The File on Bobby Darin, Chapter 27

Chapter 27
That’s All

Bobby was busy with preparations for traveling overseas, but he made time to drop by Ahmet Ertegun’s office to talk about liner notes for the album, “Darin at the Copa,” and to receive a lesson in Turkish.  When Darin had learned that English was not Ertegun’s first language, he became obsessed with idea of talking to the record producer in his native tongue.  The lessons in Turkish were proceeding rather haphazardly.  But Bobby was an eager student, and Ertegun was the soul of patience in this endeavor.  Ertegun had been intrigued to discover that Darin did not want to learn swear words in Turkish; in fact, he did not like to hear cursing or blue phrases in any language.  Bobby sat across from Ertegun at his cramped office at Atlantic Records.

“How are things?” Ertegun asked Darin.

Darin looked as though he was holding his breath, then finally asked slowly in Turkish, “Ees-ler na-shuhi?”

Ertegun corrected him on the last word, “Suhi.”

“Suhi,” Darin said, then asked again, “Ees-ler na-suhi?”

“Very good,” Ertegun said.  Then he asked, “Are you married?”

Darin thought a minute, then responded with a bit more confidence, “Ev-lee mee-seen?”

“Yes, yes!” Ertegun said, smiling broadly with satisfaction.  “We will have you sounding like a native in no time.”

Darin let out a sigh of relief.  “I don’t know, Ahmet, if I can ever do more than screw up ordering Turkish coffee in your language!  Thanks for sticking with me on this.”

Ahmet Ertegun rocked back in his executive chair.  “Not at all, my boy, the pleasure is entirely mine.  I know you are going to Portofino soon.  Can I teach you a few traveler’s phrases in Italian?”

“No thanks,” Darin said, dismissing the offer with a wave of his hand, “No need.  Everyone I’m interested in there will be speaking English, believe me.”

“Very good,” Ertegun replied.  He could see that Bobby was finished with his lesson for today, and now it was time to turn to business.  Ertegun had on his desk a mockup of the artwork for the album that would soon be produced.  Of particular interest was the liner notes that would go on the back of the album.  It had been proposed to use snippets of the various rave reviews that Darin’s act had received from the newspapers.  There were so many good ones to choose from that Darin and Ertegun needed to go through and make their selections.  There were several very favorable reviews from columnists at the New York Journal-American.  Were there too many, perhaps?

Darin leaned to one side in his chair to take a clipping out of his pocket and hand to Ertegun across the desk.  “Here’s one that I just got the other day, thought you should see this.”  He handed the column to Ertegun that read as follows: 

“Bobby Darin’s debut at the Copacabana last night was a triumph—he has a good voice, fine arrangements, an almost completely tasteful selection of songs, and the nerve of a bank robber.  The Copa isn’t apt to have any empty tables showing during his engagements.

Dorothy Kilgallen—New York Journal-American”

Ertegun considered.  “Well, we already have several from this one newspaper, we may have all that we need at this point.”  He looked again at the Kilgallen quote.  “Nerve of a bank robber!  That’s pretty good, I think I like that.”

Darin nodded.  “Dick Behrke pointed it out.  I probably would have missed it if he hadn’t shown it to me.  So I thought I should bring it in.”

Ertegun nodded in satisfaction over the clipping.  The more he read it over, the more he liked it.  It was a perfect description of Darin’s act.  But now he had to tackle a less pleasant subject.  He did not waste time but came right to the point, because he knew Bobby’s schedule was crowded before his trip.  “What about this stuff from Walter Winchell?  I know he gave you great reviews, but do you really want his name on this album?”

“Yes, I do,” Bobby said.  “Why wouldn’t we go with it?

Ertegun shifted in his chair.  “Do you want Winchell’s stamp of approval, Bobby?  That ‘sonnet’ is so corny!  Winchell is over the hill, and as for his politics, really!  His next item after the poem is a story on Communist infiltration of the PTA!”

As Ertegun twisted in his seat, Bobby leaned forward in his.  He pointed with emphasis to the stack of Winchell columns that mentioned the Copa performance night after night.  “Yes, I know, people think I’m crazy to call him a friend, but the advertisement he gave us, no one else could do or would do.  I think I owe it to him to put his stuff in the quotes.”

Ahmet Ertegun was prepared to argue with his recording artists about many things, but when he saw a certain look in Darin’s eye, he knew not to waste his breath.  He nodded in agreement, but still had to ask again, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Winchell stays in,” said Bobby.

Walter Winchell, seated at his desk, was at the mercy of conflicting emotions.  He had been struck dead in his tracks by Dorothy Kilgallen.  He remembered Dorothy coming to the newspaper offices in pigtails as a young girl, in the company of her father.  While he was not looking, she had grown up into a formidable adversary.  She had just stopped him from doing something that he very much wanted to do, something that, he could barely allow himself to acknowledge, was in all likelihood quite foolish.  His pride had just taken a tremendous blow, he had to admit.  Dorothy had found the truth before he had, and she possessed the means to keep him from doing anything about it.  He felt as though he were in the type of a nightmare in which he needed to run away from some great danger, only to find that his legs were filled with lead, and he was unable to lift them to move.

But he could not just sit there like a fire plug.  He must do something!  Something that would show he was still master of this little room, if nothing else.  He got up from his desk and turned to the bulging filing cabinet behind him.  At random, he selected a file from a drawer, not looking at the label (if it even had one).  He opened the messy file, turned out a sheet a paper, and wrote the name that Dorothy had shown him in a margin.  Without giving himself time to think, he reshuffled the papers, returned them to their folder, and stuffed the folder back into the filing cabinet.  He himself would not now be able to retrieve the paper, and if someone happened upon it by accident, the name would be meaningless, bearing no connection to the subject in which Walter had buried it.  He took his seat back at the desk, and now he felt that he could breathe again.  Rose Bigman returned to the office, and they turned their attention to finalizing that day’s column.  After the inches of copy were put to bed, he would head down to Washington, DC, to catch Darin’s engagement there.  He would put this Kilgallen episode behind him and enjoy the show.  He hoped that Bobby would have enough room to make like a meteor on the stage of the Casino Royal. 

Walter Winchell died of cancer in February 1972.  In 1987, Walter’s daughter passed away, leaving the files of Walter Winchell, including twelve cabinets of material collected over fifty years’ time, as part of her meager estate.  Winchell’s files were catalogued and eventually broken up and sold to several private collectors at auction in 1990.  It is unlikely that the files will ever be assembled as a single collection again.

Dorothy Kilgallen died in 1965.  Her death was ruled an accident from a combination of alcohol and prescription medications.

Sherman Billingsley died in 1966.  The Stork Club had closed in 1965.  On its last day of business, it was being picketed by a lone union member.

Frank Costello and Jules Podell died of heart attacks in 1973.

The Copa closed in 1973.

Nina Cassotto Maffia died in 1983.  She never revealed the name of Bobby Darin’s father.


END




The author with Bobby's yellow roses