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Red Buttons and the Acrimony of Hilarity by Kliph Nesteroff

 "Television has never seen anything like the turnover of personnel on The Red Buttons Show. The writers, directors, producers and supporting players come and go so fast the star can't learn their names before they head for the exit." - Voice of Broadway, April 8, 1954 

"Mel Brooks, signed just a week ago as writer-director of The Red Buttons Show, has resigned." - Variety, September 30, 1954 

In the spring of 1952 NBC had a reputation as the domain of sketch comedy. The Texaco Star Theater starring Milton Berle popularized televised sketch, The Colgate Comedy Hour with Martin & Lewis amplified it, and Your Show of Shows introduced us to the work of Sid Caesar, Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks. NBC's sketch comedy programs had something for each demographic, showcasing both lowbrow and highbrow styles, enjoying ratings dominance and critical acclaim. Competitor CBS was desperate to emulate NBC's success and in October 1952 attempted to do so by investing in a comedian named Red Buttons. His moniker fit his burlesque roots where it was common for nouns like Rags or Peanuts to be used as first names, an offshoot of burlesque strippers who also used strange pseudonyms.

The Red Buttons Show had an enormously popular first season on CBS and Buttons was hailed as "the comedy find of the year." But the second season was so disastrous that chroniclers called it the most severe fall from grace in comedy history. The Red Buttons Show was praised after its first several episodes, but press coverage soon changed from one of critical elation to a marveling at the chaos behind the scenes. “The first year Buttons was a major sensation,” wrote Colliers magazine. “The second year he went right down the tubes.” 

Success ruined Buttons as he destroyed his own show. His ego and anxiety expanded and his agitation was taken out on his employees. The slightest thing could set him off and his secretary was terrified of him. "Red scares me Monday [broadcast] nights," she said. "He doesn't make sense." He routinely fired employees after only a few weeks on the job. Variety called Red Buttons the only TV star with "more writers than scripts." The employees he retained often quit on their own, unable to handle the volatile, irrational atmosphere. He screamed at future legends like Larry Gelbart, Neil Simon and Mel Brooks, telling them to fuck right off. They did. By 1954 there were few comedy writers left who hadn't had some sort of terrible experience with The Red Buttons Show. Octogenarian comedian Bobby Ramsen says, "He fired all the people who later became the icons of American comedy. Red had different writers every week. 'They're not sending me out naked again! This is the worst crap I have ever seen!' God, he was terrible. Buttons became a monster."

Hollywood's First Comedy Club by Kliph Nesteroff

For fifteen years the corner of Beverly and Fairfax in Los Angeles had a comedy club before the phrase existed. Billy Gray's Band Box was many things to many people; a watering hole to Billy Wilder, a nuisance to the librettists of My Fair Lady, and a source of evidence for the FBI's case against mobster Mickey Cohen. It was also where showbiz insiders went to see an unconventional gimmick: multiple stand-up comedians on one show. In the opulent era of American supperclubs - the 1930s through the 1950s - a comedian shared the bill with a singer, a dance team and an orchestra. Billy Gray's Band Box broke the rule. As many as five comedians performed on the same show at the Band Box, something that had never been done before.

Comedian Billy Gray hosted every show at the Band Box. He frequently delivered punchlines in Yiddish just to annoy those who didn't comprehend. Elderly comedian Dick Curtis says, "Billy was a funny little guy with a bald head and the star of the evening. The place was jam packed every show. Billy Gray's Band Box was this whole other world." The Band Box line-ups are mostly rosters of obscure and forgotten names: impressionists Dave Barry, Don Corey and Arnold Dover; comic novelties Billy Barty, Mickey Katz and Bert 'the Mad Russian' Gordon; future stars Dick Van Dyke, Shecky Greene and Buddy Hackett. Comedians did twenty minute sets, the headliners forty-five and the patrons were passionate comedy snobs. Variety called it “one of the country’s heppest comedy crowds.” Comedian Leo DeLyon played it. “Ah, man, you talk about a hot room! It was small, but that’s what made it. You’d just wiggle a pinkie and you’d be getting screams. Billy Gray was hysterical. He was a riot as the host and emcee - and it was a great club.”

By 1966 Billy Gray's Band Box was an empty relic of showbiz past. The entertainment industry was changing like everything else in the 1960s and old school nightclubs were dying. In its final year Billy Gray stepped down and the hosting duties were taken over by a beleaguered road comic named Sammy Shore. He took note of Gray's multiple-comedian idea and decided to implement the concept at a nightclub of his own called The Comedy Store.  

Don Adams, Joey Bishop and the Steve Allen Scandal: Television Comedy in the Early 60s by Kliph Nesteroff

This article is a composite of deleted sections from the forthcoming Grove Atlantic release Drunks, Thieves and Scoundrels: American Comedians 1915-2015 by Kliph Nesteroff

If you weren’t conforming to the television homogeny of early 60s comedy, you were out of luck. Fanciful, childlike sitcoms controlled the landscape: The Addams Family, Bewitched, I Dream of Jeanie, Gilligan’s Island, Mister Ed, The Munsters, My Favorite Martian. In an environment where laughtracks told you what was funny, anything highbrow was doomed.

Get Smart was a cut above the others with a joke driven narrative created by Mel Brooks, Buck Henry and Leonard Stern. It was produced by Talent Associates, the David Susskind production company founded in 1952. They had an early hit with the Wally Cox sitcom Mister Peepers, but ten years later Susskind’s production company had lost its relevancy. Producers Dan Melnick and Leonard Stern were hired to revitalize the company with a plan to bring television production back to New York City. Writers with a Manhattan sensibility were hired to develop shows. Among the pilots were The Laughmakers created by Woody Allen and Inside Danny Baker created by Mel Brooks (neither were picked up). The success of James Bond at the box office created a secret agent craze in popular culture. Susskind wanted to cash-in and asked Mike Nichols to develop Get Smart. Nichols turned him down. Second choices Mel Brooks and Buck Henry got the job.

