Dynomite!: Good Times, Bad Times, Our Times--A Memoir (11 page)

When Brenner became a regular guest on the
Mike Douglas Show
, which taped in his hometown of Philly, he put in a good word for me. After weeks of needling producer Ernie DiMassa and talent coordinator Vince Calandra (who had the same job for Ed Sullivan when the Beatles were booked), he finagled me an audition. In front of an audience of about forty people, all of whom were also auditioning, I did a great set—killed, destruction, even with the hard-nosed show biz crowd.

Went to an all-black school. Put on a production of
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
. The dwarfs were black. We had to bus in Snow White.

When I got back to the Improv, Brenner asked how it went. I said, “I think it went well but no one’s called.” He phoned DiMassa and asked what was up. DiMassa told him, “Yes, he was funny. But he’s too black.”

Brenner answered, “Yes, Ernie, that’s because he IS black!”

Compared to others in comedy at the time, I
was
too black. Even with smoothing out my material and attitude from my Last Poets days, I was too caustic for mainstream TV. I also looked younger than nearly any other comic besides Freddie—I didn’t even wear a suit and tie on stage. The only comic around who was younger and blacker was Franklin Ajaye, who was far more political and scared the TV folks more than even Pryor did. One of my favorite jokes from him was:

These police will arrest you for anything. I was in LA the other day with a friend and they arrested us for being two niggers on a sunny day. We were guilty!

I wasn’t jealous of the others getting on national TV. I was happy for them. We were friends. When one of them scored, it was a celebration for all of us. We would go down to the tapings and sit in the audience to root them on. I figured my turn would come—someday. Brenner never stopped encouraging me: “Don’t worry, you’ll get on. I’ll push for you.”

Being young, black, and cool was an advantage in getting one sort of job though. I met a woman who worked for Columbia Records, which was run by Clive Davis, and she asked if I would emcee at a signing party at Max’s Kansas City on Park Avenue South for one of the label’s new artists. “A hundred dollars? Sure,” I said.

Five guys walked on stage. They wore what we then called braids but later knew as dreadlocks. A haze of pungent smoke surrounded them, which I recognized as weed, but they called ganja. They played a style of music few people had really ever heard before—reggae. When the band finished, the crowd was stunned; no one applauded. No one knew what to think of what they had just seen and heard. Only when Clive jumped on stage and said, “Aren’t they great!” was there cheering. Obviously Columbia in 1972 was not the place for Bob Marley and the Wailers.

There was a better reaction for a guy from Jersey by the name of Bruce Springsteen. His performance was so amazing that the crowd of jaded music-industry types insisted on an encore. That was strong. But Springsteen was not my style. I was more excited when Columbia signed Earth, Wind & Fire and I performed at their signing party. I could not have known it at the time, but Marley, Springsteen, and Earth, Wind & Fire would all get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Finally, one night at the Improv Brenner accosted Tom O’Malley, the talent coordinator for
Jack Paar Tonite
.

“Hey, how about Jimmie Walker for your show?”

“I don’t like him,” O’Malley said. “He’s too angry.”

Nevertheless, Brenner persisted and arranged an audition. When I arrived at their offices, I was sent to a sterile room with only one person—not O’Malley—sitting in a chair behind a desk and eating a sandwich from the Stage Deli. His name was Hal Gurnee, and he had directed the
Tonight Show
in the Paar era and now was back with him.

I said, “Hi, I’m . . . ”

He interrupted. “I know who you are. You’re that Jimmie Walker guy everyone’s been talking about around here.”

“Okay,” I said, surprised.

“Yeah, people tell us you’re a pain in the ass.”

“Oh,” I said. “So are we going to do the audition?”

“Let’s do it.”

“Where? Aren’t we going downstairs to the studio—where there’s an audience?”

“No,” he said. “Just do your bit right here. I’ve been in this business a long time. I know what’s funny.”

There is probably nothing harder for a comic than to perform for an audience of one. Laughter being contagious is a comic’s best friend. But I had no choice.

I was about three minutes into my routine when he stopped me.

“That’s enough.”

Damn, I had failed
, I thought.

“Can you do the show tonight?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah!”

“Okay, be back at five-thirty. See you then.”

