I Met the Walrus_ How One Day With John Lennon Changed My Life Forever - Jerry Levitan [30]
There I was amidst couples and groups of women crowding into the O’Keefe Centre to see Engelbert. The O’Keefe was the place big celebrities and shows would come to in Toronto. Richard Burton, who played King Arthur in Camelot, Harry Belafonte, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Count Basie all played there. I doubt anyone bought tickets just to see Mary Hopkin. The last time I had been there it was to see Danny Kaye with my family a few years back. My Dad took us to the side of the building to catch a glimpse of him. When he came out the stage door to a gaggle of mostly elderly fans, he did not stop and his bodyguard pushed them, including my father, away. I was having a radically different celebrity experience that day. At the front door I showed the Capitol Records card, and the usher called someone on his walkie-talkie. Within minutes a matronly woman arrived and I was whisked through the line and seated in the center seat, front row. No one will ever believe anything I say about this day, I thought.
I flipped the pages of the program and focused on Mary Hopkin. She was part of the Beatle family even if John preferred Yoko’s music. The lights dimmed and the familiar intro to “Those Were the Days” began and out walked the pale, blonder-than-blonde Mary Hopkin. She sang that song to rousing applause. Sitting there on top of the world, I really believed the life ahead of me would be glorious. “My next song,” she softly said into the huge microphone “was written by my friend Paul McCartney and is my new single.” The audience burst into applause, oohs, and aahs. For the second time that day I was hearing an Apple release in the presence of the artist. Mary Hopkin was no Beatle, but Paul’s unmistakable upbeat melody was there when she sang “Goodbye.” There was a short break between the acts, but I stayed glued to my seat. What would Engelbert be like, I thought. He was scary-looking on TV. I wondered if he was scarier in real life.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” an announcer boomed to the sound of timpani drums. “Mr. Engelbert Humperdinck!” I laughed out loud when he and his tuxedo oozed onto the stage carried by a sweltering orchestra. Women responded to his debonair style with shouts and threw their panties at him. “Release Me.” “There Goes My Everything.” “A Man Without Love.” “The Last Waltz.” I knew all of those songs—they got serious radio play. Impatiently I sat there, bouncing my legs as I did when I was nervous, wanting the time to pass by quickly so that I could go to the after-party.
At the end of his set, Engelbert faded into the curtain to the sound of adoring women. I got up and dashed to the PR man waiting in the wings. “Having a good time?” he asked, rubbing his hands and broadly smiling at me. He was balding in a George Costanza–like way, smelled of cologne, and wore a shiny gray suit. “Sure am!” I replied. “Well let’s have some more fun. We’re going to the party and you can be my photographer.” He took my arm and led me through the exiting stream of post-orgasmic women to a party room where there were hors d’oeuvres, canapés, champagne, oysters, shrimp. I had seen things like this on TV and in movies, but had never been exposed to it. Chopped liver on a Ritz was as fancy as it got.
People were lounging about the bar and at the center food table when a mad cluster of people blobbed through a door. Flashbulb bursts and applause greeted the great Engelbert as he entered the room. Autographing, hugging, and posing, he flowed through the room with that same cluster. The Capitol man asked me to take pictures of Mr. Humperdinck with a few people. Sam the Record Man was one of them. “Hmmm,” I thought. My picture would probably end up in the store somewhere in the endless row of celebrities.
After a while it started to get boring and late. I was thirsty and walked around to see if there was water somewhere. The bar was packed and I did