The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (37 page)

They were still spinning.

The whole thing had been recorded.

“We’re ready to go,” said Lyle, bursting into the control room, Eddie and Cluck behind him.

“New tape?” the engineer said.

“Yeah, everything new,” Eddie said. “We’re starting over.”

“What about the old tape?”

“Forget it. Don’t want it.”

The engineer nodded. “All right, mate. Whatever you say.”

He rewound the reels, put the spool in a box, and grabbed a marker.

“Hey,” he said to Cluck, who was tying his sneakers. “What’s the bloke’s name on the guitar?”

Cluck smiled mischievously. He looked left and right.

“That’s Frankie Presto, man. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Why should I?” the engineer said. “I never heard of ’im.”

Cluck frowned and went into the studio. The engineer wrote on the side of the box “The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto” and put it on a shelf.

51

THE FIRST SOUND RECORDING CAME IN THE MIDNINETEENTH CENTURY,
when an inventor made noises into a cylinder and diaphragm, moving a stylus that etched lines onto soot-covered paper.

Twenty years later, Thomas Edison created the phonograph. And ever since, you have been capturing me in all types of mediums, from shellac plates to vinyl records to magnetized tape to data-encoded discs. I make no judgments. I am a talent. I care no more about the recording format than Painting cares about a blank canvas.

But how those recordings affect my disciples—that is of interest. The song the Clever Yells recorded that day in Auckland was more satisfying than its rock-styled predecessor. It suited Lyle’s unusual vocal style, a sparse, plaintive voice that infused a yearning into his music. That song—called “God Will”—was rerecorded a few years later and included on the young man’s first album, called
Lyle Lovett
.

And, never forgetting the message of the Kiwi who took him to Frankie (“
First rule of friendship, mates: learn how to keep a secret
”), Mr. Lovett, now a successful artist in your world, never revealed Frankie’s whereabouts or spoke of the solo at Woodstock.

As for the box of two-inch recording tape, it remained in the hands of the curly-haired engineer, until someone he met offered a tidy sum of money, which he quickly accepted and spent on a new mixing board.

Soon, pressed copies of a vinyl album in a plain white jacket began to appear around the South Pacific, purchased privately and marveled at by musicians and nonmusicians alike. Its title, in simple words across the back cover:
The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto.

But by the time that happened, Frankie and Aurora had left the island of Waiheke. They departed shortly after Kai’s eighth birthday, when she suddenly, inexplicably, woke up and asked Aurora, in a rasp of a voice, “Where’s Daddy?”

The doctors were baffled by her sudden speech, making reference to “selective mutism,” hidden lung problems, neurological issues, or the child’s inability to reveal symptoms prior to what seemed to be a miraculous recovery.

All Frankie and Aurora knew was that they now had a daughter asking questions. Like a musical piece that adds strings and horns, their lives grew richer and more complex, as the child’s little universe expanded.

“Pack some clothes,” Aurora said one night.

“Where are we going?” Frankie said.

“We need to take her off this island for a while.”

“Why?”

“Because today she asked where you and I came from. And I think it’s time she knew.”

And just like that, the next morning, they were boarding the ferry, suitcases in tow, on a journey of rediscovery, the three members of Frankie Presto’s family band—and a fourth, unseen party, a heavily clothed figure, walking fifty feet behind them and watching everything.

Paul Stanley

Guitarist, singer, founding member of KISS

SURE. I’LL TALK TO YOU ABOUT FRANKIE. . . .
He auditioned for KISS once, you know.

I’m serious. It was . . . what . . . 1984? In Los Angeles. We were looking for a lead guitarist to replace Vinnie Vincent.

KISS had always auditioned guys. We’d bring them into the studio, let them play with a couple of our tracks. We knew right away if a guy could hack it musically. But he also had to have the right look. We’re such a visual act. And then, if he had the looks
and
the chops, we’d try and get to know him, because you’re going from dating to marrying when you put a new guy in a band.

Especially a band like ours.

Anyhow, we needed to do this fast, so we had three guitarists come on the same day. We’d already seen the first two—both pretty good—and then the last guy walks in. He looks old. I can’t remember who or what agency sent him over, but he’s wearing a ski cap and carrying a case. He doesn’t even open it. He sits down, sees a couple loose guitars in the studio, picks up a Japanese electric model, a Riverhead, little diamond-shaped body, and says, “All right if I use this?”

And we said, “What’s the matter with yours?”

And he said, “Ah, that’s just an old acoustic.”

Already I’m thinking, “You’re kidding me. That’s what you bring to a KISS audition? Let’s just go home now.” But he pulls off the ski cap and pushes his hair back and I lean forward and say, “Holy crap,” and Gene Simmons says, “What?” and I say, “That’s Frankie Presto!”