The early 1960s were frustrating for Mel Brooks. He wrote a screenplay for Jerry Lewis called The Ladies Man, but none of his work was accepted. “That didn’t go well. I gave him the material and he and another writer took it and went on a boat and rewrote it. I’d always had that privlege with Sid Caesar of being consulted. My work was highly respected. So I was incensed. I didn’t get along with him too well.”

The Fascist Stand-Up Comic by Kliph Nesteroff

Frank Fay is considered the very first stand-up comedian. Prior to his emergence in the early 1920s, comedians accompanied their act with props and funny costumes. Even those without gimmicks rarely appeared onstage alone. Comedians had their punchlines set-up by another person, a straightman. To be a comedian meant you performed with the help of a costume or an instrument or another guy. “A comedian without a prop can’t click,” said actor Wesley Ruggles. “I learned that back in the days when I pushed the props around for Charlie Chaplin. Great pantomist that he is, Chaplin realizes the necessity of props.”

Frank Fay realized that as long as you knew what you were doing, as long as you had confidence in your material, props weren't necessary at all. The comedians insisting on props and costumes did so out of conformity or out of fear. Fay started with gimmicks like everyone else, wearing baggy pants, squirting seltzer, delivering straight lines for a comedian that circled him on roller skates - and he hated it. After humiliating himself onstage for two years, Fay decided to use the same persona he had offstage. No props, no costumes, no partner, he took to the stage wearing a well-tailored tuxedo and told jokes alone. It was so unconventional that The New York Times frowned: "“Fay needs a good straight man, as before, to feed his eccentric comedy." There was initial resistance to a man just standing and talking, but Fay's success would transform stand-up as an artform. Fellow comedians saw Fay succeed and they abandoned their props and emulated his style. Jack Benny, Milton Berle, Bob Hope and Jack Paar all cited him as an influence. Fay became one of the most influential stand-up comics of all time.
     
He was also comedy's most notorious racist. In January 1946, several months after Germany had been defeated, a rally of ten thousand white supremacists gathered at Madison Square Garden. They delivered speeches in support of Franco, Mussolini and their fallen hero Adolf Hitler. They promised that the defeat of Germany would not go unpunished. The podium was beneath a banner that saluted their guest of honor. The event was called "The Friends of Frank Fay."

The Comedian Who Became a Joke by Kliph Nesteroff

"I have no talent... but I have a hell of a lot of guts!" - Bert Stone, July 1948.

Another tuxedo. Another strained smile. Another shlub onstage. He is one of the countless, generic comedians found all over America. He doesn't possess originality and he's not particularly smooth. Onstage failure has embittered him, adversely shading his every human relation. He often loses his train of thought mid-joke. When he stumbles, rather than power through, his self-loathing gets the best of him. "Ah, I loused it up," he admits to the microphone. "Sorry, folks, I loused it up!" A crowd of onlookers wouldn't have known the difference. Where there should have been silence there is now confusion. Where there should have been laughs there are headshakes. Where there should have been a comedian - there is Bert Stone.

Stone is a guy that panics. He is a man of extremes. The best one can say about him is that he dresses well. For a professional comedian Stone lacks the integral confidence - but he is self-assured among the suits of any tailor shop. Made to measure, Stone thinks nothing of lambasting a veteran clothier.
    "No, this is no good," Stone says. "The shoulders are all off."
    "No, no, no, my friend. You just need to wear it. It's a bit stiff because it hasn't been worn."
    "Nonsense! Look at this! Not even square to the shoulder!"
    "Trust me, sir, you just need..."
    "Excuse me? Trust you, a fraud posing as a tailor? Don't give me any guff. Just fix it."
No matter where Stone performs the reviews are sure to mention his well-dressed manner. A crease of perfection in his slacks, shoes shined to a luster, and that necktie - sharp - like a knife. Still, inevitably, they will mention that his act stinks. For Bert Stone the material on his body will forever surpass the material in his act. Then again, he ain't alone. He's just one of the hundreds of interchangeable comedians with interchangeable names like Billy and Lenny and Bobby and Jackie - they're all the same guy. Bert Stone, well dressed or not, would be interchangeable with all of them - would be - if not for the cross-country manhunt and the bleeding wrists and the taboo love affair with (gasp) a Negro. Tonight Bert Stone is performing for a crowd not too keen on hearing his act. Maybe if Bert talked about his wife and how she suffered that crazy patella fracture they'd listen. And the earlobe? Christ, how the hell did an earlobe get severed from his wife's head in the middle of a show last month? How does something like that happen? Such thoughts distract everyone as they watch him joking, sweating, bombing - Bert Stone, Comedian.

Murder in Mink! The Crimes of Comedian Ray Bourbon by Kliph Nesteroff

Ray Bourbon was a man of his convictions. He had a long list of them.

In the days before Lenny Bruce, no comedy act was harassed more often than Ray Bourbon. Consistently provocative and customarily raided, Bourbon's act skirted convention. Civic authorities unplugged his microphone in mid-performance and the venues he played were regularly threatened with padlocked consequence. When he wasn't sitting in the slammer for "lewd performance" or the now remarkable charge of "impersonating a woman," Bourbon was mailing letters of desperate agony to Variety. The June 3, 1970 edition featured a startling plea buried on page fifty-one, sandwiched between news of Jackie Mason's new production firm and a publicity photo of Homer and Jethro.

