while playing at the Haymarket Theatre. I could never have imagined that he would be dead just one month later. But as it turned out, we had only one more concert date together, in St. Louis. I wrote a journal entry at the time detailing just how troubled Wally was: the night of our performance in St. Louis his gums were bleeding. He had a big bump on his forehead and bruises on his face, all of which he explained by saying that he had walked into a door he thought was open. It’s impossible to know what really happened, but I told him to come into my dressing room and I would try to cover the bruises with some of my makeup. He was spreading it on his forehead when I noticed there was blood there, too. I asked what was wrong. He said his thumb was bleeding. As always, he drank too much before going onstage, but was okay until the very end of the show when he goofed up and the sound man couldn’t figure out what was going on. As a result, one of the climactic songs of the evening didn’t land properly. I was angry and exasperated, a state of affairs that shifted to fear when, after the show, the wardrobe mistress came into my room and asked, “Is everybody all right?” I answered yes, at which point she told me that she’d noticed blood on the floor of Wally’s room.

  The next day we were flying back to New York, and when we were seated by the gate, waiting to board, Wally said he was going to get a Sunday New York Times. As he walked away I noticed a very large dark-red stain the size of a dinner plate on the seat of the raincoat he was wearing. I was embarrassed for him, and when I finally mentioned it to him, he said that it had happened the night before at our hotel. He was visiting with a friend who he said spilled remoulade sauce on one of the chairs. He then sat down, thinking he’d convinced me, but I knew that wasn’t true. The cirrhosis had caused him to hemorrhage. That was on a Sunday. The next Wednesday he and his partner Alan Gruet went out to dinner separately. Wally had returned before Alan, who, when he came back, saw Wally lying on the floor of the living room. He wasn’t immediately alarmed because it wasn’t the first time he had found him like that, but then he saw Wally was bleeding badly. Even then Wally resisted medical attention, but Alan got him to Roosevelt Hospital, where they tried to stop the bleeding. It didn’t work, and on the morning of October 8, 2004, exactly one month after his sixty-third birthday, Wally died.

  Because he had died early in the morning there was time to let people know and to organize a gathering at my apartment where we could all grieve and reminisce. The night of his death, I confess, I felt mostly anger and frustration. Now, eleven years later, I’m feeling so much love for him, and I’m drowning in sorrow.

  It had been clear to all of us for a long time both that his life was out of control and that he was dreadfully ill, but I somehow felt this wasn’t supposed to happen to him. Not to Wally Harper. So many people depended on him for so much, beginning with his incredible musical knowledge; he actually was a great musical leader and made you feel that he had all the answers. He imparted a great sense of security.

  I like to remember Wally in terms of his overwhelming talent. His phrasing while playing could be nothing short of achingly beautiful. One conductor called Wally “a musician’s musician, a genius even—he made the piano sing.” I thought that was a great way to put it, because while the fact that Wally always felt
the rules did not apply to him caused problems in his personal life, it also gave him free rein when putting together those glorious arrangements.

  I loved so much about Wally, particularly his incredible sense of humor. Years back, he had found us a tax man who was a real character; this man saved us thousands upon thousands of dollars but I never fully understood how he did it. I didn’t want to know. He also got us in trouble from time to time. Wally’s name for him? J. P. Loophole.

  The witticisms would just pour out of him, both verbally and musically. When he was a fourteen-year-old boy in Ohio playing organ for Sunday church services, he was asked to provide music while the ushers returned to the altar with the day’s offering. Wally’s choice of music? A Bach-tinged arrangement of “We’re in the Money.”

  (Not surprisingly, the pastor told Wally there would be no repeat performance of that number . . . )

  Toward the end of his life he worked on several shows with Sherman Yellen, who had written the books for the musicals The Rothschilds and Rex. Somehow Sherman and Wally got the idea that Sherman could write lyrics to Wally’s music, but on the first day they began working together, Sherman was very nervous and said, “Wal, I’m not so sure this is a good idea. You know, I’ve never written lyrics before, and I’m feeling pretty apprehensive about it.” To which Wally retorted, “Are you kidding? A Jew and a homosexual—we can’t miss.”

