It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth (38 page)

(One year after I wrote that entry, we lost Linda after she had emergency surgery for a blocked intestine. But truth be told, we lost Linda when that bitch of a step-mother beat her daily and never once showed her love.)

SEPTEMEBER 4, 2006 -
BARRY MANILOW

Of all the acts I have ever worked for I can honestly say no one was more neurotic, meaner and more egocentric than the big B.M. Barry Manilow.  During my fifteen minutes of fame I was getting offers left and right. I had just opened for Dolly Patron at the Roxy in LA when I heard that Barry was in need of an opening act for The Riviera in Las Vegas.  One of his writers was Roberta Kent. Roberta and I had been writers on a syndicated TV show called The Lohman and Barkley. I called Roberta and literally begged her to put in a good word for me. She said she would. She had Barry's ear at that time and within two days I had the gig. I firmly believe that it was Roberta who was responsible for getting me that job... along with the pushing of another Manilow assistant Paul Brownstein.

When I got the call from Roberta this is what she said. "Ok, you got the job... but there are a few things I need to tell you about Barry." "Like?" "Like he's not friendly."  I could deal with that. "Like he's really not friendly."  I got it. There will be no chitty chat backstage. "Don't talk to him, don't mention him in your act... don't look at him."  "Don't look at him?" "Don't look at him."  "Why? Will I turn into a pillar of salt?"   

I remember I had to clear my material with Manilow's office. This I could understand. He didn't know me; he didn't know my material. He couldn't afford to have someone open for him with jokes like ... "So I was effing my dog last week. God I hate when she sits in the middle of sex."  However, I did not then, nor did I ever do that kind of material. I was wearing saddle shoes and tennis sweaters. It was my All-American period. My material was squeaky clean.

The contracts came and I was about to sign them when I noticed there was no provision for billing. I called my agent. "What's the billing on this gig." "There is no billing. All the marquee will say is "BARRY".  "Oh?" (It begins.)  And when I get to the Riviera all the marquee says, in letters 15 feet high, is "BARRY" and "Roast Beef Dinner $3.50". The roast beef had billing. I did not.

I check into the hotel and in my room is a bottle of  Dom Perignon with a note. "Have a great show. Barry"  (Remember this champagne it's important) I thought "What a nice guy." (Remember the champagne.)

So it's tech rehearsal and I go down to the showroom. Barry is on stage. I walk in and Roberta yells, "Hey, Steve" Barry says, "Is that the comedian?" And he puts his hand over his eyes like he's scouting with the Indians to search for me in the darkness.  He flips me a "hello" wave. So much for the introduction. Barry finishes his rehearsal,  which was like watching paint dry, long and tedious. And then I go up on stage to hear the sound. It's fine. The whole thing takes ten minutes and we're done.

I go down to the dressing room. Now it really begins. At the Riviera the entertainer's dressing rooms consisted of a large sitting room and a bathroom. The opening act and the headliner had side-by-side dressing rooms. Barry had a curtain installed in the hallway between his dressing room and mine.  There was also a guard to keep out unwanted guests like myself from coming in.  Ok, I get it... not friendly.

I go into my dressing room and discover Manilow has taken over the sitting area for his band and given me the bathroom to prepare in. Really not friendly. I'm supposed to get dressed in the toilet. I don't say a word. You know me, I'm just happy to get hit with a stick, especially if you take out the nail. 