Now, I should tell you that, as a kid in New York, Frankie Presto was
it
for me. I liked voices like Dion and the Belmonts, Bobby Rydell, Jimmy Clanton. They could all sing. But Frankie sang
and
played
and
wore cool clothes
and
could really dance. I watched him on
American Bandstand
. He did that move with the mike stand where he’d push it forward, then pivot it back with his foot—Joe Tex was famous for that, too. So cool.

I was like eight years old when “I Want To Love You” came out, and it was the first record I ever owned. I must have played it until it shredded. A year or two later, when “Shake Shake” was big, I convinced my parents to take me to see Frankie at a rock and roll show. The Fox Theatre in Brooklyn. He only did a few songs, but he played guitar and just
killed
it. He took a solo that I can still remember. Not only were his fingers flying, but at the end he hit these four big chords that just rang out, one after the other, bang, bang, bang, bang! And it filled the place up. It was like the Sermon on the Mount for me. To this day, when I play, there’s nothing like exploding one big chord and just
owning
the building.

Anyhow, the other KISS guys didn’t even want to audition Frankie. “He’s too old,” they said. But I said, “Let’s give him a shot. He was there when it all started.” He still had a good face, strong cheekbones, all his hair. I thought it could work.

We played him one of our older tracks called “Creatures of the Night,” and told him to try something like the solo on that. And I swear, he played that solo back
note for note
. I don’t know how. He only heard it once. But he made every note scream right where it had screamed before, hit the whammy bar perfectly, almost like he was tracing the music.

So I said, “Okay, this time do what you want.” And he laid out a solo that was even better. What impressed me most was that he didn’t show off his speed. One or two licks proved how fast he was. But he made it musical. You could almost
sing
the solo once he’d played it.

We didn’t need to hear any more—not as far as his playing went. But age was still an issue. And what was he like? Gene was busy that night, so I offered to have dinner with Frankie. Deep down, I wanted to ask him about the old days.

We went to a little hamburger place in Santa Monica, and I confessed to seeing him in the sixties. He was pretty shy about that, like it was from another life. He said he’d been away from the stage for a while, and he hadn’t had a recording deal in a long time. I said, “Is that why you want to be in KISS?” And he looked down, almost sheepish, and he said, “No. To be honest, my daughter loves you guys.”

I said, “How old is your daughter?”

He said, “She’s eight. She loves the outfits and the makeup you guys wear. And she’s never really seen me onstage. So I thought, if I were in a band that she liked, that would be a good memory for her.”

And I said, “Are you kidding me?”

And he smiled and said the older you get, the more you want your kids to know about you.

Well, I’d heard a lot of people say why they wanted to be in KISS, but that was a first. I wasn’t sure how to respond. But I did tell him, “You know, Frankie, we’re not wearing the makeup anymore.” And he was stunned, like his daughter would be heartbroken.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Some people think makeup means we’re not serious.”

“Little Richard wore makeup,” he said. “Jimi Hendrix wore makeup. David Bowie, too.”

I said, “You played with those guys?” And he said oh yeah, he’d played with all of them.

I couldn’t believe it. It was like talking to rock and roll history. Finally, I said, “Where have you been, man?” And he said, “On an island.” I thought he was joking, but he was serious. I said, “You flew in all the way for this?” And he said his family was taking a long trip, working their way to Europe, and someone he knew in L.A. told him about the auditions. Then he looked at me and said, “You’re
really
not wearing the makeup anymore?”

To be honest, I wanted him in the band—I thought it would be cool to have some history in KISS—but in the end, obviously, it didn’t work out. He went wherever he was going and we went with a guy who was, like, twenty years younger than Frankie, and that was that. But a couple weeks later, I got a letter from him thanking me for the opportunity to audition and wishing us well. You know how often that happens in rock and roll? Never.

And at the bottom, in some crayon scribble, was a line from his daughter, saying “I love KISS!”

It’s funny. In 1999, I got a chance to play the lead in
Phantom of the Opera
in Toronto. I’d never tried anything like that. But I went for it, partly because my son at the time was about five years old. And I remember thinking, “I want him to see me in this.”

And then I remembered Frankie talking about his little girl. And he was right. At a certain point, your life is more about your legacy to your kids than anything else.

52

FOLLOW ME.

Up these steps.

The seats below are filling, and the priest is greeting the mourners. The funeral mass will begin shortly. Our story must soon finish. But there is a history in this basilica that we need to complete it.

Look inside this empty chamber. See the concrete floor and naked walls? This is where Frankie was born. It is also where, nearly four hundred years ago, a man named Pascual Baylón died. A poor Spanish monk with little education, Baylón was later canonized for his humble devotion to God—and the small miracles that happened around him. It is said that during his own funeral service, his eyes popped open to observe the Eucharist ceremony.