Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (19 page)

Will said, “You two go on upstairs. I’ll be along in a minute. I want to look around here a bit.”

My father and I went ahead. There was still almost an hour to kill but we began dressing leisurely. Will came upstairs at a run. “Well, I’ve seen it all now.” He was out of breath from excitement. “I walked around backstage and took a peep out front and you oughta see what’s going on. This place is loaded with the biggest names in the business from Martin and Lewis right on down the line. They all came over from the Academy Awards.”

I’d known it was going to be a pretty big opening because Janis Paige was very “in” with the Hollywood group, but I should have realized that with half of Hollywood out on the town Ciro’s was the logical place for them to wind up their evening. “What’s it like down there, Massey?”

“Elegant! We never played anything like this before, I can tell you that. It’s got the French menus and the captains in tails and the customers are dressed to the teeth. This place is about as high class as you can get, and they got the highest class prices, too. I saw one of those menus …”

He was still talking but I leaned back in my chair and began picturing it for myself. I could imagine the stars sitting in the audience when we came out. I could hear them applauding us and yelling for more….

There is never a night that a supporting act opens anywhere that he, she, or they don’t think, “This is the night. This is the time we hit that stage and the audience won’t let us off. They’ll stand up and cheer and no act will be able to follow us. Then, tomorrow night
we’ll
be the star attraction, the Headliners, and we’ll close the show. And from then on, we’ll be stars.” This is the dream of every supporting act just as every Broadway understudy fancies the night Ethel Merman will be caught in a blizzard in Connecticut and she’ll have to go on in her place, and she’ll be so great that the critics will cheer “Better than Merman!” and columnists will rush to their papers to report “A star is born!” It happens only once in a thousand openings, to only one out of thousands of performers—just often enough to keep the dream alive in all the others.

But the kind of applause that would make that happen, the kind that was thundering in my imagination couldn’t possibly come just from doing a dance or sounding like Jimmy Stewart. There had to be that extra thing, the communication between performer and audience that’s so strong he gets right inside of them and they like him personally, they feel for him. I tried to picture myself in front of the audience, touching the people, manipulating their emotions the way I’d watched Mickey and Frank do over and over again—but how?

My father was dressed and standing against the wall, absorbed in his own thoughts.

“Dad, how do you touch them?”

He looked up and gave me what I’d gotten so many times before,
the helpless look, the groping for words and explanations that simply were not his to give and then finally, “Well—you give ‘em your best and—well that’s all you can do, son.”

I was sorry I’d asked and again put him in the position of being unable to come through for me. I nodded like “I guess that’s it,” but we both knew it wasn’t and I leaned back in the chair, wondering, “What
is
it? How do you touch them?”

Will said, “We better go down, now.” At the bottom of the stairs, we took a final look at each other. My father reached down and picked a piece of lint off my pants. Then he stood there for a second looking at me, smiling. “You think we’re too high class for the room, Poppa?”

As we got backstage I could hear the nightclub sounds: hundreds of forks and knives scraping dinner plates, cups sliding onto saucers, a thousand swirling ice cubes clinking against the sides of glasses, the hiss of soda bottles being opened, the like-no-other-sound of champagne corks popping, the slooshing of the bottles sliding into buckets of ice, cigarette lighters clicking open, hundreds of voices talking and laughing—the place was packed.

We were so nervous we were doing bits with each other to break the tension, the corniest lines in the world. “Hey, Massey, you nervous?”

He shrugged. “I ain’t nervous.”

“Well, maybe
you
ain’t nervous but yo’ knees sho’ is.”

My father asked,
“You
nervous, Poppa?”

“Hell, I ain’t nervous ‘bout nothin’.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, you better
git
nervous ‘cause we’s in a
lotta
trouble …”

We were lapsing into the deepest Amos ‘n’ Andy talk, something Negroes do among themselves when they’re nervous but happy. Maybe there’s a psychological reason behind it, perhaps it makes us feel safe, closer to our roots. I don’t know. But there are times when “colored talk” serves the moment as nothing else can.