Brownwood, Tex. 76801
Editor, Variety:

This is the town where they pulled Midnight Cowboy for being obscene. I am sure it must be obvious to you now what chance I had here for getting a fair trial. I'm hoping you will mention this as I seem to have been completely forgotten by everyone; especially ones I've done favors for. I'll be grateful for anything you can say to attract any kind of aid. I am now on an appeal. But I need help. The address of the jail where I'm in is 212 N. Broadway, Brownwood, Texas 76801.

Ray Bourbon

Mobsters, Scoundrels, Comedians and Rat Finks by Kliph Nesteroff

"The record business in those days was Mob controlled. It wasn't a fun business to be in." - Dick Curtis, Comedian

"A lot of people didn't like [comedian] Jackie Kannon. They didn't like his toughness." - Sol Weinstein, Gagwriter

"Then there was Morris Levy's endless supply of special girlfriends and his passion for gambling and prostitutes." - Tommy James, Lead Singer of The Shondells

The Mob ran the record biz. During the height of America's nightclub abundancy, the ruthless owner of New York's Birdland and Peppermint Lounge was one of the most powerful men in the scene. Morris Levy used his clubs to promote the acts on his record label and he used his record label to exploit his clubs. Immersed in these two worlds, it was natural that Morris Levy would encounter every stand-up comedian in the business.

As television became common in the early nineteen fifties, the majority of radio programming moved to the visual terrain. The scramble to fill radio's dead air gave birth to the disc jockey and the pop music hustle. Morris Levy ensured that his label, Roulette Records, was there to fill the void. Radio became pop music's round-the-clock infomercial, dictating which tracks would sell in record stores. Morris Levy was a master at ensuring his artists got airplay. That mastery involved a faculty of full-time thugs and their impressive collection of bedraggled baseball bats.

Joey Dee and The Starlighters were one of Levy's most profitable acts. "I'd get in the limo with George Goldner, an employee," says Joey. "He'd drive. It would be a couple ladies of the evening, hookers, in the back of the limo and we'd drive to these towns. They'd meet with the deejays, give them an envelope with cash in it, allow them their way with the girls in the car, and then go on to the next town. And the next town. And the next town. Our records were played. God forbid they took the money and didn't play the records. That's when the baseball bats came out... and worse."

Between 1960 and 1966 the biggest fad going in the LP world was comedy records. Labels big or small, comedians hopelessly funny or just downright hopeless, pressed albums. Levy thought nothing of giving a disc jockey an envelope full of cash and yet, he denied his recording artists the same courtesy. Major acts like Buddy Knox or Jimmie Rodgers found themselves nearly broke while their names were at the top of the charts. The Roulette comedians didn't fare any better. Unlike the musicians that signed a slanted contract, Roulette's comedians had no contract at all. Many had their act recorded clandestinely - and released to the market without permission. Any other record label would have faced a major lawsuit. Roulette Records was different. You got a problem with us? That's fine. Soon you're gonna have a problem with your legs. 

The Comedians, The Mob and the American Supperclub by Kliph Nesteroff

"The Mob was an integral part of everything." - Comedian Jackie Curtiss

"I worked for a lot of gentlemen of that persuasion over the years. I learned a long time ago when I worked for Frank Costello in New York - don't ask questions." - Comedienne Rusty Warren

"Don't feel sorry for me." - Comedian Allan Drake

Las Vegas inevitably comes to mind when people think of America and the Mob. The era of patent-leather crooners, blinding neon, schmaltzy comedians and feather-laden showgirls is constantly romanticized - but Las Vegas was merely the apex of a trend. From the nineteen thirties until the end of the sixties every city in America had at least one glamorous supperclub, if not four or five, featuring the top headliners in every showbiz genre. Furthermore, it didn't matter if these clubs were in Cleveland, Portland, Corpus Christi or Baton Rouge - if it was a nightclub - the owners were the Mob. For a good forty years the Mob controlled American show business.

Back in 1933, when President Roosevelt gave Americans the okay to get drunk, speakeasy proprietors scrambled to stave off irrelevance. The bootleg profits amassed during the dry years gave rise to the Mob. When the Eighteenth Amendment was repealed, the Mob was left with hundreds of useless venues furnished with every conceivable liquor serving accoutrement. They salvaged their investments by retrofitting the speakeasy for legitimate nightclub use. Without the draw of clandestine liquor a new gimmick was needed to lure customers. The bait was entertainment; elaborate, lavish entertainment at a hitherto unseen scale. The explosion of Mob-run nightclubs created a huge circuit of well-paying jobs for singers, dancers, acrobats and comedians. Goons that had stood at speakeasy doors demanding secret passwords were now supperclub frontmen acting as the buffer between Mob overlords and the public. The American supperclub was born.

What became the Las Vegas business model was fine-tuned in these venues; Baltimore, Chicago, New York, Philadelphia - all across North America, every city had a taste of it. The true petri dish was Miami Beach where the big hotels, big shows and big gambling flourished long before Vegas was conceived. The performers that worked for these men held no illusions. "The clubs were owned by bootleggers and even a few killers," explained actor George Raft, who worked as a dancer in New York supperclubs. "In my time I knew or met them all. Al Capone, Joe Adonis, Frank Costello, Vito Genovese, Dutch Schultz, Machine Gun Jack McGurn, Lucky Luciano, Vinnie Coll - most of them were around. That didn't bother the patrons. We all worked the same places. The clubs were fun and a proving ground for talent. They're part of the history of this country." But somewhere along the way things changed. Remarkably, the Mob would lose its grip on show business. The Mob was once an untouchable entity and friendly with politicians. A revolving door of money and handshakes ensured cooperation. With the advent of the nineteen seventies, a paradigm shift occurred. Soon it was corporate America that proudly held the mantle of being above and beyond the law. A new kind of criminal exchanged money and handshakes with the political establishment. The Mob was replaced.

