And damn, if I didn’t spot fifty percent of those tourists in my audience.
Even though I had performed in two Broadway shows and to adoring audiences across the nation, I was not prepared for the opening night response to HOT! Every seat was filled. When I ended my final note, my vision went into slow motion as the audience began to clap and rise from their seats. I left my body for a split-second, and when I refocused, the roar of the crowd’s applause and shouts grew incredibly loud, even louder than in that watershed moment back in First Baptist when I was five years old. It was more deliberate. It was my first electrifying ovation. Not unlike the one I received at Carnegie Hall in 2014. (What, you haven’t seen my Carnegie Hall performance? Be-yotch, have you heard of YouTube?) My show was proof of the wonderful magic Quitman and I created together. Without a doubt, the creative genius of Quitman made HOT! a hit. He devised fun moves such as accentuating my high kicks by clanging a spoon against a skillet. Word spread, and almost every performance of HOT! sold out immediately. I felt happy, rewarded, recognized.
During the summer, Quitman and I both got parts in Pennsylvania Stage’s production of Ain’t Misbehavin’, the Tony-winning musical tribute to African American composer Fats Waller. I won the role that had made Nell Carter a star. Rounding out the cast were Tonya “sings her ass off” Pinkins, Lynnie Godfrey, and George Bell.
It was a great summer gig at the J. I. Rodale Theatre in Allentown, and it was close enough to easily bus home for our off days. The summer was a hot one, and Allentown reeked of sweaty, obese people eating massive amounts of food. I was sitting in a restaurant with Quitman, and I couldn’t help but stare at a man who was emptying half of the salt shaker on what seemed like eight eggs and dumping an entire bottle of syrup on his pancakes.
Quitman saw my face and suggested I build a tunnel from the hotel to the theater and stop judging people. “We’re all God’s babies and doing the best we can.”
Quitman and I fought and laughed, as best friends do, the entire run, though I took time out to have a short affair with a skinny, sweet white local named, wait for it, Dick.
About halfway through the run, we got news from New York that Danny Beard had died in a fire at his home in Harlem. I mourned. Although we had our fights, the truth is I had really loved Danny—that boy could sing his ass off!
In the fall, I was excited to be cast in my third Broadway show. Rock ’N Roll! The First 5,000 Years was directed by Joe Layton, a two-time Tony winner who was best known for a series of critically acclaimed television specials starring Barbra Streisand. Layton loved me when he saw my Graziella-inspired kick into layout, but little did he know that was my best dance move. What made Layton so good, however, is that he zeroed in on every performer’s forte. He made the most of my athleticism and flexibility, including having me straddle two pianos during a David Bowie song while Hula-Hooping two hoops around my neck! I was thrilled to have a solo in “You Keep Me Hangin’ On,” a song made famous by her highness Diana Ross. It was extremely rewarding to perform alongside talented artists including Ka-ron Brown, Lillias White, Marion Ramsey, Carl E. Weaver, and Lon Hoyt. Unfortunately, following terrible reviews, the show closed after only nine performances. We called it “Rock ’N Roll! The First 5,000 Minutes”!
SEVEN
A DOLL NAMED “KILLER”
Lester Young was a hugely influential tenor saxophonist who came to prominence with the Count Basie Orchestra in the 1930s. “Prez,” as he was known, was a close friend of the legendary Billie Holiday and accompanied her on several recordings in the late 1930s and early 1940s. Soon after reuniting with Billie for a CBS special in 1957, Young’s alcoholism caught up with him, just as Holiday addictions would soon catch up with her. During the final two years of his life, his companion, a woman named Elaine Swain, took care of him. Elaine wasn’t a musician, but she was well known in jazz circles and dated several high-profile musicians during the heydays of jazz. She also was a good friend of Holiday.
When I met Elaine in early 1983 at the Red Apple grocery store on 54th and 8th, she was probably in her late seventies. We were standing in the checkout line, and she was telling jokes to the cashier, cracking me up in the process. Seeing that I was amused, Elaine took the opportunity to ask me to go back and check the dairy section because she believed she had left her half-full wine cooler there. I was so entertained that I carried her groceries home for her. She lived in one room above Possible Twenty, the bar on 55th between 7th and 8th Avenues. I remember having to stop at the bar for a key, walk through the nightclub, and up the stairs and down an unlit hallway to knock on her wooden door.
I was enraptured by Elaine’s tales about Billie and all the other famous jazz musicians she had known. For instance, she told me that during Billie’s later years, she had become fed up with white people and refused to sing “Strange Fruit” to predominantly white audiences.
Here was someone from the golden era living in one room, and I wanted to take care of her in the name of all the musicians who paved the way for people like me. Elaine had her own struggles with alcohol, and once, when she opened her front door butt naked, I saw that her body was covered in liver spots as a result of years of drinking.
Before visiting Elaine, I’d usually stop at the Red Apple and pick up a few staples for her. I spoke with her about my life, hopes, and career. When I asked her advice about my messy love life, she leaned over in her armchair, looked at me sideways, and, twisting open her fourth wine cooler, slurred, “Don’t trust no niggas!”
I continued to build a name for myself through a series of one-woman performances. Toward the end of 1982, I was asked to do my show at Don’t Tell Mama, the newest cabaret in the city.
Don’t Tell Mama, located on Restaurant Row, the eatery-laden block on 46th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues, was owned by Erv Raible. Erv was perhaps the most successful cabaret owner in New York City history, with three other high-profile piano bars—the Duplex, Brandy’s Piano Bar, and Eighty Eight’s.