I'm a nervous wreck for the opening. I've been told the reviewers from all over the country will be there that night. TV and radio were there. International reviewers were there. This was a huge opening and I was part of it. I begin my pacing to concentrate before the show but  stage hands  are pushing me and walking by me and yelling in my ear and shoving me out of the way. It's impossible to concentrate but I'm focused and somehow muddle through the distraction. The lights dim and the orchestra begins the overture. "Ladies and Gentlemen The Riviera is proud to present Barry Manilow with comedian Steve Bluestein."  I enter to a nice round of applause. The place is packed. The faces are smiling. The murmur was high pitched.  I start my act and they are laughing right away. The show is going gangbusters. I start my piece on natural childbirth (written after Jan was born) and out of the corner of my ear I hear... "Get a doctor." I think, "Oh shit. A heckler. Not tonight. Please, not tonight. " Then... "Steve, get a doctor" And I look down and a girl is having an epileptic fit two seats in from me.  I look out into the audience and say, "Is there a doctor in the house? We need a doctor up front." The house lights come up and suddenly there is a stretcher coming down the aisle. I'm saying things like "Let's stay calm, she'll be alright." In my mind I'm thinking, "Why doesn't she die already."  Flash bulbs are going off as they load her onto the stretcher and take her out of the room. She exits, the house lights go to black and the spotlight comes back up on me. In one tenth of a second this is what goes through my mind. "OH EFFING SHIT WHAT DO I DO NOW?" I say to the crowd. "I don't think comedy is appropriate right now. Why don't we all take a break before we welcome Mr. Manilow." And I leave the stage to thunderous applause.

I got down to my dressing room. I mean my bathroom and I closed the door and cried. I had just blown the opportunity of a lifetime. Then there is a knock on the door. Paul Brownstein and Roberta Kent come in laughing. "Well that was certainly something" I'm drying my eyes. "Barry wants to see you." And they take me into the inner sanctum, past the shower curtain and the guard and there is Barry sitting at a dressing table in front of more make up than The Playboy Mansion on bare tush night. I don't mean 20 products, I'm talking 500 powders and bases and combs and eyeliners. It's looked like a hooker exploded.  I thought, "He has such a small face. Where could he put all that shit?" Barry assures me I did the right thing and not to worry. Friendly. Nice. Made me feel better.

Barry does his show and, I must tell you, there isn't a better showman working the Strip. His show is high powered, funny, touching, and eye candy. It's a standing ovation every night. He's truly magic on stage. It's off stage you want to kill yourself. There is a clause in his contract that the stagehands have to turn to the wall when he exits. No one can look at him or talk to him. (Play Twilight Zone theme song here)

OK, so the reviews come out and they are raves. One of them says Manilow and Bluestein share the stage like corned beef and cabbage. Folks, Barry shares the stage with no one. It was the kiss of death review for me. However, my quick exit after the medical emergency turned out to be the right one. It's all the press is talking about. The Mike Douglas Show flies me out to do the show and brings a columnist on who was at The Riviera that night. She gushes over me and praises me on camera. Talk about turning lemons into lemonade. And all I could think was... "If they only knew it was fear that got me off stage, not good judgment."

The week goes on. The shows are getting better and better. Manilow has legions of fans who come to every show; for a comedian that's not good. They've heard the jokes but these girls were either morons or very supportive because they laughed every night. But Barry's mood was getting darker. He kept complaining about the sound. He said it dropped out and he couldn't hear himself.  One night I'm waiting to go on, Manilow comes out and yells at the sound guy. "Listen. If you can't do the job I'll get someone who can. This is your warning, either get it right or you're fired." I wish you could have seen the expression on the guy's face. He was devastated. Barry leaves. I know the best way to get someone to work better is to support him, not rip him down before he's supposed to do his job. I say to the guy, "Take a deep breath and calm yourself. We have a show to do. The sound has been perfect all week for me. So, you're doing fine."  The guy smiles and shakes my hand. "Thanks" is all he said.

Barry does his show and he's in full swing. The sound isn't right, the lighting isn't right. He's bitching about this and that and the musicians. The entire band and crew are a nervous wreck. Saturday night's show is an explosion of energy and excitement. I get a standing ovation. ME! Barry's show is through the roof. The audience screamed and pounded the floor. After the show Barry gets all the crew together and says, "You guys are the most wonderful bunch I have ever worked with. Thank for you for a wonderful show." Twenty-four hours later it would be a different story.