After a successful decade as Joey Bishop's protégé, comedian Lou Alexander observed the power shift. "When I was working Vegas the Mob ran Vegas," he explains. "Then it became corporate. Today it's corporate! Today it's like Disneyland! But in those days all the people that ran Vegas loved show people. They were great to us and they would give us everything - whatever you wanted." Despite the fact comedians were often surrounded by Mob violence, today's survivors are steadfast in their preference of Mob dominance over corporate rule. In many ways this is astonishing. Comedians ran afoul of the Mob more than other performers, inevitable, as a comic's vocation was ridicule. Every comedian of the era has a hairy story. Comedian Jack Carter managed to escape Mob hitmen in four separate cities. Shecky Greene was relentlessly beaten by contract killers. Sammy Shore and Rusty Warren managed to power through their respective acts while a Mob hit took place in the club during their shows. And yet, despite such bloodletting, Shore conforms to the opinion of his peers when he says, "Working for those guys, you knew they were the Mob... and they were just the greatest guys in the world."

The Schleppers: Stale Gags & Stale Food in Mid-Century Manhattan by Kliph Nesteroff

SCHLEP or SCHLEPP also SHLEP 
   - Slang
vb schleps, shlepping, schlepped
      to drag or lug (oneself or an object) with difficulty
n    1. a stupid or clumsy person
      2. an arduous journey or procedure
      [ Yiddish, from German schleppen ]

Chapter One
OUT OF WORK AND ON THE CORNER

The Horn & Hardart automat. Here we find pretty boy Steve Rossi standing alone in a tuxedo, having a piece of pie for dinner. Rossi is just another young singer loitering in Manhattan during the humid summer of 1951. Rhubarb splatters on just another shirt collar of just another no-name nothing. He believes he is the next Dean Martin. Hoping for work, desperate for stardom, he is just another ambitious shlub that considers a lone gig once every three weeks, fourteen drunks in the audience, the epitome of real live show business. Schlepping aimlessly through Midtown Manhattan, there are countless others with identical dreams, duplicate fears and corresponding cramps. To themselves they are stars in waiting. To the rest of Manhattan they are nameless, obnoxious drugstore patrons. To Hans Hanson they are customers with outrageous, unpaid tabs. To Willy the soda jerk they're worse than shlubs. "They're bums! And perverts! They never tip!" Hanson's Drugstore. A twenty-four hour hangout for dead-tired showgirls rewarding themselves with end-of-the night cherry smashes - spiked with a flask from their garter. A place where Brill Building songwriters sit in the morning struggling to concoct a rhyme for baby. Maybe today they'll discover a line other than "I don't mean maybe." A short jaunt from Hanson's is 52nd. They call it The Street. Yeah, that's the place to score with a stripper or score your dope - maybe catch a set by Sonny Stitt or Art Tatum while you wait. A line from a Raymond Chandler pulp springs to mind: "It seemed like a nice neighborhood to have bad habits in."

The Rise and Fall of Dino's Lodge by Kliph Nesteroff

A tall, neon approximation of Dean Martin's face once radiated a mysterious ambiance down on the Sunset Strip. The sign could be spotted in episodes of Dragnet, the Billy Wilder film Kiss Me Stupid and even an episode of The Andy Griffith Show. Much of the time it was treated as if it were just a typical building facade that fictional characters would drive past without comment. But today, to see a giant neon Dean Martin face makes one arch an eyebrow. What in Lord's name is that!?

Dino's Lodge was a real-life Los Angeles restaurant that lasted twenty years. It is primarily remembered by fans of the television series 77 Sunset Strip. Ed Byrnes played the pseudo-hipster character Kookie, a kid working as a valet at Dino's Lodge, which was a neighbor to the private eye headquarters of the program's protagonists. When Dino's Lodge first opened it was a happening nightspot frequented by the Hollywood elite. When 77 Sunset Strip made it famous to television viewers, it descended into a tourist trap and was abandoned by its celebrity clientele. By the early seventies, this restaurant that had once hosted parties for Frank Sinatra, was part of a cornball travel agency package that advertised a two-hundred and forty-dollar "guided tour of a motion picture studio, a full day at Disneyland and dinner at Dino's Lodge."

From the very beginning the weird looking sign was one of Hollywood's campiest icons. "Dino's Lodge was immensely popular," says Shawn Levy, "serving home-style Italian food and grilled entrees in a wood-paneled atmosphere meant to replicate the great roue's den." Behind those wood-panels, however, hides a story of mismanagement, lawsuits and vindictive Jerry Lewis spite. The project, in the words of Dean Martin himself, was one of "total regret."

Foster's Shadow: The On-Air Meltdown of Bill Hewitt by Kliph Nesteroff

Hockey Night in Canada is the longest running program in the history of the world. Starting on radio in 1931, it adopted its current moniker in 1936. It moved to television with separate broadcasts in French and English in 1952 and has remained on the air ever since. Hockey Night in Canada managed to unite an enormous, sprawling landmass in a way Confederation never could. While Canada struggled for decades to establish a show business culture it could call its own, Hockey Night in Canada stood as its only competent showcase in the entertainment world. Thus, it was only natural that this avidly consumed broadcast would take its first announcer - a bland, nasal-voiced play-by-play man - and catapult him to the position of Canada's biggest celebrity.

