I first met Erv at the Duplex on Christopher Street in Greenwich Village when I was playing in Sister Aimee and would hang out there with director David Holdgrive. A few months later, I performed in a small revue produced by award-winning lyricist David Zippel and his sister Joanne Zippel called It’s Better with a Band that opened at Don’t Tell Mama before moving to Sardi’s. My performance caught Erv’s eye, and he invited me to bring my solo act to Don’t Tell Mama, which was quickly becoming the hottest cabaret in Manhattan.
Of course, Quitman helped put together my show, which had no title. I asked Mark Brown to write monologues and some lyrics and enlisted Lon Hoyt as music director. The show was a huge hit, and after the first performance, which was standing room only, I went to Erv to get my portion of the door proceeds. Erv, a seasoned and compassionate nightclub veteran, gently shook his head at my shocked face when he handed me about $33. The slight reprimand delivered in his nasal whine was a lesson: “You comped your whole dance class, Mary.” As was the fashion among gay men of a certain age, and showbiz types at the time, Erv called everybody “Mary.” I loved that!
One of the songs Mark and I wrote for my first show at Don’t Tell Mama was “Come Along with Me,” a musical rant filled with my observations on the changing world—yuppies, vegetarianism, Madonna. With Lon Hoyt on piano, my performance of the song exemplified the Jenifer Lewis of 1983: fabulous and manic as hell.
The Saturday after my Don’t Tell Mama debut, Mark and Bobby came to my place at the La Premiere to watch What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? for the hundredth time. I was in heaven sitting with my friends, all of us talking to the screen and offering commentary. (“. . . But cha are Blanche. Ya are in that chair!”)
The phone rang and I thought, How dare someone assume I would be home on a Saturday night? Nevertheless, I picked up. It was Bonnie Bruckheimer, calling for Bette Midler to say they wanted me to be a Harlette, one of Bette’s back-up singers, and could I be in LA on Monday to start rehearsing for a three-month tour? Through my shock, I managed to tell her that I had a sold-out show at Don’t Tell Mama on Monday night. Bonnie said she would call back shortly.
I had worshipped Bette Midler since I was in college. I had been walking down the hall of my dormitory freshman year when I heard somebody blasting this fabulous gospel rendition of “Delta Dawn.” I didn’t recognize the voice, thinking, “I know every black singer. With an album, anyway.”
So I knocked on Henry’s door and asked, “Who is that singing?”
He said, “Oh, honey, that’s the Divine Miss M.”
Henry turned the album cover around, and I was shocked to see the singer was white. I went out and bought every recording of Bette’s I could find. She was fabulous. She had personality and sass and was funny as hell. She was now a member of my personal Pantheon of Idols, which around this time included Aretha (of course), Judy Garland, Josephine Baker, Pearl Bailey, Ethel Merman, Lena Horne, and, believe it or not, Mae West, Fanny Brice, and Sophie Tucker.
Wide-eyed and shaken, I squeezed in between Mark and Bobby on my little loveseat and the three of us looked at the phone for ten minutes until it rang again.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Bette Midler. Nice to meet you. We really need you out here on Monday. Can’t you get your understudy to go on for you?”
Her clipped tones sent a shiver through me. I had only heard Bette’s voice on albums and on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show. As I gathered my response, I could feel the tension and excitement emanating from Mark and Bobby.
“Ummmm . . . it’s a one-woman show, Bette. There is no understudy.”
Her answer was one letter: “O.”
Not “Congratulations for having your own show at the leading New York cabaret,” or “I’m so happy for you. I heard you are great.” Just a curt “O,” followed by an unsaid, but clearly implied, “So you all that, huh?”
And it started from there, the dynamic of mutual admiration combined with sheer competition between me and Bette.
I agreed that I would arrive in LA on Tuesday. My farewell show that Monday night at Don’t Tell Mama was perfect. John S. Wilson, the esteemed critic who had covered jazz for the New York Times for four decades, attended. When I announced I was leaving to become one of Bette’s Harlettes, every fabulous queen in the club lost their damn mind!
CABARET: JENIFER LEWIS
By John S. Wilson
New York Times, May 26, 1983
A MONTHLONG series of performances by Jenifer Lewis that had been scheduled at Don’t Tell Mama, the West 46th Street cabaret, was interrupted last week when Bette Midler asked Miss Lewis to become one of her Harlettes during a current tour. Miss Lewis immediately took off for the hinterlands but it is doubtful that she will be a Harlette for long.
She already has the aura and the confidence and the projection of a star. She is the very essence of show business—a singer with a dazzling voice, a high-kicking dancer, a lusty comedienne, a coiled spring of energy. And, after all her razzle-dazzle, she has the ability to sit down at the piano where, in tribute to Mahalia Jackson, she sings a gospel song in a big, imperious commanding tone that echoes Miss Jackson, building to a climax of explosive passion.
Miss Lewis in action is a fascinating study, not only for what she does but for the shadows of other performers that flicker through her personality—suggestions of Pearl Bailey’s monologue style, even the tone of Duke Ellington’s mock elegance. They are just passing accents and seem a completely natural part of Miss Lewis, but they indicate the range of show-business background that she has absorbed and reshaped.
There are moments when she is overcome by her own exuberance and enthusiasm, and the discipline of her performance is broken. But she is such a skillful craftsman that she will undoubtedly learn to control this or, more likely, to turn it to her own advantage by the time she returns to New York on her own—as she inevitably will.
The first time I met the Divine Miss M in person was at the S.I.R. Studios in Hollywood. It was supposed to be a rehearsal without Bette, just us three Harlettes. We were in the middle of singing “Pretty Legs and Great Big Knockers” when the music suddenly stopped. Bette entered the room. She was dressed casually, but every inch a star. All I could think at that moment was What presence. There to survey the new recruits, she chatted with us a bit in a fun and fabulous way, but also with an air that conveyed that she was all about business. Soon she was saying, “Come on, girls. Get in those mermaid fins and pull up a wheelchair. Let’s get this shit in tip-top shape.”