Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [134]
Standing on the side of the stage at the Universal Amphitheatre in L.A. one night, I noticed someone’s feet sticking out from under the velvet curtains, where he was rolled up tight. Wandering over to the stranger peering through a gap, I poked him with my finger and made him squeal. Out popped a face I recognized immediately as an old friend of Sammy’s. I smiled and said hello.
“Er—hello,” replied Michael Jackson in that childlike voice of his. Looking across at Frank in open wonder, he said, “Isn’t he great?”
“Yes, he is,” I replied, completely unfazed. I was quite accustomed to fellow singers coming to Frank’s concerts to study his art, the way he phrased songs, his timing, his choice of numbers, and his presentation. Vic Damone came to stay at the Compound for a couple of weeks once to study Frank and really learned a thing or two. I asked Michael Jackson, “Would you like to stay behind and see him after the show?”
“Oh, I-I’m not sure.”
“Well, I know he’d like to say hello to you,” I said gently. “You see, I’m his wife.”
Michael lowered his head for a moment with embarrassment. At my coaxing, he unfurled himself from the curtains and stood watching the rest of the performance next to me. When Frank exited on the other side of the stage, I walked Michael to the dressing room. As I suspected, Frank was delighted to see Michael, and the two of them sat chatting about the last time they’d met, when Frank recorded “L.A. Is My Lady” with their mutual friend Quincy Jones. After a while, other people started coming in to congratulate Frank, so Michael made his excuses. He squeezed my arm in gratitude and slipped away.
Being on the road wasn’t always as charming and magical as that, however. I arrived one night at the Meadowlands arena in New Jersey an hour or so after Frank had gone ahead to prepare for a show he was doing with Liza. As we drove into the parking lot, I noticed that Frank’s car wasn’t at the stage door.
“Where’s Frank?” I asked.
“He left” was the reply.
Confused, I walked backstage, where I could already hear the crowd waiting out front. Tickets had been sold out months in advance, and the place was buzzing with anticipation. I went to Frank’s dressing room, and all was as it should be; his hospitality rider had been carried out to the letter. There were his must-have bottles of booze, cartons of cigarettes, bowls of candy, sandwiches, Italian antipasti, cans of Campbell’s chicken soup with rice (his favorite), packets of Luden’s cough drops, tea and honey for his throat. An empty glass stood ready to be filled with Jack Daniel’s and carried with him onto the stage. He’d tell the audience, “In case you’re wondering, this isn’t cold tea.” He’d also carry a single cigarette and a lighter, which he’d light up for one of his torch songs. His tux was on a hanger waiting to be slipped on at the final moment (never before, in case he creased it), and there was a color television for him to keep up with the news and sports. Everything he asked for from the bars of Ivory soap to the twelve freshly laundered towels was waiting for him, but there was no Frank.
I walked next door to Liza’s dressing room and found her having a meltdown. “Oh, Barbara! Frank’s gone! I don’t know what to do. Should I go on? Or shouldn’t I? What do you think? He’s not here!”
“What happened?”
Someone explained that Bill Miller, the show’s orchestra leader and conductor, had forgotten all the personalized sheet music that night, which meant that the orchestra couldn’t play. There was no time to go back to Manhattan and get it. When Frank saw everyone panicking about what they should do, he announced, “You do what you want. I’m leaving.”
We’d already arranged to meet for dinner at “21” in New York after the show, so I presumed Frank had gone straight there. I was still dithering about whether to join him or keep Liza from having a nervous breakdown