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NEW YORK, NEW YORK PT III (continued) 11/3/2009 6:22:02 AM
Still a gorgeous New York autumn evening, we walked, the three of us—-Aunts Dora and Peggy with me in between—-from the President Hotel on 48th Street to the Ziegfeld Theater on 54th Street where Perry Como did his weekly NBC show. It took just half an hour, even with Dora’s running commentary on every building and restaurant we passed: “This is ‘Lamplighter’s,’ where Bogart proposed to Bacall right after the war—over there is the apartment building Fred Trump renovated and started the Trump Organization on its way to fame and glory . . .”
Being only a rehearsal, the Ziegfeld was but half full; it was, however, a dress rehearsal and the entire cast, musicians and dancers, were there with technicians, directors and producers, as well as Perry Como, his retinue and his guests from “The King and I,” Constance Carpenter and Yul Brynner.
“This is my great-nephew from Rochester,” Dora told the popular singer, introducing me. “He does TV up there and plays your records on his radio show everyday.”
“Great!” Como enthused, extending his hand.
Now, well over fifty years later, my most vivid recollection of meeting the renowned musical icon was the size of his hand. Perry Como was not a large man; he was no more than normal height, similarly proportioned, slender and well tanned, his close-cropped hair salt-and-pepper, but his fist (at least the right one) was a first baseman’s mitt. I have shaken hands with hundreds of household celebrities, but never with a man whose meat hook literally swallowed my own.
Knowing our conversation would be brief, I asked, “What one thing would you say makes you the world’s best crooner?”
He looked at me as if Aunt Dora had dragged in some derelict from Herald Square. “Certainly not clean living,” he joked; “maybe God give me perfect pitch. Thousands of people think they can sing, but if they don’t have perfect pitch, they can’t. There are just a few Sinatras, Crosbys, Martins, Merrills, Sillses, Days, Goulets and Bennetts, Paiges, Staffords—but there’re trillions in choirs, weddings and oratorios who’re okay, but where they are, is where they’ll be stuck for life. If you haven’t got perfect pitch, you’ll always be an also ran.”
Aunts Dora and Peggy assumed a disgusted visage that made both Como and me laugh out loud. It was, to the letter, the same response Bing Crosby had once given to an identical question. It was obvious why Como always said he modeled his professional life after Der Bingle.
“How long will you be in town?” the Barber of Songville asked. I told him just a couple days. “Ever get to Las Vegas?” I said no. “Too bad. I’m playing ‘the Dunes’ in April. Shecky Greene, who looks like you twenty years ago, is opening for me.”
I didn’t know Foster Brooks back then, and it would be many years before an unemployed Brooks would go on for an ailing Greene and literally knock Como’s socks off with the funniest routine ever performed in Las Vegas. Had I possessed a moderate degree of prescience that evening in the Ziegfeld Theater, I’d have told Perry Como I was a comedian, not a TV/radio hack.
“In town to interview Sammy Davis, Jr. for his new show we’ll be broadcasting this winter,” I said. “Gonna be a big party afterward with Sinatra and Dean Martin. You gonna be there?”
Como shook his head, smiling that toothy grin so evident on even the soundtrack of ‘Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town.’ “Not me. I’ll be at home with my family in Connecticut—where I belong.”
He was called away then by someone from his production staff, and Peggy introduced me to Yul Brynner. Even in street clothes, notwithstanding a silly toupee, he would never be mistaken for anyone but Mongkut. Our conversation was short and difficult, as he pretended to speak only Russian. “Как хотели бы Вы приходить навестить меня на стадии, в то время как Вы - здесь?” To which I replied, “Nyet!” exhausting my total Slavic vocabulary and having no idea what he’d said. “Too bad,” grumbled the erstwhile King of Siam, eventual holder of a record 4,525 performances. “I’d give you two Annie Oakley’s for tomorrow night’s show! Do you like guitar music? Como’s going to let me play on his program.”
I dutifully expressed significant thanks for their hospitality, assuring them I would keep in touch, and said my goodbyes to Aunts Dora and Peg in the lobby of the President Hotel—sad truth is, I never saw either again. The next time I tried to make contact—-five years later-—they had moved from the President Hotel to an apartment in the Village; today, were they still alive, Dora would be at least 112 and Peggy a couple years younger.
That night, however, I was again alone in my YMCA room, in bed, by ten p.m., waiting for the vacuum cleaner to wake me up a dawn. The next day I had an appointment with a photographer named Jim Kriegsmann for some complimentary publicity headshots at his studio on Broadway. The day after that, I would be with Sammy Davis, Jr.
But the session at Kriegsmann’s turned out be a story in itself.
