A Brush With Date-ness

Las Vegas in the Seventies was nothing like it is today. There were no hotel theme parks; in fact, most of the hotels and resorts that are on the strip today were not even in the idea stage. There was no Siegfried & Roy; we had Liberace. Elvis was alive and well and appearing twice nightly at the Hilton, and Howard Hughes was alive and, well, living in his apartment high atop the Desert Inn. Or maybe not; no one ever saw him. I was actually working for Howard Hughes, or at least my boss was.

At that time I was a back-up singer for Doc Severinsen, bandleader of “The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson.” This being the hip, happenin’ Seventies, our show was called “Doc Severinsen and his Now Generation Brass featuring Today’s Children” and yes, I was one of “Today’s Children.” So sue me. Doc was under contract to Hughes’ Summa Corporation, which owned and operated the Frontier, the Desert Inn and the Sands, and we performed at those hotels about sixteen weeks per year.

Often, we would share the bill with the likes of George Burns or Bob Newhart. Doc and the gang would perform a fifty-minute to one-hour opening act, and then the comedian would take over. I liked to sit backstage and listen (especially to Bob), or sometimes I would sneak out into the house and watch. What an education that was! Newhart could do the same show twice a night for six weeks, and still have me in hysterics at his delivery. Every time, the same jokes in the same order. Well, almost every time...

Bob’s routine usually would go on for an hour or so, and then he would tell a specific joke to cue the band behind the curtain that it was time for his first playoff. It was timed so that the audience would naturally want more of the show, and Bob would return for his “encore.” During the first hour, the band would leave the stage and hang out in the dressing room. I would usually sit at the piano behind the curtain, directly behind Bob. The connection with the audience was amazing, even sight unseen.

One night, the band had left the stage and I was sitting at the piano. Don, our roadie, was sitting at the drum set and one of the trombone players was cleaning his horn. Twenty minutes into the show, and for no apparent reason, Bob went into his playoff cue joke. It was not a long joke, and by the time the band (in the dressing room) realized what had happened, Bob was saying “Thanks everybody! Goodnight!”

Well, the roadie, the bone player and I looked at each other, shrugged, and started to play Bob’s theme music “Home to Emily” from his TV show. It was quite apparent to the audience and Bob that most of the band was not playing, so while the audience laughed, Bob hollered “Now wait a minute! Open the curtain!” The audience got one look at the deserted bandstand and roared even louder. I was mortified, but Bob, his back to the audience, just smiled and winked at me. The curtain closed as the rest of the band came running into the wings, and Bob went on with the show. He never “accidentally” cut short his show again, and the band never missed a cue again, either.

Bob’s wife Ginny was a voracious (if not accomplished) gambler, and could spend hours at the blackjack table. Bob, not so much. I recall making the rounds of the casino late one night and seeing Ginny at the tables on a hot streak. (I was just eighteen and not supposed to be there, but after the first couple of days nobody seemed to mind.) Bob was nowhere in sight, which was unusual for the two of them. I continued on around to the lobby and discovered Bob, fast asleep on a couch near the front desk. I can only assume Ginny found him...

           

Lodging at the Sands took two forms; the tower, where most of the high rollers and celebrities stayed, and the bungalows, a series of buildings suspiciously motel-like in nature which had been built around the swimming pool, each named for a different horse race track. Behind the bungalows (of which I became well-acquainted) were the tennis courts, and a large expanse of, well, nothing. Really. Acres and acres of undeveloped desert chaparral. One of the other singers, Brian, and I used to go out there and throw a football or baseball or Frisbee or whatever we could find to throw to each other. It passed the time.

One day Bob turned up out back with his son Timmy and a brand new kite, Timmy’s first. Bob was going to show him how to fly it. He laid the kite on the ground and unwound some of the string. “Now watch, Timmy,” he called. “All you have to do is run.”

Bob took off across the bit of lawn on the edge of the chaparral, and the kite grudgingly followed. It had no intention of taking flight, however, and seemed content to bounce jarringly on its topmost point. Brian and I moved closer.