The musicians were putting our music on their stands. Dick Stabile began our introduction. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think you’re going to be knocked out by these guys who are coming on now. I played their music this afternoon and they’re something to watch. Here they come …” He hit the first few notes of “Dancing Shoes,” our opening number. Once again this was
the
important show, it was all the shows we would ever do in our lives. My father
and Will moved out into our opening number and they were never better. Eight bars later I joined them and we might have been barefoot on hot sand, our feet weren’t on the stage as much as they were in the air. We’d started probably faster than any act this crowd had ever seen and we kept increasing the pace, trying as we never had before. We finished the opening number, and characteristic of colored acts we didn’t wait to enjoy the applause before we were off and dancing again, first Will, then my dad and then me. We were fighting for our lives and our frenzy of movement got to the audience from the moment we started until soon it was like they were out of breath trying to keep up with us. The applause was great when my father and Will finished their numbers. Then they stepped back. As I introduced the impressions my speech was perfect. I did Sinatra and they screamed. I went through the rest of the singers, and by the time I finished Satchmo they were pounding the tables so hard I could see the silverware jumping up and down. I switched into the movie stars, first Bogart, then Garfield—suddenly I felt the whole room shifting toward me. They were no longer just sitting back watching, amused. From one second to another they’d become involved with me. They were reacting to everything, catching every inflection, every little move and gesture, concentrating, leaning in as though they wanted to push, to help. I was touching them. It was the most glorious moment I’d ever known—
I was really honest to God touching them
.

We swung into our dances again, never letting them catch up with us or grow tired of anything, switching and changing the pace like broken field runners going the whole hundred yards.

When we finished, after being on for forty minutes, they wouldn’t let us stay off. It was as though they knew something big was happening to us and they wanted to be a part of it. They kept applauding, and began beating on the tables with knives and forks and their fists, screaming for us to come back. My father and Will stood in the wings, hesitating. We’d already taken our two bows but a man with a gun couldn’t have held me back. I looked at my father. “To hell with her contract. I ain’t gonna miss this for
nobody!!!”
We went out twice more. They kept shouting for an encore. I’d already done every impression I’d ever tried. But we had to do something so I did Jerry Lewis which I had never done before. The sight of a colored Jerry Lewis was the absolute topper. It was
over
. When I heard that
scream I knew we’d had it. There was nothing we could do that would top that!

We’d taken eight bows. I was hugging Massey and my dad, half-laughing, half-crying. “I touched them, Dad, I touched them!” He understood. “Yes, Poppa, you touched ‘em. And they reached out and touched you, too.” He was right. Oh, God, he was right. They really had!

Janis Paige was in the wings waiting to go on to close the show, giving us glares like the world has never seen. She was so upset she sang off key for fifteen minutes. She couldn’t even get their attention. It was strictly our night, there was a post-pandemonium atmosphere out there and she was just one girl coming on to sing after three strong, hungry men had just given the show of their lives. No one could have followed us then.

We stayed up until eight o’clock and the three of us went out and bought every newspaper and trade paper that had just come out. We brought them back to Will’s room. I turned to Herb Stein’s review in the
Hollywood Reporter
and read out loud: “Once in a long time an artist hits town and sends the place on its ear. Such a one is young Sammy Davis, Jr. of the Will Mastin Trio at Ciro’s.” Paul Coates’ column in the
Mirror:
“The surprise sensation of the show was the Will Mastin Trio, a father-uncle-son combination that is the greatest act Hollywood has seen in some months … left the audiences begging for more.” And
Daily Variety:
“The Will Mastin Trio is a riotous group of Negro song and dance men whose enthusiasm, brightness, and obvious love for show business combine to form an infectious charm which wins the audience in a flash … walloping success….”

Will was reading the Los Angeles
Times
. “Listen to this from Walter Ames’ column: The Will Mastin Trio, featuring dynamic Sammy Davis, Jr., are such show-stoppers at Ciro’s that star Janis Paige has relinquished the closing spot to them.’ ”

It was almost nine o’clock. We called Mr. Silber. “It’s true,” he said. “I thought you’d be sleeping or I’d have called you. Starting tonight you close the show. It would be impossible to continue the way it was. Naturally she keeps top billing but Hover’s putting your name in the same size letters. That’s a big concession because her contract guarantees her name to be fifty per cent larger than the supporting act, but it was the only thing to do.”

