Dean and Me: A Love Story by James Kaplan, Jerry Lewis Page A
Authors: James Kaplan, Jerry Lewis
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Copacabana, starting in April 1948, at $2,500 a week.
We were in!
With the following large caveat: If we hit big, we’d be the toast of the town—of
the
town. But if we fucked up, we’d just be toast.
No pressure!
Like almost every important nightclub of the 1940s—all right, like
every
important nightclub of the 1940s—the Copacabana was owned by the Mob. In this case, the proprietor was New York boss Frank Costello, although for appearance’ sake he had a front man, Jules Podell, a former bootlegger with a prison record. Julie, a would-be tough guy with a raspy basso voice and a huge star-sapphire pinky ring, was not renowned for his tolerance or sensitivity. Once, when Sammy Davis Jr.’s act ran long, Podell yelled, “Get off my stage, nigger!”
The Copa was the summit. The epitome of glamour and unstuffy sophistication. The gorgeous, scantily clad Copa chorus line was legendary. As were the audiences packed with every boldface name in the gossip columns—along with all of New York’s top mobsters and their girlfriends on Saturday nights. (Those same mobsters would bring back their wives and children on Sunday!)
And Dean and I were petrified that opening night. Or, I should say,
I
was petrified. Dean was his usual serene self—and as always, the calmer he looked, the more certain I was that something was cooking. I didn’t want to think too hard about that, though. I desperately needed that cool of his to keep a lid on my own anxiety.
The Copa was so big-time—and, even after our big first year and a half, we were so fresh on the New York scene—that we weren’t even the top-billed act. That honor went to a Broadway singing star named Vivian Blaine, who’d conquered Manhattan, gone out to Hollywood to make movies for 20th Century Fox, then returned to the Big Apple in triumph. Vivian was a lovely and very talented actress and singer, a sweet and vivacious woman whose hair was a remarkable color that the creative publicity department at Fox called “cherry blonde.” She would go on to have a very successful career, most notably starring as Miss Adelaide in both the Broadway and film versions of
Guys and Dolls
.
Which makes me feel a little less bad about what Dean and I did to her.
Vivian Blaine or no Vivian Blaine, second billing or no second billing, Dean and I knew only one way to go out onto the stage of the Copacabana, and that was with a big bang.
It was Thursday night, April 8, 1948. First show, 8:30 P.M. After the Copa Girls and the house singer had performed, I stepped out on stage, my heart in my mouth. I scanned that super-glamorous audience and saw my mother and father, Patti, and Dean’s wife, Betty. Not to mention every heavy hitter in show business. There wasn’t a nobody in the joint—it was all somebodies. I saw Billy Rose, Walter Winchell, Milton Berle—all of them (except, of course, our families) there to see Vivian Blaine. And I stepped up to the mike and spoke.
You’re all
wrong
!
“My father always said, ‘When you play the Copa, son, you’ll be playing to the cream of show business,’” I told the audience.
My dad smiled. I looked out over the crowd, made a face, and shifted into a Yiddish accent: “Dis is
krim
?”
The crowd went nuts.
I did a few bits, then introduced my partner. Dean came up on my right and said, “How long we been on?”
When the laughter faded a little, he asked me, “Are you gonna be out here for a while?”
“No, I’ve got something to rinse out,” I said. “Sing something, why don’t you? They’re waiting!”
Then Dean sang “San Fernando Valley” and “Oh, Marie” and “Where or When”—and he sang wonderfully. Smooth, funny, sexy: The ladies, feeling as though they’d just discovered him and had him all to themselves, swooned. And then I stuck fake buckteeth in my mouth and careened around the Copa like a bat out of hell, knocking over busboys’ trays right and left, destroying crockery like I owned stock in
We were in!
With the following large caveat: If we hit big, we’d be the toast of the town—of
the
town. But if we fucked up, we’d just be toast.
No pressure!
Like almost every important nightclub of the 1940s—all right, like
every
important nightclub of the 1940s—the Copacabana was owned by the Mob. In this case, the proprietor was New York boss Frank Costello, although for appearance’ sake he had a front man, Jules Podell, a former bootlegger with a prison record. Julie, a would-be tough guy with a raspy basso voice and a huge star-sapphire pinky ring, was not renowned for his tolerance or sensitivity. Once, when Sammy Davis Jr.’s act ran long, Podell yelled, “Get off my stage, nigger!”
The Copa was the summit. The epitome of glamour and unstuffy sophistication. The gorgeous, scantily clad Copa chorus line was legendary. As were the audiences packed with every boldface name in the gossip columns—along with all of New York’s top mobsters and their girlfriends on Saturday nights. (Those same mobsters would bring back their wives and children on Sunday!)
And Dean and I were petrified that opening night. Or, I should say,
I
was petrified. Dean was his usual serene self—and as always, the calmer he looked, the more certain I was that something was cooking. I didn’t want to think too hard about that, though. I desperately needed that cool of his to keep a lid on my own anxiety.
The Copa was so big-time—and, even after our big first year and a half, we were so fresh on the New York scene—that we weren’t even the top-billed act. That honor went to a Broadway singing star named Vivian Blaine, who’d conquered Manhattan, gone out to Hollywood to make movies for 20th Century Fox, then returned to the Big Apple in triumph. Vivian was a lovely and very talented actress and singer, a sweet and vivacious woman whose hair was a remarkable color that the creative publicity department at Fox called “cherry blonde.” She would go on to have a very successful career, most notably starring as Miss Adelaide in both the Broadway and film versions of
Guys and Dolls
.
Which makes me feel a little less bad about what Dean and I did to her.
Vivian Blaine or no Vivian Blaine, second billing or no second billing, Dean and I knew only one way to go out onto the stage of the Copacabana, and that was with a big bang.
It was Thursday night, April 8, 1948. First show, 8:30 P.M. After the Copa Girls and the house singer had performed, I stepped out on stage, my heart in my mouth. I scanned that super-glamorous audience and saw my mother and father, Patti, and Dean’s wife, Betty. Not to mention every heavy hitter in show business. There wasn’t a nobody in the joint—it was all somebodies. I saw Billy Rose, Walter Winchell, Milton Berle—all of them (except, of course, our families) there to see Vivian Blaine. And I stepped up to the mike and spoke.
You’re all
wrong
!
“My father always said, ‘When you play the Copa, son, you’ll be playing to the cream of show business,’” I told the audience.
My dad smiled. I looked out over the crowd, made a face, and shifted into a Yiddish accent: “Dis is
krim
?”
The crowd went nuts.
I did a few bits, then introduced my partner. Dean came up on my right and said, “How long we been on?”
When the laughter faded a little, he asked me, “Are you gonna be out here for a while?”
“No, I’ve got something to rinse out,” I said. “Sing something, why don’t you? They’re waiting!”
Then Dean sang “San Fernando Valley” and “Oh, Marie” and “Where or When”—and he sang wonderfully. Smooth, funny, sexy: The ladies, feeling as though they’d just discovered him and had him all to themselves, swooned. And then I stuck fake buckteeth in my mouth and careened around the Copa like a bat out of hell, knocking over busboys’ trays right and left, destroying crockery like I owned stock in
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