because Frankie Presto was never that innocent.
Huh? . . . Sure. Here’s an example. I love this story. We were in California. This was in February of 1959. I’ll tell you why I remember in a second. I had signed Frankie the year before, when he came to my office and said he’d been in Elvis Presley’s band. I was representing a lot of acts, but you mentioned Elvis, you got in the door.
Frankie could really sing—he stood by my desk and did “You Are My Special Angel,” his hands crossed in front of him, and it knocked me out—and obviously he was a good-looking kid. I knew I could make money with that face. I had a secretary, and every time Frankie dropped by, I thought she was gonna faint. He later got involved with her and broke her heart, like he usually did.
Over the years, I saw him with a lot of women like that, secretaries, waitresses, hotel receptionists. He was like a machine, honest to God, I wish I had that energy. His longtime girl left him just before his career took off, and I used to say, “Kid, if you’re trying to get back at her, I think you won.”
And he’d say, “Oh, Leonard, come on.”
That was Frankie. He called me Leonard. Everyone else called me Tappy, ’cause I was always tapping my foot or my fingers, a nervous habit, look, even now, I’m doing it, see? But Frankie was different. Crazy. Mashuga . But I loved him. He had heart. The world forgot about him, and that’s a shame. Him dying like this? It’s tragic. . . .
What’s that, now? . . . Oh, yeah. So in California in those days there was this circuit of county fairs, where they had amusement rides and zoo animals—goats, horses, all that crap—but at night, to keep the teenagers interested, they had rock and roll shows. And I booked Frankie on one with, lemme see, the Drifters maybe, the Everly Brothers, Eddie Cochran, Buddy Knox, Fats Domino, a few others. They’d each do two songs. A real assembly line.
Anyhow, the promoter for this circuit was a Romanian—big, hairy guy with a mustache. He ran the whole thing. The animals, the rides— and the music. All the money went to him. Every night the workers had to line up to get paid, waiting in his tent until all the receipts were counted. He kept the money in this one gray cash box, and with this big cigar in his mouth, he’d count out every dollar. Meanwhile he kept the tent boiling hot—he even had heat blowers going—so that the workers would get so hot and fed up, they’d leave. But Frankie stayed. Him and the Everly Brothers, Phil and Donald—Don, they called him. They stood there on the first night, sweating until they were soaked. But when they finally reached the front, the Romanian had given out all the money from the cash box.
“I’ll pay you tomorrow,” he said.
Well, they put up with this for four straight days. Same routine. “I’ll pay you tomorrow.” Finally, it’s the last show on that circuit. Frankie and the Everly boys were beside themselves now. Frankie loved the Everlys. He said they were better musicians than they let on, which was the case with him, too, you know. I heard Frankie sing their song once, “All I Have to Do Is Dream”—honest to God, it made you weep. His voice? That song? I told him, “Frankie, lemme record that with you,” but he refused because—get this—he met the couple who wrote it, a husband-and-wife team, and he said the woman told him she’d dreamed of her husband’s face when she was eight years old, and when she was nineteen, she saw it across a room, and they’d been together ever since. True story. That’s where the “all I have to do is dream” part comes from.
Anyhow, Frankie said a song like that should only have one home, just like the couple only had each other. So he wouldn’t record it because the Everly Brothers already had. Of course about a thousand other people have recorded it since. He had more heart than brains, Frankie, but what are you gonna do?
Huh? . . . Oh, yeah.
Huh? . . . Sure. Here’s an example. I love this story. We were in California. This was in February of 1959. I’ll tell you why I remember in a second. I had signed Frankie the year before, when he came to my office and said he’d been in Elvis Presley’s band. I was representing a lot of acts, but you mentioned Elvis, you got in the door.
Frankie could really sing—he stood by my desk and did “You Are My Special Angel,” his hands crossed in front of him, and it knocked me out—and obviously he was a good-looking kid. I knew I could make money with that face. I had a secretary, and every time Frankie dropped by, I thought she was gonna faint. He later got involved with her and broke her heart, like he usually did.
Over the years, I saw him with a lot of women like that, secretaries, waitresses, hotel receptionists. He was like a machine, honest to God, I wish I had that energy. His longtime girl left him just before his career took off, and I used to say, “Kid, if you’re trying to get back at her, I think you won.”
And he’d say, “Oh, Leonard, come on.”
That was Frankie. He called me Leonard. Everyone else called me Tappy, ’cause I was always tapping my foot or my fingers, a nervous habit, look, even now, I’m doing it, see? But Frankie was different. Crazy. Mashuga . But I loved him. He had heart. The world forgot about him, and that’s a shame. Him dying like this? It’s tragic. . . .
What’s that, now? . . . Oh, yeah. So in California in those days there was this circuit of county fairs, where they had amusement rides and zoo animals—goats, horses, all that crap—but at night, to keep the teenagers interested, they had rock and roll shows. And I booked Frankie on one with, lemme see, the Drifters maybe, the Everly Brothers, Eddie Cochran, Buddy Knox, Fats Domino, a few others. They’d each do two songs. A real assembly line.
Anyhow, the promoter for this circuit was a Romanian—big, hairy guy with a mustache. He ran the whole thing. The animals, the rides— and the music. All the money went to him. Every night the workers had to line up to get paid, waiting in his tent until all the receipts were counted. He kept the money in this one gray cash box, and with this big cigar in his mouth, he’d count out every dollar. Meanwhile he kept the tent boiling hot—he even had heat blowers going—so that the workers would get so hot and fed up, they’d leave. But Frankie stayed. Him and the Everly Brothers, Phil and Donald—Don, they called him. They stood there on the first night, sweating until they were soaked. But when they finally reached the front, the Romanian had given out all the money from the cash box.
“I’ll pay you tomorrow,” he said.
Well, they put up with this for four straight days. Same routine. “I’ll pay you tomorrow.” Finally, it’s the last show on that circuit. Frankie and the Everly boys were beside themselves now. Frankie loved the Everlys. He said they were better musicians than they let on, which was the case with him, too, you know. I heard Frankie sing their song once, “All I Have to Do Is Dream”—honest to God, it made you weep. His voice? That song? I told him, “Frankie, lemme record that with you,” but he refused because—get this—he met the couple who wrote it, a husband-and-wife team, and he said the woman told him she’d dreamed of her husband’s face when she was eight years old, and when she was nineteen, she saw it across a room, and they’d been together ever since. True story. That’s where the “all I have to do is dream” part comes from.
Anyhow, Frankie said a song like that should only have one home, just like the couple only had each other. So he wouldn’t record it because the Everly Brothers already had. Of course about a thousand other people have recorded it since. He had more heart than brains, Frankie, but what are you gonna do?
Huh? . . . Oh, yeah.
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