Foster Hewitt is a name that all Canadians know. He was a gentlemen that, for several decades, was one of its most adored characters. His fame came by default. He never possesed sonorous larynx. He had no charisma. And he had no peer. His flat, everyman delivery was accepted; it was simply a factual account of what he saw on the ice - with little else added. It was as if a random man had walked in off the street to broadcast the game. This is perhaps what gave him his greatest appeal.

Having built a one-man empire as the only hockey broadcaster in the world, Foster Hewitt made sure to groom his son to take over the family business. Foster shared trade secrets with his son like an aging cobler passing his shop on to junior. He taught him well. The voice and observations of Bill Hewitt were considered even more flat and bland than those of his father. Once established as the new voice of Hockey Night in Canada, Bill Hewitt's talent was summarized by respected journalist Peter Gzowski. "Bill Hewitt not only fails to improve the game with his commentary - he makes it slightly less interesting."

Regardless, the Hewitt family was the voice and sound of Hockey Night in Canada for a total of forty-eight consecutive years. It wasn't until September 28, 1981 that the broadcast would air without a Hewitt. Some contemporaries blamed the demise of the legacy on the elder Hewitt and the pressure he instilled on his son. Some said it was booze. Others said it was pills. However, in retrospect, it would seem it was a combination of all three. The night Bill Hewitt fell apart on the air remains one of the stranger stories of Canadian broadcasting. In an instant, a broadcasting dynasty collapsed. It was an instant that, for those working alongside him that evening, felt like a lifetime.

What follows is a chapter excerpt from the unpublished Oral History of Hockey Night in Canada by Kliph Nesteroff.

Outrageous and Courageous: The Myth and Legend of Shecky Greene by Kliph Nesteroff

"Frank Sinatra saved my life once. He said, "Okay, boys. That's enough." - Shecky Greene

"You dirty Jew sunofabitch, you're sicker than Lenny Bruce." - Ed Sullivan yelling at Shecky Greene

The odd dichotomy of Shecky Greene is that, for anyone under the age of fifty, his name is associated with an out-moded style of comedy. To use the moniker Shecky is almost an insult, a parody. The name Shecky has been brandished by characters in plays, satires and short stories. The appellation is used to indicate that this is a comedian to please grandpa, something for the pastrami sandwich nostalgist, a treat for those who believe Henny Youngman was an intellectual and Mort Sahl was a traitorous, communist bum. The reality is something much different.

The truth is that if Shecky Greene were emerging today he would be considered the leading voice in what is vaguely defined as alternative comedy. Greene was experimental beyond belief, possessing a kinetic and forceful dynamism that spilled off the stage into his every day life. Comedy's great non-conformist, the very hotels that employed him often had him arrested - only to cover his bail a day later. When other comics finished their final performance they rushed to where Shecky was playing to soak in his brilliant madness. "One of the greatest I ever saw in a nightclub!" screams contemporary Pat Cooper. "I saw him at The Riviera five, six, seven times. I saw him climb the curtain and do twenty minutes from on top of the curtain! He destroyed an audience." Cooper's take is not just an opinion - it is the consensus.

Shecky Greene was not your grandpa's comedian, but with little modern memory of what Shecky Greene's act consisted of, the symbolic nature of his name has been distorted. His contemporaries remember his irreverence. They say he was the most unforgettable comedy performer they ever saw. Ask them what he said on stage - nobody has a clue. He was and always would be a creature of the nightclub; flying off on wild tangents and pulling remarkable stunts, climbing walls and fighting owners. He invented a hysterical, free-form approach to comedy that the confines of a five minute television spot could not handle. Shecky was praised by comedy legend Jack Benny, idolized by comedic subversive Lenny Bruce and lauded by the genre-expanding revolutionary Ernie Kovacs. His reckless abandon on stage fueled a comedic genius, but that same reckless abandon lead to incredible feats of off stage chicanery and fatalistic tumult. One example occurred on a drunken summer evening as Greene and his best friend/nemesis Buddy Hackett viciously fought into the Nevada night, wrestling each other to the desert ground. Hackett, brandishing a firearm, threatened to blow Greene's head off, but Shecky won the struggle. Greene, with his foot pressed triumphantly on the throat of the defeated Hackett promised, "If you get up, Buddy - I'm going to kill you."

The name Shecky can vacillate from noun to verb to adjective. The opinion of every comedian during that gilded age of show business, whether they were Republican Bob Hope or hipster Lenny Bruce, is that Shecky Greene was the the wildest of them all. The craziest of them all. Most importantly - the funniest of them all.

Life at the 2011 TCM Classic Film Festival: An Ode to Vintage Los Angeles

"The time is eight-thirty in Boss Angeles!" - The Real Don Steele, Los Angeles Disc Jockey, 1967

Los Angeles is a wonderful city, yet it seems much of society despises what it represents. Few cities stoke such anger in the heart of civilians as does Hollywood. I am not just talking about the fabricated outrage of Bill O'Reilly and his vendetta against the place that gave him John Wayne and Ronald Reagan. Beyond that, it is common to hear Los Angeles ridiculed for its superficiality, its insistence on driving everywhere, its fashionable health kicks and its all-consuming Sammy Glick way of life. But these people that hate Los Angeles - they are not pornstars. And these people that hate Los Angeles - they are not nerds. This city was simply made for these two categories of people. But to which category do I belong?

