What's HE doing there?

In February of 1976, I had some free time in my tour schedule with Doc, and I was looking for something to do. An opportunity presented itself which I could not refuse. And as I was still contributing feature articles to the local paper back home, this seemed like perfect fodder…

HOLLYWOOD — “Hello?” I said, picking up the phone.

“Do you want to work in a John Wayne movie?” a voice asked.

“Sure, why not?” I replied. “Good,” said the voice, which belonged to my casting director neighbor Jim. “Be at The Burbank Studios tomorrow morning at 7:30. Western street.” Click.

The Burbank Studios (nee Warner Brothers.) Home of “The Waltons.” “Police Story.” “Maverick.” “The Partridge Family.” I could hardly contain myself. Knowing that this would be a Memorable Experience, I decided to take notes.

Wednesday — So this is the movies. I walked into wardrobe. Saw no one. Suddenly a voice demanded “Name?”
“M-m-m-Meuler. Don.” No one in sight.
“Was that four ‘m’s’ or five?”
“One.” Smart aleck. Where was he?
“Here, try these on,” said Wardrobe Voice. A pair of pants landed at my feet, a shirt flew in from another corner, boots and a hat from someplace else. “Dressing room next door,” said Wardrobe Voice. “Thanks,” I said.
“Who are you talking to?” said another extra, entering behind me.
“Oh, no one.”
Here I am on the street, and oh wow! There’s The Duke! John Wayne! I said hello, but he mistook me or someone else. I don’t know how, though. How could he forget anyone named ‘Pilgrim?’

In saying hello, I made a startling discovery: John Wayne is only 5 feet 6 inches tall. I’m not sure how they make him tall on screen, but I think his horse wears lifts. At any rate, I was instructed to kneel in his presence. (I’m 5 feet 9 inches.)

Thursday — Yesterday I was too naive to notice much. Today though, I see it all. While the crew is setting up a shot, which can take anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour or much, much more, the horses and extras just relax; some play cards (extras, not horses), some nap, and some stomp their feet and complain (extras and horses). But when the AD says, “This’ll be picture!” the horses jump to life, snorting and pawing the ground, sending some extras running, and awakening the others.

When things calm down, they shoot the scene. Afterward, the set is a mess. All the extras from the other sets wander in and name-drop. “Joe Forrester.” “Police Woman.” “The Waltons.” Police Story.” And so on.

Friday - Found out the name of this movie. “The Shootist.” Don Siegel is our director. He directed “Dirty Harry,” the original “The Thing,” and many others.

Studios can get confusing. One guy worked two scenes with us before he realized he was on “Western” street, not “Laramie" street. “Isn’t this ‘Banjo Hackett’?” he demanded. We told him he was in the wrong movie. “Aw shoot!” I think he yelled. Movie talk. Means “I made a boo-boo.”

The weather is great, but we lost a half day of shooting. Seems Clint Eastwood came on the set to visit Siegel, and they couldn’t calm down the women (and some of the guys.) Several people had to be excused.

Monday was a holiday. Dick Cavett has been on our set every day. He’s putting together a TV special called “Backlot U.S.A.” Sounds fascinating…

Tuesday - Nearly got killed today. Twice. They didn’t like the first take. I was supposed to run beneath two bucking horses. After the first take, the AD said to me “Watch it! You nearly ran that horse down!” Sorry.

Second take, I barely escaped with my life. But at least I didn’t vex the horses. When I came to, it was suggested that I ask for stunt pay. I shrugged. All in the line of duty. We were dismissed an hour later. A person would have to be crazy to do this all the time.
I hope they call again soon.


Everything in the article is all true, except the part about Duke being 5’-6”, which I thought would be painfully obvious to everyone. Silly me; THAT generated a few letters and phone calls.

I left out the best parts; seeing and working “with” Duke, Jimmy Stewart, Ron Howard, and Lauren Bacall; how the 1st AD kept placing me in setups next to Duke or one of the other stars, only to have Siegel check the shot, point at me and say “What’s HE doing there?;” and how utterly un-boring it really was. It didn’t pay much, but then, in hindsight I would have done it for nothing. Also, it was shot on the same set as one of my other favorite movies, “The Music Man,” and it was fun to see how the crew made it look so different, even with all the same buildings and storefronts. I can find myself in the background of several shots (especially since the DVD came out), but I know where to look, and you don’t.

I think it’s about time to watch it again.

Johnny Carson, and Other Name-Droppers I've Met

I was still seventeen when I got the gig with Doc, so my father drove me down to L.A. to look for an apartment and to make sure I was in with the “right kind of people.” I decided I wanted to live in or around Burbank, reasoning that since I didn’t have a car (in L.A.!) it would be good for me to be close to the NBC studios. (This turned out to be irrelevant; I would have been better off living next to LAX for commuting purposes, but never mind that.)