  “But, Wal, I have to tell you I’m not much of a Jew.”

  “That’s okay,” replied Wally, “because I’m one hell of a homosexual!”

  Although Wally could never solve his problem with alcohol, I think he was genuinely happy for me when I stopped drinking. He said to his then partner, Michael: “Of all the people I know, Barbara has changed her life for the better more than anybody I’ve ever known.” He saw how I had pulled myself together, finally owned an apartment I loved, and that I took great pride in my work. He had seen me in the darkest of times, and he was so happy for me. What an extraordinary generosity of spirit he possessed.

  Just after Wally died, Audra McDonald told me that she had a dream about him. She was visiting him in heaven and he said, “I almost didn’t get in here, you know.” “Why?” she asked, and he showed her his liver. “So how did you get in?” she persisted. And he showed her his heart.

  For all the glamorous success and excess of his life, he was in some ways still the little boy from Akron, Ohio. When in 2003 we were invited to perform in the party scene of the Metropolitan Opera’s annual New Year’s Eve production of The Merry Widow, Wally was enlisted to conduct the orchestra. When he got up for the first rehearsal it just overwhelmed him—and he started to cry.

  I miss him very much.

  17 • NEW CHOICES

  I WAS HAVING a great time giving concerts all over the world, and Jerry Kravat kept it all the more interesting by constantly thinking up new opportunities for me. Jerry wasn’t just a manager—he was Jerry Kravat Entertainment Services and had his fingers in lots of pies and his toes in lots of rivers. He was a workaholic and really went all out on my behalf. He was constantly on the phone drumming up work for me and always thinking in terms of “What’s the next big event we can do for you?”

  He was responsible for my playing the Metropolitan Opera House in January 2006, an event he worked on for several years. Along with Yves Montand and Vladimir Horowitz, I became one of only three solo artists who have been presented by the Met itself as part of their regular season.

  Most of the time when I’m performing I have my nerves pretty much under control, but occasionally, before a big concert, when I’m standing in the wings, waiting to walk out, I can frankly be scared. That’s no good, and the Metropolitan Opera concert was definitely one of those occasions. But—I’ve developed a way to help myself through times like that. The first thing I do is plant my feet firmly on the floor and imagine I’m getting power flowing into my body from the depths of the earth. Then I think of how fortunate I am to have the gift of being able to sing. I tell myself to go out and give it back. Give the gift back. That gets me out of the realm of ego, and then I don’t worry about what people will think about my singing or what they might think about my appearance. I’m calmer. After a couple of songs, I’m comfortable and having fun.

  I was more than a little nervous to be singing at the Metropolitan Opera House, but while waiting to go on I wasn’t so nervous that I failed to notice how worn the curtain appeared from the back. I thought about the number of times it had been held for great artists like Luciano Pavarotti, Marilyn Horne, Renée Fleming, Placido Domingo, and the amazing Leontyne Price. WOW! I had such respect for those giants.

  When I walked onstage that night at the Met, the entire audience stood up, applauding. It was an extraordinary moment. I had never dared dream about appearing at the Metropolitan Opera House. Me? Barbara Cook, little nine-year-old Barbara Cook deserting her playmates to go inside to listen to the Met’s Saturday-afternoon broadcasts? I had terrific guest artists that night: Josh Groban, Elaine Stritch, Audra McDonald. It was, in short, a thrilling night for me.

  It was also Jerry’s idea to celebrate my eightieth birthday, in 2007, with New York Philharmonic concerts at Avery Fisher Hall. Here I was, back at Avery Fisher twenty-two years after the Follies concerts, and I had a ball. Singing again with the Philharmonic—I think anyone would be hard-pressed to come up with a better way to celebrate an eightieth birthday.