I recently returned to the show business glory hole that is Los Angeles, representing WFMU at the second annual TCM Classic Film Festival, the only film festival in the world that has the word 'classic' in its name twice. This awkward redundancy is alleviated in a Kentucky Fried Chicken - KFC kind of way and it is appropriate that I mention fast food here. For all the talk of aspiring anorexic models in Los Angeles, the area remains a beacon of hamburger romance and drive-in bliss. Diner imagery and Art Deco orgies. Googie shrines and carhop remnants. In between encounters with Mickey Rooney, Peter O'Toole and Walt Disney's grandson, I was busy indulging in the many classic burger stations, tiki lounges, fountain coffee shops and aging Hollywood watering holes. This can be hard on the system of a vegetarian - of which I am one - but I am not unlike like the pescetarian that explains, "I am a vegetarian... but I eat fish." Let me distinguish. I am a vegetarian... but I eat hamburgers. When in Hollywood I eat them with such abandon that I seem intent on a hari kari mission to go the rest of my life without ever having another bowel movement. Lucky for me, when an internal traffic jam occurs there is always the bar at Musso & Frank; the oldest restaurant in Hollywood and the only bar in the world sans television in its corner. Ruben, my bartending knight in shining red blazer, knows how to fix a drink that is so powerful it is capable of slaughtering, for a second time, the cow inside my gut. Yes, the Lagavulin at Musso & Frank... it will keep you regular.

But back to the matter at hand: The TCM Classic Film Festival; an incredible four days of thrilling encounters, simultaneous screenings and heart-breaking choices. Coetaneous events in which you must decide between Debbie Reynolds or Angela Lansbury, Warren Beatty or Leslie Caron, Roger Corman or Kirk Douglas; they are among the most difficult decisions in a film nerd's life and it is impossible to absorb everything. As I wrote in my piece last year, the great thing about the TCM festival is not merely seeing Hollywood's grand old product on the big screen or seeing living legends in the loosening flesh. Certainly, that's all fantastic, but for Angelenos such an event is commonplace. The festival is most important for those flying in from out of town, for those of us isolated in our respective communities and unable to enjoy the offerings of a cosmopolitan city, unable to have our passion understood by our own neighbors or our very own families. This is to whom this festival belongs. To look back at my own article of last year and pretentiously quote myself, "It was a convention of individualists coming together to discover that they are, perhaps, not quite as alone in the world as day-to-day life makes them feel."

The Mel Lyman Personality Cult Revisited by Kliph Nesteroff

"I tell you I am the greatest man in the world and it doesn't trouble me in the least." - Mel Lyman

It seems unlikely that a scrawny, disheveled kid wearing a sailor hat and oversized military coat could actually hold power over one hundred people, let alone convince them he was God. A 1966 Oscar-nominated film called Festival is the closest look at this man we have today. The stark, black and white, cinema-vérité style documentary follows the goings-on at The Newport Folk Festival. It opens with a shot of Mel Lyman, flashing a toothy grin, playing harmonica with The Jim Kweskin Jug Band. He appears happy and sweet, young and sheepish. He looks like he could be the malnourished spokesperson for a brand of fish n’ chips. Many conclude that Charles Manson modeled himself after him.

Three years later Dick Cavett spoke into a television camera. “Will you welcome please Daria Halprin and Mark Frechette!” With that the young couple walked across the stage of The Dick Cavett Show and shook hands with fellow panelists Mel Brooks and Rex Reed. The two young stars of Michelangelo Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point didn’t smile. They didn’t wave to the audience. They sat down and stared off camera. It was one of the most awkward interviews Dick Cavett would ever conduct. Each question was greeted with long moments of hesitation. The interview subjects acted as if they were appearing against their will.

Not long after that awkward televised exchange, Frechette watched a close friend go down in a hail of bullets. Frechette himself would die under mysterious circumstances when he was asphyxiated by a barbell in a Massachusetts prison. It was obvious to Mel Brooks, Rex Reed and Cavett’s entire viewing audience that these kids weren’t normal - but nobody could pinpoint why. The world eventually learned that Daria Halprin and Mark Frechette were emotionally captivated players in an unnerving countryside family of young, hippie outsiders, or as Cavett refers to it today, "a cult that didn't kill anyone." In 1970, when Cavett said to his guests, “I understand you two live in a commune,” Frechette responded tersely. “It’s not a commune. It’s a community … and the purpose is to serve [our leader] Mel Lyman.”

The Voyeuristic Adventures of Errol Flynn by Kliph Nesteroff

"The magazine Confidential had been running stories about me ... I rankled ... I acknowledged my own peccadilloes, and if and when there are real incidents, I make no denial, no apology, and I even stand by them." - Errol Flynn, 1959

Errol Flynn is one of the more storied personalities in Hollywood history. Women swooned over him. Men desperately wanted to emulate him. He had no shortage of lovers and certainly no shortage of scandals. An inordinate amount of literature has been devoted to Flynn. Co-stars, ex-wives, stunt doubles, and even the coroner that tampered with his cold, lifeless venereal warts, have written at length about this celluloid Robin Hood. There is actually a book solely devoted to Flynn's not-so-humble abode, written by a guy who pulled a break n' enter in order to gain access.

The homes of Errol Flynn were notorious for their insouciant parties. Flynn shindigs were considered wild denizens of debauchery even by the standards of Hollywood’s gilded age. One of Flynn's closest friends was the equally dapper David Niven. The two had a lot in common. Both men came to Hollywood via the London stage and both were known for their suave demeanor. They battled each other for pencil moustache supremacy and shared a compulsive appetite for the opposite sex. Niven spoke reverently of Flynn as a "magnificent specimen of the rampant male."