He congratulated each of us. To me he said, “You’ve earned
what’s happened and nobody could be happier for you than I am. I know how you guys worked to get to this point. I know how hard it’s been.”

I was shocked to hear myself saying, “It wasn’t that bad.” Only a few weeks before we had been in Vegas feeling abused, hurt, and angry. At that time I could have made a list of every bug-infested mattress we’d slept on for ten thousand nights. I knew every heartache, frustration, and pain, every brush-off which had tormented us for twenty-three years. They had scarred deep, and forgetting them seemed as impossible as undoing them. But as we sat in Will’s room reading those reviews the novocaine of success had already begun numbing our memories, making the past indistinct until miraculously there were no yesterdays.

A quiet tension filled the dressing room as we got ready. I nudged my father. “Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if last night never really happened and
tonight
is the opening?”

As we hit the stage I could feel something going for us that we’d never had before. The audience was presold by word of mouth and the reviews, we weren’t starting from scratch any more, we didn’t have to get lucky and strike that one moment in a million when you go off like a Roman candle. We had only to confirm what they’d heard, and it’s a lot easier to please the public when the experts have already said you’re good.

The night before, we’d gotten our strength from sheer desperation. This was still in evidence. We worked with everything we had, as hard, maybe harder but with the added power of knowing we belonged. We weren’t trying to kill the ball any more and we gave an absolutely flawless performance.

I was hanging my jacket on a hook in our “dressing room” when I heard someone clearing his throat. Jerry Lewis was banging his fist against the wall. He grinned. “I’d knock on the door if you had one. May I come in?”

“Mr. Lewis! Of course. Please!” I pulled up a chair and almost pushed him into it.

“Don’t give me a Mister. I’m a Jerry not a Mister. How can we be friends if we’re misters and you’ll call me up ‘Hello, Mister, let’s have dinner tonight.’ ” He smiled. “I came back because I love the act and if you don’t mind I’d like to give you a little advice.”

“Mind? My God. Are you kidding? Please do.”

He shouted,
“Get outa the business!”
He jumped up and kicked me. “I don’t
need
such competition, I don’t
want
it, I was doing fine. Who asked you to come along?” I broke up. The idea of him sitting in our ridiculous dressing room and doing bits with me was too much.

After a while he said, “But I really do have a few suggestions. Now listen, you shouldn’t hit me in the mouth from what I’ll tell you ‘cause it’s only good I mean you. Okay? Samele, you’re a great performer, but you’re making some mistakes. I’ll tell you what I saw and maybe you’ll change a few little shtick, it’ll be nice, it’ll be better for the act the people should like you even more.” He reached into his pocket and took out a wad of notes. “First of all, you talk too good.”

My back went up. “That’s how I speak. What do you expect me to say, ‘Yassuh ladies an’ gen’men’? Look, I appreciate your interest, but not all Negroes talk that way …”

“Ah hah! You promised you wouldn’t make an angry. But I’ll forgive you. Just listen to yourself. You don’t talk that way now, in here with me. You talk nice, like a regula fella. But I know Englishmen who don’t talk as good as you did onstage with such an accent. Sam, people don’t go for that English crap, not from you and me.”

He’d said, “You and me.” He wasn’t putting us down as another Negro act that should shuffle around and say, “Yassuh, folks.” He was speaking as one performer to another.

“I don’t mean you should come on and do Amos and Andy. I just mean you talk
too
good! Let’s face it, American you are, but the Duke of Windsor you ain’t!”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Sammy, you walk on and you say, ‘Ah, yes, hello there, ladies and gentlemen.’ That’s an English actor! Forget it. Nobody is gonna like a guy who sings and dances and tells jokes as good as you and who talks that good, too. You want mass appeal! You can’t afford to make the average guy feel like he’s an illiterate. You’ve got to bring yourself down. Not colored, but a little less grand …” His “Jerry Lewis” character was gone, there was no comic dialect. “When you figure they like you, when you’ve got them, and they’re thinking: ‘Hey, this guy’s okay, he’s like me,’
then
you can switch it and talk good. When they figure you’re just a simple kind of a bum, then surprise them with it. But save it, hold it back, let it work for you.”