Dad also wanted to meet the people I would be working for, so one afternoon after finding an apartment we went over to NBC to meet Doc’s manager Bud and his road manager Rick. I had been to the “Tonight Show” offices once before at my final audition, so it wasn’t quite as intimidating for me as it was for Dad. I gave my name at the main gate, and after we were admitted we went back to the “Tonight Show” bungalow. Bud and Rick were as nice as you would expect them to be to a new employee’s parent, and I think my dad thought things would be all right.

Before we left, Bud asked if we’d like to stay to watch the taping of “The Tonight Show”. (I had done that once before too, but remembered very little of it, being dazed at having just been hired to sing with Doc.) We said ‘sure.’ After checking the guest list, Rick informed us there weren’t any seats left, but if we wanted to we could watch from the “green room.” The “Green Room!” The friendly haven where guests of “The Tonight Show” waited their turn to go on stage with Johnny! We again accepted, and were led back to Studio 1, home of “The Tonight Show.”

“You’ll have to wait in the hall until the guests are seated,” Bud cautioned. Okay by us; also waiting in the hall was Vincent Price, one of that night’s guests. “Vincent,” said Bud (Bud knew EVERYBODY), “this is Don Meuler, one of Doc’s singers, and his father.”

Vincent was very gracious, and chatted us up a bit while we stood there. Next by was Peter Marshall, the host of “Hollywood Squares” (which taped next door in Studio 3.) He appeared pleasant enough, but seemed focused on the fact that he was singing on the show that night, and just kept moving.

And then, a door opened down the hall and here came Bob Hope! “Hi Bob,” said Bud. (Bud knew EVERYBODY.) “Hello Mr. Hope,” I managed.

“Hi, how are ya?” he replied, his standard response. I think my dad just stared.

After a fashion everyone got settled, and we somehow ended up sitting on the couch with Vincent Price, with Peter Marshall sitting on the arm. I don’t know why. Mr. Hope waited in his dressing room, was the first guest, and went directly back to his room afterward.

SIDEBAR: Studio 1 was the first color television studio built at NBC Burbank, and it was built specifically for Bob Hope. It was the home of all the Bob Hope specials, and featured giant caricatures of both Bob and Johnny on the massive loading doors. Whenever Bob appeared on “The Tonight Show” the audience was in for a treat; invariably he had a special coming up, and the audience would be asked to stay after for the taping of his monologue, with Doc and the band sitting in for Les Brown and his Band of Renown.

Time passed quickly, but it was kind of surreal. Being in the Green Room was not unlike watching “The Tonight Show” in your own living room, if you happened to live with Vincent Price and Peter Marshall, and their assorted assistants. But by the time the taping had ended, the room had emptied except for Dad and me. We went out into the studio, where I introduced Doc to my father. A Nice Moment. Afterward, we went back to the new apartment. Dad stayed a couple more days, then grudgingly headed back up to Vancouver.


So there I was, living alone in Burbank; rehearsing with the other singers by day, lots of free time otherwise. It was early March, just shy of my eighteenth birthday, and I wasn’t scheduled to start performing until the beginning of April. What to do, what to do. Since the NBC Studios were just a short walk away, I decided to see if I could hang out around the “Tonight Show” studio and watch rehearsals and stuff. At first I had to call for a guest pass every day, but before long the guards all knew me and just waved me through. Ah, celebrity.


I would hang out just offstage, next to the teleprompter where I wasn’t in the way and watch whatever went on. Singers rehearsing with the band. The Mighty Carson Art Players rehearsing a sketch. Whatever. Then I would go for dinner, often at the NBC commissary (nicknamed “The Hungry Peacock”) and come back to the studio in time for the taping of the show. Taping started at 5:30 PM, with a brief warm-up preceding. As long as I wasn’t in the way, I had free run of the studio. Mostly I stayed by the teleprompter, which was just outside the green room. From there I had a great view of the show, the nervous guests, and all the backstage preparations going on before and during the show. In general, I just tried not to get noticed. It didn’t always work out that way, though. Occasionally, someone would ask what I was doing there. “I’m with the band,” would usually take care of that. Sometimes, though, the conversation would go on…


In 1975, Saturday Night Live was a new phenomenon, and not quite understood yet. Many acts got their debut there; one of these was Andy Kaufman.

