Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me... (25 page)

Liza's nightclub appearance was but a single night at a large hotel. That was easy. What was more important was that she stayed a few extra days to see the samba parade, giving them millions of dollars in free publicity. Invitations arrived every day: to loll in the shadows of Corcovado on a two-hundred-foot yacht (this exquisite boat was longer than a city block and seemed to have more servants than guests—a far cry from Charlie Wacker's washout), to elegant dinner parties attended by the rich and beautiful, to Carnival balls and posh nightclubs. There were photographers everywhere.
Hello
magazine would have its pages filled.

No one I met seemed to have anything on his or her mind but dating and mating, dressing or undressing, and staying out all night. It was party time, and it was irresistible to me in a way like never before. Rio's sensuality got under my skin, into my very soul, and the message it conveyed was relax and enjoy. It was as far from my normal as I'd ever been, and since I thought it unlikely I would ever again see anything like it, I surrendered to it. I bought floaty scarves, diaphanous blouses, and string bikinis; I had my hair washed in mango shampoo; and I fell in love with a beautiful man. He was my dinner partner at a party in Liza's honor given by a wealthy entrepreneur to introduce Li to Rio society. How lovely, I thought.

I'd been divorced for several years, had done some dating, had had quite a few affairs; the one with David that was a disaster, one or two others that were heartbreakers. One of them was with a music mogul who had it all. He was gorgeous, brilliant, rich, charming—and drunk. All the time. It took me a while to figure it out because he was high-functioning and so successful. Another heartbreaker was with a concert promoter who had unlimited potential that would never be realized because he was controlled by his upbringing. He could not see beyond the Midwest. These affairs were disappointing, and they hurt me. And then there were a number of affairs that were bores and not worth a sentence. No one mattered at the moment. Go for it, I told myself.

To start with, this man was beautiful: tall and slim, with a playboy appeal minus the tackiness. He had perfect clothes, a perfect Porsche, perfect manners, even the latest, most perfect tapes—Helen Reddy, Al Green, Rod Stewart—to play as we drove into the mountains to look up at the favelas, and down at the lights in the skyline that framed the beach. We covered all the ground in conversation: from politics (Brazil was fertile ground for that) to sex. After four glorious nights spent dining in lovely restaurants and dancing in chic clubs, it was time to know him better, but I couldn't give myself to him. This perfect playboy will break my heart, and it isn't worth it, I decided. I wasn't liberated enough to be a man's one-night stand. Hell, I wasn't brave enough! It was my survival instinct. I decided to test him. If he came to New York, I would rethink the matter.

He did come to New York, and he looked as good on our shores as he did in Ipanema. Again I was a gutless, spineless simp, scared to be hurt. I was imagining I would be merely another notch on his bedpost, and I hadn't as yet come to the mind-set that wanted him as a notch on my own. In personal matters my feminist ideology was still fighting my upbringing. He was the one that got away. One good thing: He will always remain perfect.

*   *   *

Liza was the fount of my fun perks for the first four years in the seventies. It was like working with Lady Bountiful. I got off on it as long as nothing interfered with the work. It was important that every engagement start on time, and that in each performance she give 100 percent. And she did. However, the fun gradually did start to interfere, and I watched the balance between us change. We were going in different directions. She was always on her way to a party. Sometimes I couldn't reach her for days. I began believing the party mentality was getting in the way of her judgment. That was no fun for me. The uh-oh moment came when her conductor confirmed Liza was definitely using cocaine. No longer a rumor, it helped to explain why everything was becoming more difficult, why she would disappear, why a week of phone calls went unanswered.

One night I collected her at Halston's apartment to take her to a meeting. The great designer was now doing all of Liza's clothes. I remember chatting amiably in his living room filled with people and tall white flowers. No one there made any sense. They were all happy, however, even though their feet weren't quite touching the ground.