Some crowds are good and some, for some unknown reason, are not. The very next night the crowd was not good. Flat. They were flat for me and, sadly for all of us, they were flat for Barry. He came off stage screaming. The sound was wrong, the lights were wrong, the musicians were wrong. And he got the same people he had praised the night before into the same room and read them the riot act. He was livid and I sat there in amazement watching this screaming temper tantrum thinking... "Nope, not friendly at all."

He's been very kind to me but he's just not fun to be around. I start making jokes like, "With all his money, you would think  he could buy himself a tush."  Barry, has been gifted by God, with the strangest body known to man; he's high-waisted, barrel chested and has no ass at all. I never saw him nude, THANK GOD, but I would suspect on stage he's padded and trussed in like a Thanksgiving Turkey.

And that's how the week went... eggshell stepping and stagehands facing the wall.  We close and I get my hotel bill. On the bill is one charge "One bottle Dom Perignon, $65.00" And I hit the roof. I was not paying for that and demanded to see the room service charge. It was not my signature, but my name."  Some gift.  They deducted the charge from my bill.  And I left the Riviera to never work with  him again.

Four Post Scripts

After the rave reviews one of my agents, Jim Murray , of ICM comes to Vegas to see the show.  He takes me out to lunch and says, "Kid you're incredible. I can do great things for you. Why don't you come up to my office I would like to sign you?" And I say to him, "Schmuck. I'm with ICM, you booked me here."  He finishes his pasta without saying a word.

About 30 years later I'm in an elevator going to visit John Bowab, the director. Into the elevator walks Jim Murray. John says, "Steve do you know Jim Murray."  To which I say, "Know him? He was my agent."  And Jim says, "Really. I don't remember." I couldn't help myself. I said, "You didn't remember 30 years ago, you don't remember now."

I'm at a party at Bruce Vilanch's house. I'm standing in the kitchen and who should walk in but Barry Manilow. Bruce says, "headliner meet opening act."  And Barry looks at me and smiles. He had no idea who I was.  The corned beef had forgotten the cabbage.

Twenty years after opening for Barry I'm running through an airport when I hear "Steve". I turn around and a long- haired guy is standing there. I have no idea who he is. "I'm (name). I was the sound guy for Barry Manilow." "Oh, my deepest regrets."  He laughs. "I just wanted to thank you. You saved my ass." I shrug and say, "Hey, I always help fellow prisoners."  We laugh, shake hands and head in different directions for our planes.

In Barry's defense I understand he's mellowed and is a lot nicer now.  That's what I hear.

SEPTEMEBER 7, 2006 -
A YEAR AT THE TOP

OK so Paul Schaeffer and Greg Evigan. In the late 70's before Paul was on Letterman or Greg was BJ and the Bear, the two of them were on a sit-com called "A YEAR AT THE TOP". We, who wrote it, called it "A YEAR AT THE FLOP". (This show was produced by Norman Lear who was so hot at the time the networks gave him whatever he wanted.) He produced "ALL IN THE FAMILY", "MAUDE", "THE JEFFERSONS", "GOOD TIMES" and on and on and on. No matter what he put on the air it was an immediate hit... with the exception of  "A YEAR AT THE TOP", which I wrote with my writing partner, Mary Willard.

Here's the premise of the show. Two musicians sell their soul to the devil to become rock stars. "You've got to be kidding!" That's what I thought too but Lear was producing and the networks bought it. Lear could have pitched a show about Nazi Youth Camp Councilors and they would have bought it. As a matter of fact I think there was a show... "OH YOU ADOLPH YOU"   Am I wrong?

The original cast of  "A YEAR AT THE TOP" included Mickey Rooney. Now this was a trip for me because he was a legend. He was also a monumental pain in the ass. The man did not shut up. He had a mouth like a whippoorwill's asshole, it was always moving. The director would shout "Action" Rooney would say his lines, then "Cut" and Rooney would go on like a babbling brook. He was doing jokes, he was telling stories, he was doing bits with props; it was annoying, time consuming and was costing the production company beaucoup bucks. He was wonderful in the part and while I never worked directly with him, I could see it being a major problem when the show went into production.