When Andy premiered on SNL, his main shtick was to put on a recording of the “Mighty Mouse” theme (“I now play for you music record”), standing slack-jawed and vacant-eyed until suddenly becoming animated in time to lip-synch “Here I come to save the day!” That was pretty much it, except for him drinking a glass of water until the song ended. The entire act was done in the persona that was later to be known as Latka on television’s “Taxi.” For his first appearance on “The Tonight Show,” he did the entire rehearsal in character. Afterward, he and I were both sort of hanging around the studio and he walked up to me, smiled, and said “Hi, I’m Andy.” I told him my name. “What do you do here?” he asked. I told him that I didn’t actually work for NBC, but was a singer with Doc. “Really?” he said. “I didn’t know Doc had singers.” I told him most people didn’t know, either, but that we traveled with him on personal appearances. “Do me a favor. Doc doesn’t know I’m not That Guy,” he said, referring to his Latka character. “Don’t tell him.”


Before he went on that night, he came out of the green room and made a “shh” gesture and winked at me. His performance was totally in character – even when he was interviewed by Johnny. They didn’t know what to make of him. The audience loved him. He appeared on “The Tonight Show” several times over the next year or two, and every time he would catch my eye and wink at me. But I never told Doc.

Now, Johnny Carson was a hard man to know. He wasn’t comfortable in groups larger than about 8 people; I think he felt he had to be “on” all the time. The first time I met him was one of those times when a LOT of people were around. It was just after a taping at NBC, and he had sort of a glazed look on his face, so although I was thrilled to be shaking his hand, I knew he would never remember having met me. I was right; the next time we were introduced was in Las Vegas – we were performing at the Sands, and Johnny and Ed were across the street at Caesar’s Palace. Our shows timed out so that Bud, Doc’s manager (who knew EVERYBODY) was able to take three of us singers to see Johnny’s show between our two performances. (Great table, watery drinks.) But afterward, we went back to Johnny’s dressing room, and we were introduced again.  This time Johnny was more relaxed, as the numbers weren’t so intimidating, so we got to talk for awhile. (Lesson learned: NEVER tell a joke to Johnny Carson. EVER. He can’t help but top you, and not just top you, but bury you, and stomp the sod down after. In hindsight though, sort of an honor in itself. At least that’s what I tell myself.) He was a regular guy, and a lot of Nebraska came out of him. Not only that, there were more drinks from better bottles. Good times had by all, apparently. And now that Johnny is gone, I remember the times I “met” him, and smile.

As I mentioned, some of the guests on “The Tonight Show” were actually quite nervous. Many of them were TV and film actors not used to performing (or

 even just talking) in front of a Live Audience. One of these was an actor named Barry Newman. At the time, he had a series on NBC called “Petrocelli”, in which he was a private detective in New Mexico (with a gorgeous wife, of course.) The network liked to plug their shows on “The Tonight Show”, so its stars had to put up with an occasional interview with Johnny. Barry hated this, and really didn’t like all those live people watching him. He came out of the Green Room one time, saw me by the teleprompter and started a conversation. “I’m with the band” was starting to wear thin by then, but it turned out he was a great guy and very funny, and we talked (quietly) right up until he went on the dais with Johnny. He was relaxed and did just fine, and afterward he looked for me and said “You’ll be here next time, right?”

So now I had an unofficial position at “The Tonight Show”, Guest Comfort Facilitator. (I made the title up myself.) There were several guests who would make themselves sick (literally) if not distracted, so that’s where I came in. My favorite was “Police Woman” Angie Dickinson (yes, THE Angie Dickinson); she sought me out every time she was on the show. Or was it the other way around? I’m a little hazy these days, but I do remember feeling satisfied with a job well done after seeing her…

Other guests would not make eye contact, no matter what. Or smile. If that was their comfort level, so be it. I could facilitate that, too. Bastards. I was quickly getting in sync with the Hollywood milieu.

The Beginning of the Whole Mess

It started with a dame.

I was 17, and there she was on my TV screen – a recently-promoted blue-eyed blonde news anchor named Robin Chapman. I was captivated, and in due course sent her a fan letter. I was not expecting a reply, but a few days later there it was in my mailbox! “You have a very creative writing style,” she wrote. “Have you ever considered a career in journalism?”

I had in fact been studying journalism and writing for the school paper for the past two years, but mostly just because it was an easy elective. What I had really been planning was to become a clinical psychologist; suddenly journalism was forefront in my mind. Especially after Robin invited me to tour the station.

She was surprised (and chagrined) to find that I was just out of high school, but still offered encouragement, career-wise anyway. I watched Robin on TV all that summer, and in the fall enrolled in college, where I was inexplicably made editor of the school newspaper. I also got an internship at the local daily newspaper as a feature writer, so my days were busy, writing some fairly good stuff and some pretty bad stuff, too.