My reaction was less “Wow!” than “About time!” I felt I deserved this chance. I had been mentally preparing for my TV debut for more than a year. Brenner, our ringleader, had been on Carson, Griffin, Douglas, and Sullivan, and he would constantly talk about what he had done and what he was about to do. So when you finally did get on a show, you already knew what was going to happen and what you needed to do.

I called my friend Marty Nadler, who did stand-up at the Improv and elsewhere when he wasn’t working at a crepes restaurant. “I got
Paar
!” I told him.

“When are you doing it? Next week?”

“Tonight!”

“Oh my God!”

“Marty, you have to take off from work and go down there with me.” He said he would and called another comic, the veteran Phil Foster, and they joined me. (Flash forward about three years: Phil would play Laverne’s father on
Laverne & Shirley
, where Marty would be a writer/producer.)

We arrived at Paar’s studio ready for the moment that could change my life.

“Don’t worry,” said Phil. “You’re funny. You’ve been doing this every night at clubs. What I want you to do is walk out and say, ‘I’m from the ghetto. I’m here on the exchange program.’ Take a beat and then say, ‘You can imagine what they sent back there.’ Open with that. It’ll kill. But have a big smile on your face.”

Standing backstage, suddenly I became a little anxious. Paar was walking over to me!

“I’ve heard nothing but good things about you,” he said. “I’ve had many comics like you on—Dick Gregory, Godfrey Cambridge, Richard Pryor.” I was relieved I had stopped using their material! He continued, “Everybody tells me you’re a little bit arrogant—but funny. That’s exactly what makes a good comedian. You’ll do great.”

Terrific. Now I had to be great!

He introduced me to the TV audience: “Here’s a funny guy who was a radio engineer here in New York and now he’s making his first appearance on network television. Please make him feel at home and welcome Jimmie Walker!”

I’m from the ghetto. I’m here on the exchange program.

Beat. Laughter.

You can imagine what they sent back there.

Big smile.

Big laugh! I felt like a boxer in the ring. All I needed was that first laugh and I was out there punching. I knew I did well because the laughs ate into my time and I never did all the material I planned.

I called Brenner afterward. “I already got the news,” he said. “You killed!”

Marty, Phil, and I were ecstatic. I went in early to the Improv and Budd was so happy for me. We turned on the TV in the club and everyone watched the show. I was on top of the world.

Then I heard the real story about how I got the audition. Brenner, Midler, and Landesberg—all of whom were regular guests on the show—had told O’Malley that if I did not at least get an audition then they would not do the show again.

I confronted Brenner.

“You’re our friend,” he explained. “That’s what we do.”

I was glad I did not know about their effort beforehand. If I had, the pressure of not letting them down might have crushed me.

A story later went around that Landesberg was with me at the show and after Paar said I’d do fine, Landesberg quipped, “Hey, if he bombs, he can still shine your shoes.” Funny line, but that did not happen.

The high from my debut did not last long. Brenner had warned that having enough good material for one shot was not enough. If you hit that first time, you would be asked back very quickly and other shows would be calling too. That first shot might not make a career if you had used all of your best stuff. Bombing the next time could undo everything.

A couple of comics from the Improv followed up with two of the worst shots in history. Marvin Braverman, one of the best stand-up comics I ever saw, was never able to overcome his Waterloo. Richard Lewis followed his first shot with an atrocious performance—beyond hideous—on the
Tonight Show
. He was a friend, so it was painful to watch. His career was set back for a while before he had another chance and eventually broke through.

You had to have six shots in the revolver, Brenner said. Some, like Seinfeld, were smart enough to wait and wait and wait until they had enough. Those forty minutes or so, not just the first six, separated the average comic from the star. Then you needed another ten minutes of material solely for the clubs, so people who saw you on TV could hear something new and different when they saw you in person.

I had my six shots ready. I was ready to fire away.

5

Kid Dyn-o-mite!

ONLY A MONTH OR SO LATER I WENT ON THE
PAAR
SHOW AGAIN.

“Here’s a guy who did great last time. One of the funniest young comics around . . . Jimmie Walker!”

I killed again. Thank you.

Dan Rowan called me at the Improv. “We saw you on the
Paar
show. We love what you do. We’re doing our last shows for NBC and want you to come out here and be on.”
Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In
had officially ended, but they were putting together variety specials as a farewell.
Opening Night, Rowan and Martin
would be shot in Los Angeles.