King of Slobs: The Life of Joe E. Ross by Kliph Nesteroff

"I guess he was funny in his own way. I don't think he had a very good nightclub act." - Ronnie Schell, comedian

"His life centered around dating strippers." - Steve Rossi, comedy straight man

Joe E. Ross was the kind of grotesque, boorish, nightclub comedian that over the years has been satirized ad nauseam. Andy Kaufman's alter ego Tony Clifton, a talentless lounge singer with a penchant for drinking, smoking and whoring, is in many ways the fictional equivalent of Ross. Best known for his featured role in the early nineteen sixties sitcom Car 54, Where Are You? Joe E. Ross left an indelible, negative impression on every performer he ever worked with. The consensus of those that knew him is that his shenanigans offstage were infinitely more amusing than anything he ever did onstage. His disposition is perfectly summed up by fellow nightclub comedian Hank Garrett. "He was married eight times and they were all ex-hookers. It was cheaper to marry them than keep visiting them."

Ross was a product of the Lower East Side. His first taste of show business came when he found a job in the Bronx as a singing waiter. Soon he evolved into a burlesque comic, but his gigs were pretty much limited to rundown strip joints. Garrett often shared the bill with Ross in the worst Bowery venues imaginable. "You'd see someone get up in the audience," recalls Garrett. "We'd say, 'If you're looking for the toilet, sit down. You're in it."

Last Man in Blackface: The World of Pigmeat Markham by Kliph Nesteroff

"It is no disgrace to be a Negro, but it is very inconvenient." - Bert Williams, vaudeville star

"Pigmeat Markham was many things: the ranking funny man on the Avenue, a hero to young fans, the Judge. He was also a curious anomaly, the last great black comic to perform in burnt cork." - R.J. Smith, author

"I'd been working in blackface for so many years that I was scared to go on without it." - Pigmeat Markham

Pigmeat Markham was probably the only African-American comedian equally as popular in 1939 as he was in 1969. In that thirty year span the inroads made by African-American performers, and black America as a whole, was immense. Media that had shunned an entire race slowly heralded new opportunities thanks to several years of organized protest. In the decades before this crest emerged, a tight-knit collection of black actors had been typecast by Hollywood's studio system into bland, subservient bit parts; the only roles that a racist Hollywood would allow. Progressive activists from the black community set their sights on the major film studios, radio stations and television networks, demanding that the demeaning roles be eradicated. Slowly Hollywood conceded and eliminated the racist typecasting in the early fifties, but they failed to replace such parts with an honest representation of black America. Instead they would dispense with black actors altogether. As a result, the few black actors that had actually managed to make a living in the industry were thrown into unemployment. When the gains of minority activism intensified in the late sixties creating new, substantial opportunities for African-American entertainers, that tight-knit collection of working black actors were mostly too old, too poor or too forgotten to take advantage.

Dewey "Pigmeat" Markham was an exception. At a time when the call of "black power" resonated from Watts to Vietnam, Markham's lowbrow style of vaudeville had an unexpected resurgence. Revamping the tired sketches he had used for years, most of which had originally been performed in blackface, Markham helped bridge the tension between races with his unlikely blend of anachronistic comedy. A few decades prior Pigmeat had all but been eliminated from the scene by the influential NAACP and Urban League. He emerged in the late sixties as an African-American cultural force. When H. Rap Brown, Fred Hampton or Bobby Seale clenched a fist and shouted "black power" it is unlikely they had a vaudeville veteran that steadfastly refused to stop performing in blackface in mind. Pigmeat Markham was an unapologetic proponent of blackface and one of the most popular African-American comedians the country has ever seen.

The Comedy Writer That Helped Elect Richard M. Nixon by Kliph Nesteroff

"Nixon said ... that appearing on Laugh-In is what got him elected - and I believe that. And I've had to live with that." - George Schlatter, Creator of Laugh-In

"He is the president of every place in this country which does not have a bookstore." - Murray Kempton, Journalist and Pulitzer Prize Recipient

"While basically a dullard, [Paul] Keyes nonetheless is an interesting cat." - Gary Deeb, TV Critic

"The one thing I try to avoid is making audiences think." - Dan Rowan, Host of Laugh-In

Two mainstream television programs in the late nineteen sixties were said to represent the counterculture sensibility more so than any other: The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour and Laugh-In. These two comedy-variety shows, we are often told, appealed to the same acid-tripping, free-love, anti-war demographic. Today they are often considered two sides of the same coin, but behind the scenes they differed in major ways.

The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour resulted in Tom Smothers, its main creative force, being the first name to grace the Nixon enemies list. The comedy team had once been a trusted mainstream act, popular with conservative America in the years leading up to their own nineteen sixties variety show. But eventually The Smothers Brothers became a petulant aggravation for the jingoists in Washington. With his weekly variety program in place, Tom Smothers experienced a political transformation that mirrored the very paradigm shift taking place across America. An enormous sector of the population started questioning the methods and motives of their war mongering leaders just as The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour became a major hit. CBS felt increasingly pressured to squelch the subtle anti-authoritarian inferences Tom Smothers contributed to each episode and guest stars such as Joan Baez, Harry Belafonte and Pete Seeger had their anti-war turns carved up by the network. The resulting cancellation of The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour was blamed on a "blasphemous" piece of satire by comedian David Steinberg, but the Nixon White House and their allies had been searching for an excuse to pull the plug on Tom Smothers for a while. It appears that one of the people prodding the President to do so was the most unlikely of confidants: the head writer of Laugh-In.