At the local daily, I was assigned to the features desk, where I wrote about teen nightclubs, the latest fads, and other fluff. But one day I accompanied my mentor 
Steve to a celebrity interview of Carol Channing. She was friendly, funny, and self-depracating, and afterward I decided I should do celeb interviews, too. How hard could it be? I learned that Doc Severinsen was coming to Portland with his show, and, with my editor’s blessing immediately sought an exclusive interview with Doc. This mostly entailed daily calls to his office at NBC in Burbank, where I was (mostly) politely put off. But not put out. After a week of dogged requests, his manager said, “Doc won’t have time for an interview – he’s going to be busy auditioning singers for an opening in the group.”

“Really?” I said. “What vocal range?”

A pause. “He needs a tenor,” said Doc’s manager.

“I’m a tenor,” I said, in for the kill. “Can I audition too?”

Much longer pause. “Who ARE you?” said Doc’s manager.

After several more calls I had secured an audition before the concert, but no interview. No matter; I was going to review the show as well, so I was certain to get a decent byline. I knew from grilling his manager that Doc traveled with an eleven-piece band, so I guessed at the instrumentation and wrote and arranged a song for my audition.

When I arrived at the auditorium and met Doc’s manager (his name was Bud) and then Doc himself, they had just finished sound check for the night’s performance. I got out my chart and I offered to pass out the parts to the band. Yet another pause. “We’ll just use the piano,” said Bud, incredulously. He and the road manager Rick looked at each other; Doc just smiled.

I sang a couple of songs, accompanying myself on the original one, and waited for their verdict. It was, literally, “Don’t call us – we’ll call you.” This from Rick, the road manager. They offered me tickets for the show which I declined, since I already had mine. I thanked them, then went to dinner.

That night as I watched the concert (which was great!), I was simultaneously taking in details and wondering what they really thought of me, and imagining myself up onstage. Afterward I went home, wrote the review and turned it in the next morning. Then to school, and business as usual.

Two weeks later, Rick called. “Can you be here in Burbank on Friday? Doc wants to hear you again at the callback.” You betcha! “2:00 Friday at NBC.” It was then Monday; how would I get there (and back) on the $74 I had saved? As it turned out, by bus. Twenty-five hours down, twenty-five hours back.

Twenty-five hours on the bus gave me plenty of time to learn a new song while Not Sleeping A Wink. I arrived in North Hollywood at high noon, and took a city bus into Burbank, where I waited at NBC until the appointed time. There were three of us being considered for the opening – the other two guys looked groomed and chic and oh-so-Hollywood, whereas I appeared to have just stepped off a bus from Podunk. I listened to the other two guys sing, and then it was my turn. I decided to let Ross the piano player accompany me this time, but when I had finished and Bud was starting to excuse us Doc said “Hey Portland! Do that song you did before!” The Hollywood boys glared at me.

So I sat at the piano and played and sang, and then Bud said “We’ll let you all know in a couple of days.” I brazenly mentioned I would be on the bus again for the next 25 hours, and was there any way I might find out yes or no before I left that evening?

Bud got That Look on his face again, but said they would talk it over, and would I like to watch the taping of “The Tonight Show?” Hell, yes! “We’ll let you know before you leave town,” said Bud.

I was given a seat in the front row, right next to where Ed McMahon did his announcing, and waited nervously. Just before the warm-up started, Bud came out from backstage to where I was sitting, just stared at me for a minute, then said “Congratulations! You got the job. Rehearsals start March 3rd.” And walked away.

I don’t recall much about the rest of that evening, except that the people sitting next to me were so excited, they bought me dinner and took me back to the bus depot afterward, and that I slept most of the bus ride home.

When I got off the bus in Portland the next night, my father was there to meet me. “How did it go?” he asked.

“I got the job!” I excitedly told him.

My father looked at me for a moment. “You got a phone call while you were gone. The New Christy Minstrels want to hire you. I told them you were in Burbank, but I didn’t know how to reach you.”

I had submitted an audition tape to the NCM the previous summer after meeting and working with their former lead singer at the Miss Washington pageant, but had not expected to hear back from them after all that time. But no matter. When I returned their call later, they offered me a spot playing banjo and singing “Green, Green” and “Walk Right In” and touring the US by bus; whereas Doc was offering me Vegas, Baby!, with the best jazz musicians in the business, air travel and the best hotels. I thanked the New Christy Minstrels, and took the job with Doc.

It was now February 15, and I had two weeks to quit school, leave the newspaper, and find an apartment and move to Burbank before rehearsals started…