In Paris we stayed at the grand Plaza-Ath
é
n
é
e, where I met Charles Aznavour, who was occupying every minute of Li's free time. Although Liza didn't discuss her affairs with me, and I didn't try to peek, I was told by members of the band that Li and the French troubadour were a hot item. Unlike me, Li had no difficulty climbing into bed at the drop of a hello. Neither had Judy. They definitely had that in common, and I was just starting to be in awe of women who could do that.

In Berlin the American ambassador invited us to dine. In Hamburg we were given a grand tour of infamous St. Pauli, the red-light district. In Vienna I drowned, delightfully, in hazelnut torte
mit schlag
. I felt like royalty: Li was the new princess on the scene, and I was thrilled to be a lady-in-waiting. But my princess didn't need much attending to during the day, so I was more like a lady of leisure. I went to wonderful restaurants for lunch and shopped in fabulous stores while Liza slept in. She was happy to hang out in the hotel. Sightseeing wasn't her trip, but she knew the city by night in a way I never would. It was the nightlife that made her tick. The rest of the clock could get stuffed. After performing, she never lacked company to run with, to drink with, or to sleep with if she chose. She continued to be “in like” for one night at a time with our musicians, and some that were not ours. If the performance was good, I had no reason to complain. Her shows continued to sell out, and everywhere we went, audiences adored her. It was first class all the way, including my travel, which was paid for by promoters happy with their profits. For a latchkey kid from Washington Heights, this was living large.

*   *   *

The good thing about Europe was that once our plane departed, the new friends that came backstage waved good-bye. It was different touring in the United States. Once we got into big arenas and big money, she had constant traveling companions. We were on groupie overload. I was never able to manage the freeloaders, glad-handers, and hangers-on that showed up on our chartered planes.

I had negotiated an arrangement with one of the airlines to fulfill all our touring needs; excellent for them because they had planes to deadhead back to points of origin, for which we more than paid the gas bill; excellent for us because there was always a plane waiting for us on the tarmac at 1:00 a.m. after a concert.

These charters accommodated approximately seventy-five people. With the orchestra, hairdresser, makeup artist, and other necessary personnel, we filled forty seats, but usually the plane was close to maxed out. Who were these strangely dressed people with us who were loaded all the time? Were we carrying drugs? Or transporting minors over state lines? The airline was happy to have our business, and they asked no questions, but I worried—a lot, for I knew the answer to every question was yes.

I had become a spectator at a movable feast. The party started at the beginning of a tour, and three months later it was still going on. I didn't cause Liza to drink or do cocaine; I couldn't control it, and I couldn't cure it. I knew that. I'd learned that with Judy. But with Judy I tried to change things. Granted, I couldn't. But at least I tried. With Liza I didn't even try. And we both paid the price.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Success Effect

Lucky me! I had two personal clients gracing the covers of important national magazines: Liza on the cover of
Time
and
Newsweek
in the same week, and Bob Redford on the cover of
Life.
Life was good. I was representing two of the most sought-after stars in America. Boy, was I full of myself! Enjoy the moment, I told myself; it won't last forever. Was that prescient! But for seven years, beginning in 1968, I did enjoy it. I milked it. I accepted congratulations and patted myself on the back all around the industry. How much of it was I really responsible for? Bearing in mind that I was not the one with a talent for anything but organization, I would have to say that the answer is Not very much. However, I have observed that people who do nothing don't get lucky often. I worked hard for my luck. I scoured the pages for source material: newspapers, magazines, books, treatments, and ideas—anything that could be put into development.

The good times continued to roll professionally because my clients were talented. Liza and Bob Fosse, a client of Sue's, collaborated on the extremely successful TV show
Liza with a Z
, which won every kind of Emmy Award. All I can boast about is that I brought Liza, along with her hard work and considerable talent, to a place where the sale of this show could profitably be made. The show itself was a delightful song-and-dance program that showcased all of Fosse's signature moves, and I loved sitting in the audience of a Broadway theater all day long and watching this remarkable performance as it was being filmed. It was remarkable as well that the invited audience was also willing to sit there all day—eight hours with only a few breaks—in fact grateful to be there. They got their money's worth without having paid admission.