  Sadly, one year after the birthday concerts Jerry died. We had worked together for twenty-nine great years and we had a terrific journey together. How I miss him. He was my manager, but more than that, he was my friend.

  Although Mostly Sondheim and Barbara Cook’s Broadway! were successes, they were one-woman concerts, just as were the nights at the Metropolitan Opera and Avery Fisher Hall. I still had not returned to Broadway in a musical since 1971’s The Grass Harp, a situation that changed in 2010 when I appeared in the Roundabout Theatre’s production of Sondheim on Sondheim, a compilation of Stephen’s work sung by a cast of eight.

  This was not a traditional book musical, but rather an overview of Stephen’s amazing career in the theater. Filmed interviews with Stephen supplied the narrative flow and served to introduce the various numbers. Material doesn’t get any better than these extraordinary songs, and when James Lapine asked me to appear in the show, I said yes immediately.

  Still, I was nervous before we started. Not only was this my first Broadway musical in over thirty years, but it was not exactly going to be low profile. I was also eighty-two years old, and worried about having the stamina to do eight shows a week. There was concern about remembering all the words because I sometimes forget a few lyrics when I do my shows and concerts. When that happens, I fix it and carry on, but I felt I couldn’t do that in this show. I talked to James about it and he kindly arranged a monitor for me. I remember glancing at it a couple of times, but just knowing it was there took a great load off my shoulders.

  We had a great cast including Vanessa Williams, Norm Lewis, and Tom Wopat, and while I was nervous, I was also eager. Stephen was not in the rehearsal room each day, leaving the direction to James Lapine, but he came to a later run-through, along with Frank Rich. He gave us very specific notes after our run-through: how he preferred us to pronounce certain words, when to guard against “scooping” notes. A lot of people think of Stephen as tough and intellectual, and that his work reflects a certain edginess. I think one reason why I relate to his work so well is that I enjoy bringing out the warm and human side of his work. He is, in fact, a very caring, emotional person. He is exacting about his work, but he is also a very appreciative audience, and a very emotional one as well. When moved, he cries easily.

  Surprisingly, I didn’t have any trouble reentering the world of performing eight shows a week. We opened in April of 2010 and ran for our scheduled three months; I was thrilled to receive a Tony nomination, along with my fellow octogenarian Angela Lansbury, who was appearing in A Little Night Music. Much as I would h
ave liked to win, I knew that Katie Finneran was going to take home the prize for her hilarious performance in Promises, Promises. But, fifty-plus years after I had won the Tony for Music Man I had received another nomination and was very happy about that fact.

  And then, miracle of miracles: the Kennedy Center Honors.

  When I received the honor in December of 2011 I was overwhelmed. Never, never, never did I think that would happen for me. There are so many who have deserved the honor and never received it. Maybe they died too soon, which matters because you have to show up to receive it. In essence, it’s a lifetime achievement award, and I was so pleased to be in that group of five honorees which included Meryl Streep, Yo-Yo Ma, Neil Diamond, and the great saxophonist Sonny Rollins.

  Some people may think I don’t belong on that list. The truth is that much of the time I wonder about it myself. I know I’m good. But am I Jimmy Cagney good? Am I Gregory Peck good? Am I Fred Astaire good?

  On the night the awards ceremony was shown on television I was working and couldn’t watch the telecast. When I came offstage my assistant, Louise, yelled, “You’re trending! You’re trending!” I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. She might as well have been speaking Swahili, but she was actually talking about Twitter. Evidently I was one of the top-ten subjects being tweeted about worldwide. Somebody sent me those tweets and I looked through many of them, scrolling through dozens and dozens of lovely messages. My favorite tweet, of course, was: “Who the fuck is Barbara Cook?” I liked that one because part of me was thinking, “Who the fuck thinks Barbara Cook deserves to be a part of this amazing group of people?”