Bob had an idea. He called Timmy over. “This time you hold the kite, and when I holler ‘Let go!’ you let go of the kite. Okay?” Timmy agreed excitedly. Bob handed Timmy the kite, moved off some distance and took off running again. As the string was about to draw taut he hollered “Let go!”

Timmy flung the kite into the air, where it remained briefly then returned to bouncing along the ground on its head. “I can’t understand it,” said Bob. “It should fly.”

“What you need,” offered Brian, “is some tail.”

“For the kite,” I added helpfully.

Bob agreed that this might do the trick (!), so Brian was dispatched to find something to tie to the end of the kite. He returned with what had once been a Sands hand towel, but which was now torn into strips. We fastened several together and to the kite and nodded to Bob.

“This’ll do it?” he asked. Brian nodded again. (Not much of a conversationalist, Brian.) “This will get the kite into the air?”

“And back,” I assured him. Timmy squirmed impatiently.

 “Okay then,” said Bob. “Here we go!” He took off running again (although not quite so fast) and hollered “Let it go!” The kite rose magnificently into the summer sky, its tail streaming down from the bottom. It hung in the air proudly as Bob stopped running and turned to look when a sudden gust of wind swept in from across the desert. The kite trembled momentarily, then burst into pieces in the sky. A total Charlie Brown. Fragments of paper, balsa wood and string whirled off across the chaparral. Timmy was ecstatic. “Can we do it again?” he asked, hopefully.                                                                   

“NO,” his father answered. Bob looked to the limp ball of string in his hands, then to Brian and me. “Thanks, guys,” he said, as he and Timmy returned to their room.

The Sands Hotel was the site of the best phone call of my life. During 1976 my road roommate was a fellow named Stan, who besides singing with us was a studio singer and musical arranger and who, at the time, was dating a certain singer from Australia named Olivia. Because of their wildly disparate touring schedules, she was apt to call most anytime, anywhere. After my initial disbelief I began to fight him to answer the phone, if only to hear that breathy “Is Stan there?” Eventually, we had entire conversations before I would grudgingly relinquish the phone to Stan.

I was finally going to meet her during a stint at the Sands; Olivia was coming to Vegas and would be staying at the MGM, but would be coming to our show to visit Stan. As the day drew near I positioned myself near the phone whenever possible. As fate would have it, Stan was out golfing one day when the phone rang. I answered it promptly.

“I have a long distance call for Livvy John,” said an operator. This was cool; Liv would often call person-to-person for herself to make sure someone was there and to save toll charges if not.

“I’m sorry, she’s not here, but we expect her tomorrow,” I answered, which was true. The operator thanked me and rang off. Moments later, the phone rang again. I answered, expecting Liv.

“Is Livvy there?” asked an unfamiliar voice. I explained again that no, she was not, but that she was expected the next day. “Is this Stan?” the caller continued.

“No,” I replied, “Stan is out right now. This is his roommate.”

“Oh,” said the voice. “This is Linda. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Not really,” I answered, trying to remember if Stan had ever told me about anyone in Livvy’s entourage named Linda. “Can I have him call you back?”

“Who did you say this is?” she asked again.

“This is Stan’s roommate, Don,” I replied.

“Hi Don, this is Linda Ronstadt.”

Gulp! Those were six words I never expected to hear in that order. “Stan not here. Play golf. Outside. Not here...” I responded helpfully. She laughed. “Can I have him call you?” I asked, trying to regain some dignity.

“Okay,” Linda agreed. “I’m at The Manila Hotel in the Philippines...”

“Maybe you should call back,” I suggested. She laughed again. Damn!

Then she asked me what I did and how I knew Stan, where I lived, and where I was from originally. We chatted for a few minutes, and I was feeling a lot more composed when she said “You sound really nice, Don. Maybe the four of us can get together back in L.A.” 

“That sounds enchanting,” I said. (Bond. James Bond.) “Meanwhile, I’ll tell Stan you’re looking for Livvy.” She thanked me and rang off.

Well, of course I never did get to go on a double date with Linda Ronstadt and Olivia Newton-John (and Stan); and Liv never did make it to Vegas, going instead to the Philippines to fill in for Linda on a concert gig; and when Stan and Liv broke up shortly thereafter, I was more upset than either of them.

Probably.