Fosse knew all the great dancers in New York, and to the last they clamored to work with him in spite of the fact that he was an extremely hard taskmaster whose withering glances and scorching remarks—all delivered in muted tones—could reduce even the best dancers to ashes. He could look at a dancer giving her all, and observe in an offhand way. One example of his largesse: “We'll wait while so and so discovers where her feet are!” Killer remarks like that.

I wore my clients' enormous success like a label sewn outside my clothes wherever I went, and as a result of the reputation I was acquiring, decided this was the moment in which to make my assault on the music industry. Rock-and-roll clients were now ripe for the picking. And it was the last unbreached male bastion. I realized that since there were no women in the front offices of the record business, I would be a novelty. There was an intriguing conversation to be had about music stars writing film scores and maybe even playing featured roles in films. Now, in the seventies, this was a far more tantalizing conversation for musicians than that of, say, Premier Talent, which could only offer tour booking. Mention major motion pictures and every rock star's manager's tongue started to hang out.

*   *   *

Socializing with people in the new rock and roll brought me to a party where I met my next husband. He is not worth wasting too many words on. The music business, I discovered, was a place where managers were skimming off the top, taking from the bottom, and squeezing the artists in the middle. It was corrupt, and so was the handsome devil I married, who was in the thick of it. It wasn't long after I discovered suitcases stuffed with money coming home from concerts that I also learned my latest love had embezzled from his company, Premier Talent, and his partner did not take kindly to it. Freddie insisted I utilize the negotiating skills of the law firm CMA retained to keep my husband out of jail.

As if that wasn't humiliating enough, it got worse as he watched me thrive while he continued to fail. I held on as long as I could because of the two children we'd had, but after he tried cheating Uncle Sam I threw him out.

Alas, I'd given my children a crook as a father, and that has resounded throughout my life. In the midst of all the good times, he was one of the worst mistakes I ever made, and I've suffered for it. Sometimes what the universe so generously gives with one hand, it selfishly takes back with the other.

Having said that, I can't complain about how I was treated by the rest of the music crowd, either in New York, where the record executives resided, or in London, where the music managers lived. With CMA's client list on the tip of my tongue—Newman, Redford, Pacino, Streisand, Minnelli—and having been married to a rogue in the music business, a lot of those folks knew who I was. They had used me and my marital problems as convenient gossip. It was my entr
é
e. Well, whatever works! And it did.

Besides Bowie, I harvested another big signing: With the help of a friend and agent in our music division, Vincent Romeo, Cat Stevens became a client of mine. Before becoming Yusuf Islam, a prominent convert to Islam, he recorded one hit album after another in a soft style uniquely his own. I loved his work, and I never got a chance to tell him so in person. In the music business one mostly dealt with the managers rather than the clients. Stevens had an amusing manager, Barry Krost, whom I enjoyed spending time with whenever we were on the same coast. Krost had droll comments on everyone's style in the music industry while affecting an eye-catching style of his own. Little did I know that he would one day end up representing Liza instead of me. Still, though it might sound improbable, I think of him fondly.

*   *   *

And then in 1972 Liza won the Academy Award for
Cabaret
, and she was, for a showbiz moment, the biggest star in Hollywood. She was stunning in the role of Sally Bowles. Although the song “Cabaret” is its hugely popular number—due largely to Liza's rendition—it is the song “Don't Tell Mama” (not included in the movie version) that for me epitomizes Liza, for in real life she was the child-woman who worried about what her mama thinks. Never for me was there a song that more perfectly fitted the play—and also the girl playing the role. It was completely true to her character in real life. Liza, masquerading as a grown-up—doing grown-up things, both good and nasty—while beneath the facade is little more than a lonely little girl, a lost soul.