“Sure, send me a ticket.”

The next day at the Improv, Louie, the angry Puerto Rican cook who answered the phone during the day, yelled, “Package for you!”

Inside was a plane ticket to LA and instructions about a limo that would pick me up at the airport, about putting me up at the Sunset Hyatt House hotel on Sunset Boulevard, and so on. I thought, “I guess this is for real.” Here I was, a kid from the South Bronx who grew up never expecting anything out of life, never counted on anything, and now I was getting flown to LA, the Promised Land.

I was brought to the NBC studios in Burbank and met director Greg Garrison, a pioneering television comedy producer and director who had worked on such classics as
Your Show of Shows
and the
Dean Martin Show
. Garrison had done it all—had even directed one of the Kennedy-Nixon debates in 1 960—and he made sure you knew it. Oh, and he was wearing a safari hat à la Crocodile Dundee, baggy Jodhpur riding pants, and leather boots, and he carried a riding crop. Really. You cannot make this stuff up!

“I want to get this guy out of the way,” he said to his crew on the set. “We have a lot to do. Let’s get a few people in here for an audience. We don’t need cue cards for this.” He turned to me. “What’s your name? Jimmie? Jimmie Walker? We’ve carved out a spot for you in the show to do about four minutes. We’ll have you on right away.” I did my shot and it went well.

They have different commercials for shows for black people. I’m watching TV the other day and I saw one that goes, “Are those chitlins staining your dentures? Try new Chit Off! No chit!”

On my way to the commissary Garrison, who was chauffeured around the lot in a golf cart, drove up next to me.

“Okay, you got some laughs. So what? By the way, ‘no chit’? Out!” He looked at his driver. “Move on!”

That was my introduction to crazy Hollywood—I felt more comfortable on the stage of a comedy club. But doing TV helped me get better stand-up gigs. Among the best were for the Playboy Clubs, where years earlier Dick Gregory had replaced Professor Irwin Corey to become their first black comic, which was a major breakthrough. I played them across the country. Leno did too. I often called him Ray Peno because of an early routine he did about those clubs.

You see, there would be three main acts, one on each floor of the club, and each would do two shows each night at different start times. The opening-act comic would rotate from the top floor to the middle to the bottom and then back again in the other direction. On the stage at each room there was a sign announcing the act and a beautiful Playboy Bunny introduced you to the audience. One night, the Bunny looked at the sign that clearly read “Jay Leno,” a simple name, and said, “Hello. I’d like to bring on our next act—Jay Seno.”

After that act Jay went to the room for his next performance and told the Bunny, “It’s Jay Leno.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, no problem.”

She introduced him: “A very funny guy. Here he is—Bay Eno.”

So then he went to the next room and told the same Bunny, one more time, “My name is
Jay Leno
.”

“Okay, I got it.”

She introduced him: “One of our favorite funny people—Ray Peno.”

Ray Peno and I became fast friends. When I was in Boston, along with staying at the Leno Arms, his parents would take me and the other comics to their favorite restaurant, the Hilltop, to chow down on steak served on paper plates. Along with his comedy partner, a very funny guy named Bob Shaw, we played hootenanny nights at Harvard and the folk clubs in the area. Shaw had a bit about drugs that was so funny that when he did it at a folk club at the University of Maryland, the woman who booked the acts laughed so hard she really did break a rib. I would never have thought Leno would do what he later did to Shaw and a number of others in the comedy world—and that our friendship would end.

Another lucrative circuit involved those colleges. The comedy team of Joey Edmonds and Thom Curley played campuses across the country, and they suggested I contact an agent named Lou Johnson in Minneapolis. I sent him a kinescope of my
Paar
shots and, within an hour of receiving it, he called. I flew to Minneapolis for a showcase alongside B. B. King and singer Michael “Bluer than Blue” Smith for college entertainment bookers from the upper Plains States (Iowa, Minnesota, North and South Dakota). B. B. was the big winner, landing about 175 dates, but I was happy to leave with about 60. These were not fancy Playboy Clubs, however. Sometimes in one day at one college I did a show at noon in the school cafeteria, then opened for a ping-pong tournament in the afternoon and at night performed at the rathskeller. But a paying gig was a paying gig.