The whole booth howled. Kay squealed with her mouth full– some club soda spritzed out and hit Leigh. A flashbulb popped–I spotted Danny Getchell and a _Hush-Hush_ camera jockey.
Getchell spritzed headlines: “Accordion Ace Activates Lethal Left Hook at Crescendo Fistfest.’ ‘Draft Dodger Taunt Torches Torrid Temper Tantrum.’ ‘QUQ Vadis, Dick Contino?–Comeback Crumbles in Niteclub Crack-Up.”
Nancy walked back to the pay phones. I said, “Danny, this is publicity I don’t need.”
“Dick, I disagree. Look at what that marijuana contretemps did for Bob Mitchum. I think this portrays you as a good-looking, hotheaded gavonne who’s probably–excuse me, ladies–got a schvanze that’s a yard long.”
I laughed. Danny said, “If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’. Seriously, Dick, and again, excuse me, ladies, but this makes you look like you’ve got a yard of hard pipe and you’re not afraid to show it.”
I laughed. Leigh sent up a silent prayer: save my husband from this scandal rag provocateur.
Nancy shot me a whisper. “I just talked to Ella Mae Cooley. Spade’s been beating her up again. . . and. . . Dick. . . you’re the only one who can calm him down.”
* * *
I drove out to Spade Cooley’s ranch. Rain slashed my windshield; I tuned in Hunter Hancock’s All-Request Show The gang at Googie’s got a call through: Dick Contino’s “Yours” hit the airwaves.
The rain got worse; the chrome accordion on my hood cut down visibility. I accelerated and synced bio-thoughts to music.
Late ’47, Fresno: I glommed a spot on Horace Heidt’s radio program. Amateur night stuff–studio audience/applause meter– I figured I’d play “Lady of Spain,” lose to some local babe Heidt was banging and go on to college.
I won.
Bobby-soxers swarmed me backstage.
I turned eighteen the next month. I kept winning–every Sunday night–weeks running. I beat singers, comics, a Negro trombonist and a blind vibraphone virtuoso. I shook, twisted, stomped, gyrated, flailed, thrashed, genuflected, wiggled, strutted and banged my squeeze box like a dervish orbiting on Benzedrine, maryjane and glue. I pelvis-popped and pounded pianissimos; I cascaded cadenzas and humped harmonic hurricanes until the hogs hollered for Hell–straight through to Horace Heidt’s grand finals. I became a national celebrity, toured the country as Heidt’s headliner, and went solo BIG.
I played BIG ROOMS. I cut records. I broke hearts. Screen tests, fan clubs, magazine spreads. Critics marvelled at how I hipsterized the accordion–I said all I did was make schmaltz look sexy. They said where’d you learn to move like that?–I lied and said I didn’t know
The truth was:
I’ve always been afraid.
I’ve always conjured terror out of thin air.
Music and movement are incantations that help keep it formless.
1949, 1950–flying high on fame and callow good fortune. Early ’51: FORM arrives via draft notice.
FORM: day sweats, night sweats, suffocation fears. Fear of mutilation, blindness, cancer, vivisection by rival accordionists. 24-hour heebie jeebies; nightclub audiences packing shrouds. Music inside my head: jackhammers, sirens, Mixmasters stripping gears.
I went to the Mayo Clinic; three headshrinkers stamped me unfit for Army service. My draft board wanted a fourth opinion and sent me to their on-call shrink. He contradicted the Mayo guys– my I-A classification stood firm.
I was drafted and sent to Ford Ord. FORM: the Reception Station barracks compressed in on me. My heart raced and sent livewire jolts down my arms. My feet went numb; my legs fluttered and dripped sweat. I bolted, and caught a bus to Frisco.
AWOL, Federal fugitive–my desertion made front page news. I trained down to L.A. and holed up at my parents’ house. Reporters knocked–my dad sent them away. TV crews kept a vigil outside. I talked to a lawyer, worked up a load of show biz panache and turned myself in.
My lawyer tried to cut a deal–the U.S. Attorney wasn’t buying. I took a daily flailing from the Hearst rags: “Accordion Prima Donna Suffers Stage Fright at Fort Ord Opening,” “Coward,” “Traitor,” “Yellow Belly,” “Chicken-Hearted Heartthrob.” “Coward,” “Coward,” “Coward.”
My BIG ROOM bookings were cancelled.
I was bound over for trial in San Francisco.
Fear:
Bird chirps made me flinch. Rooms closed in coffin-tight the second I entered them.
I went to trial. My lawyer proffered Mayo depositions; I detailed my fear on the witness stand. The press kept resentment fires stoked: I had it all, but wouldn’t serve my country. My response went ignored: so take away my fucking accordion.