Jeannie Out of the Bottle - Barbara Eden [63]
“Can’t fix it. Throw it out, Barbara. Just stand onstage and sing,” he declared.
Unfortunately, the show had to go on, just as it was, until the end of the run. But the following year I put Nick’s suggestions into practice: I stood on the stage and sang, and I danced a little. My new Las Vegas nightclub act was given a tryout at the College Inn, Chicago, in August 1969. When the audiences didn’t throw rotten tomatoes at me, I gave a massive sigh of relief, then took my act to the Frontier Hotel in Las Vegas.
Like many other female entertainers who worked Las Vegas, I hired the incredibly gifted Bob Mackie to design my gowns for the show. Renowned as the “Sultan of Sequins” and the “Rajah of Rhinestones,” Bob had won seven Emmys and designed gowns for Diana Ross, Liza Minnelli, Raquel Welch, Cher, Barbra Streisand, and, interestingly enough, Lucille Ball (who, judging by how beautifully she embellished my gown for the “Country Club Dance” episode of her show, was clearly fond of a rhinestone or two herself). Most of all, Bob was celebrated for his long-term association with Carol Burnett, for whom he made the most fabulous gowns.
When it came to designing the wardrobe for my nightclub act, in a quest to make me look as glamorous as possible, Bob placed beads strategically all over my gowns. However, the gowns were so skintight that wearing underwear was totally out of the question. As a result, when the light struck me a certain way, the orchestra members could see my body in every intimate detail. They were unperturbed: this was Las Vegas and they were 100 percent unshockable.
My mother, however, proved to be quite a different story. A few years ago, I ran into Tony Orlando, who had headlined at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas at the same time as I did. “Your mother was very protective of you,” he began.
“Not particularly,” I said, slightly surprised, but pleased that he’d mentioned my mother, who had passed on twenty years before.
Tony laughed.
“You don’t know the half of it,” he said. “Every night, when you were singing, I stood in the wings to watch you. But then your mother would notice and glare at me. ‘You can’t stay here. Not with Barbara wearing that!’ she said, and shooed me away from the wings.”
I looked up to the sky for a second and said a quick but heartfelt thanks to her.
Which reminds me of the time in 1973 when Gene Schwam, my manager to this day, called me out of the blue and asked me point-blank: “Barbara, are you interested in making a million dollars?”
Well, of course I was, I told him.
There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
“Brace yourself, Barbara,” Gene said. “It involves nudity!”
“How much?” I asked, hoping against hope that he would say a glimpse of cleavage or maybe a peek at my navel.
No such luck. It turned out that Playboy had offered a million dollars for me to pose nude in the magazine.
Barbara Jean Huffman, a Playboy centerfold?
I didn’t have to think twice about my answer!
My first Vegas act at the Frontier opened with a line of chorus girls, not that far removed in spirit from the Ciro’s chorus line all those years ago. And in the line was a bubbly blond dancer with a giggle that would one day launch a thousand jokes. Just before my entrance, she and I would chat in the wings. Even then, Goldie Hawn knew exactly what she wanted and where she was heading in terms of her career. I remember her proudly telling me that she was going to Hollywood and that a very important person was going to help her. I never discovered his name, but he was clearly true to his word.
During that first season in Las Vegas, I made a number of unpleasant discoveries. First, just as Elvis had confided to me all those years ago on the set of Flaming Star, any singer worth his or her salt playing Las Vegas had to stay in the hotel room most of the time. Despite all the superficial glamour and glitter on offer in the entertainment capital of the world, playing there was very uncomfortable for me because of the loneliness—the same loneliness Elvis