Laugh-In is commonly considered a reflection of the late sixties youth sensibility, but closer examination reveals a much different picture. It was, in essence, an establishment show, profiting from the anti-establishment sentiment running through America. Moderated by the comedy team of Dan Rowan and Dick Martin, Laugh-In was old in style, but draped in the popular fashion of the day. It effectively garnered a genuine hippie aesthetic, but any actual connection to the counterculture was mostly smoke and mirrors. The bulk of Laugh-In consisted of eye-catching vaudeville bits that mostly ignored the war, the riots and the protest. It embraced the look and sound of the hippies and had no problem making references to getting high, but generally glossed over political issues. Whereas Tom Smothers found himself on Nixon's enemies list, Rowan and Martin found themselves on Nixon's guest list. Historian Hal Erickson assessed, "Compared to the approach of The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, Laugh-In treaded very, very lightly, especially when commenting upon America's untenable position in Vietnam." Laugh-In creator George Schlatter explains that his show "had a real cross section of writers. Paul was seriously right-wing ... He was so far right he did cartwheels ... Paul Keyes ... Nixon's joke writer." In 1969 Dan Rowan said of Laugh-In's chief scribe, "President Nixon calls him four or five times a week and when he's in San Clemente, Paul's always there. He is very close to the administration on a personal and on a political basis." A generation of vociferous anti-Nixonites, enraptured by everything Laugh-In had to offer each Monday night, was none the wiser.

An interview with Drew Friedman

Drew Friedman is not just one of America's most well-known and widely respected illustrators, but his work is arguably the most identifiable. Having worked for counterculture bibles over the years like National Lampoon, RAW, Screw, SPY and Mad, Friedman has, in the past fifteen years, garnered mainstream respectability with onslaughts of work for Entertainment Weekly, Mother Jones, Newsweek, The New York Times, Rolling Stone, The New Republic, The Weekly Standard, Time and countless others. Friedman has also published several entertaining books, including his two critically acclaimed collections of portraits titled Old Jewish Comedians. I spoke with Drew Friedman recently in anticipation of his new collection, an overview of those last fifteen years of mainstream respectability: Too Soon? Famous/Infamous Faces 1995-2010 from Fantagraphics Books.

Kliph Nesteroff: I heard that you were recently at a party with Albert Brooks. Had you met Albert before?

Drew Friedman: No, that was the first time. It was a recent party in Los Angeles and Albert was a guest at the party. I'm a huge Albert Brooks fan, dating back to the early seventies - seeing him on The Flip Wilson Show and Saturday Night Live, even Ed Sullivan. It was a treat to meet him. I'm not sure if he knew who I was, but I gave him a couple copies of my Jewish comedian books, which he enjoyed. He asked if his dad was in there because his dad had been a comedian called Parkyarkarkus. His father was actually named Harry Einstein and as a joke named his son Albert. Albert Brooks' real name is Albert Einstein, he changed it to Brooks when he became a comedian. I said, "No, your father died a little too young." His dad actually died on the dais at the Friar's Club in nineteen fifty-eight at a tribute to Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. He died right on the dais right after doing his act, when Albert was twelve. This is all incidental. When I was talking to Albert at this party he said, "Drew, did you know that Harpo's ex-wife married Frank Sinatra?" I said, "No, it was Zeppo's ex-wife." He said, "No, no, it was Harpo's ex-wife." I said, "No, it was Zeppo's ex-wife. Look, we have Andy Marx, Groucho's grandson standing right here. Let's ask him." I said, "Andy, which one of your uncles married Frank Sinatra's wife?" He said, "Well, that was Zeppo's wife." That's why I love L.A. It's handy to have Groucho's grandson [around] when you need him. 

The Life and Times of Rusty Warren by Kliph Nesteroff

"Everyone knew who Rusty Warren was." - Jazz Drummer, Dick Odette

The early nineteen sixties experienced a comedy record boom unlike anything ever seen before. Every comedian that had ever worked a nightclub pressed an album. Some had high production values and were released on major labels like Capitol, Decca and Warner. Others were recorded in one-take, capturing mediocre comics bombing before an unsympathetic crowd. This was of no concern. If it were in the comedy section, people would buy it. For six solid years comedy albums were among the highest selling LPs on the Billboard charts, often outselling pop groups like The Beatles. Comedians Shelley Berman and Bob Newhart were responsible for some of the highest selling vinyl ever made. Vaughn Meader and Allan Sherman had the fastest selling records of all time - in any genre.¹ All four men were regulars on the big television revues from Steve Allen to Ed Sullivan. They were showcased in every conceivable medium. Their records sold hundreds of thousands of copies and they deservedly became big stars.

Now imagine if their records had been barred from radio play. What if Bob Newhart had been blacklisted from network television? How far would Allan Sherman's novelty pressings have gone if they were relegated to the surreptitious "adults only" section of the local record store? With such obstacles stacked against them would they have become astronomic celebrities? Would they smash attendance records at every club they appeared? Without one national television appearance to their name would they have achieved seven straight gold records?

That's exactly what happened to a woman named Rusty Warren. Against insurmountable odds, she went from tiny midwestern cocktail lounges to well-known Vegas showrooms and ascended to the heights of stardom without the help of radio, television or film. During a time when many women were content to embrace the role of submissive homemaker, Rusty was in nightclubs making fun of male hang-ups and advocating that women shed their shackles and embrace an appetite for sex. Warren has often been described as the "Mother of the Sexual Revolution." Some scholars have gone so far as to suggest that her song Bounce Your Boobies was what eventually convinced women to burn their brassieres en masse.

She invested in bull semen with Barbra Streisand and Charlton Heston. Her record label was embroiled in the Alan Freed payola scandals. Johnny Carson hated her. Jackie Mason held a grudge. At a given performance she would shatter attendance records, be confronted by outraged churchgoers and maybe even witness an attempted murder. Soon she became the highest selling performer in the history of comedy records.

Please welcome to the stage, Ms. Rusty Warren.