Shirley

by Burgess, Muriel

  Charlie had a fatherly talk with Bernard. ‘You’ve got thirty minutes to fill. But listen, this is not Sydney so keep it clean, they’re all rural here, no smut, keep it tidy.’ Kenny got a local orchestra band, they rehearsed hard and got the sounds right.

  Only Shirley was a bit tight-lipped. They need not expect her to appear in beads and a peep-hole dress. She’d catch pneumonia. She would be well covered in a long white dress and a long white cape coat. Bernard thought she looked like a gospel singer.

  That evening the audience poured in, filling the hall and shaking giant umbrellas, pulling off yellow storm coats, sou-westers and rubber boots as they took their seats. The women emerged from their covers looking pretty in their summer dresses. And still they came, although every seat was taken. Where would they go wondered Bernard? Then he saw. Into one wall was built a giant organ that hadn’t been played for years; it had more pipes and bits sticking out here and there than any organ he’d ever seen. Up they climbed, the bravest going to the top, others squeezed on to the pipes, and soon the organ was a solid mass of humanity which spilled out to every empty area on the floor.

  Kenny and his musicians struck up ‘There’s no Business like Show Business’, and the show and the audience were away. Bernard made his entrance and he could have been Fred Astaire from the applause. They laughed at every joke and when he sang ‘Hello Dolly’ they all joined in. The New Zealanders wanted to enjoy themselves, they wanted to sing and dance. This was a party.

  Bernard’s next song had them all on their feet, dancing in the aisles. Kenny and his orchestra could have come straight from the Hammersmith Palais de Danse the way they swung. One after another, the strong and the brave slid down the organ pipes to join in. They were all great dancers. Shirley, peeping from behind the curtain, was absolutely convulsed.

  In the interval tea and coffee and sandwiches and cakes were served. When the crumbs were dusted away and the cups stacked up and everyone who had one was back in their seats, Kenny and the boys struck up ‘On a Wonderful Day Like Today’ and Shirley made her entrance.

  She strode on looking for all the world as if she had come straight from the local Mormon Church. No thigh-high split dress, no bare midriff. She stood beneath the ghastly brazen glare of the wartime searchlight in a long white coat, hands clasped together as if she was about to begin a sermon. The audience went wild with delight, but first she had to sing.

  The audience cheered her opening number to the rafters and Shirley bowed and approached the microphone again. Her voice was very strong and unusually serious. ‘Last year,’ she intoned. ‘Men walked on the moon.’ Shirley liked the sound of this phrase so she repeated it again. ‘Last year men walked on the moon.’ She was really going to drive that message home. ‘Okay duckie, we know,’ shouted some wit. Everybody clapped.

  ‘Then why, oh why,’ demanded Shirley, ‘can you only find me this lousy searchlight?’ This one horse town should take a hint from Cape Canavarel.

  The audience thought this was the funniest thing they’d heard that night. ‘Come on Shirl. Tell us another.’ They clapped and cheered. Someone zonked an organ pipe and someone fell off. Screams of joy. Shirley knew when she was beaten. She threw off the terrible Mormon white coat, gave her dress a hitch, and revealed the slit to the navel; that length of thigh. ‘Shirley, Shirley,’ the hundreds of voices chorused and Shirley gave it her all. It was Shirley in the searchlight that night – at her very best; a night none of them would ever forget.

  14

  SHIRLEY CONQUERS NEW YORK

  THERE WAS USUALLY a major disaster in every tour, and the Nile Club in Manila in the Philippines supplied as good a disaster as most. Manila was very hot and humid, and the Nile Club a stuffy smelly, pick-up joint. It was a long, narrow strip of a room with a bar and girls and a few tables. There was a small orchestra and an apology for a stage. Shirley was not the first singer ever to have appeared there, but she must have been the first one who wasn’t a hoochie-coochie dancer too. The band had never seen a sheet of European music before, being able only to play their local bar room music on their native wind instruments, lutes and Filipino balalaikas. If the Roaring Twenties club in Melbourne had been a dump, the Nile belonged up a back alley in a Cairo bazaar.

  Before Kenny Clayton grasped what he’d dropped into he handed out sheet music for Shirley’s opening number. He sat down at the piano and happily started to play and sing ‘Climb Every Mountain’ to encourage the musicians. They smiled politely, picked up their instruments and joined in. The noise was ear-splitting, a jangled unmelodious din. Then he saw that all the players had their music upside down on their stands.

  This looked like another Kenneth Hume balls-up. Hume had booked the Nile Club sight unseen, presuming they’d make the best of it; it was, after all, only a three-day stopover on the way to Los Angeles . . .

  But Kenny Clayton was a man who never lost his temper. He remembered that Manila was used as an American base – somewhere in this city must be one man who could play, ‘Climb Every Mountain’ on the drums or the saxophone or something. In one of the local bars he found a half-American, half-Filipino boy who said he could play the drums. Shirley was boiling with rage, but she had signed the contract and, ever the professional, she’d do the job. She appeared at the appointed time, well-dressed, beautifully coiffed and perfectly made up.

  The Nile Club’s bartenders, the girls, and the trickle of clients who came in to drink were the only audience they had, but all the same every note rang out loud and clear in true Bassey form. Kenny and the drummer did their best, and at the end there was a little scattered applause. She sang two more songs, then said to Kenny. ‘Now you can play me off.’

  That night at the Manila Hotel there was an invasion of spiders as big as golf balls. In the middle of the night Bernard was aroused from his sleep. ‘Balls! Balls! They’re huge. Come and catch them.’ Shirley cowered in the corridor while Bernard removed two monsters from her bed and threw them into the garden outside. When he tried to go back to his room Shirley grabbed his arm. ‘You’re staying in my room. I’m terrified of spiders.’ There was no re-awakening of love’s young dream, nor, fortunately, more spiders. Since the advent of Australian Charlie Baxter, both of them had moved on to pastures new.

  Four days later Shirley and Bernard arrived in Las Vegas. Kenny Clayton had gone back to London to fulfil a contract touring with Matt Monro. He was very surprised when Kenneth Hume gave him a thank-you present of a Rolex watch, with an engraving on the back, ‘For services rendered.’ Shirley missed Kenny. He was a top class musician, very supportive, and such an easy person to travel with. However, by then she had performed in Vegas and New York five or six times, knew the ropes, and got on well with the other musical directors of the various orchestras.

  After a day’s rest Shirley opened her 1966 six-weeks’ season at the Sahara Hotel. She was, as always, a great success in Las Vegas and this year was no different. Las Vegas audiences appreciated her style of singing and not only did ‘Goldfinger’ bring gales of applause, but they loved the way she teased the concealed eroticism from typical showbiz songs such as ‘Hey, Big Spender’ from Sweet Charity. And of course the strident trumpet-like blast she injected into songs such as, ‘I, Who Have Nothing’, and ‘No Regrets’.

  After her opening show, Shirley uncharacteristically allowed herself to sit in the Sahara lounge and enjoy a couple of glasses of champagne. In the dry desert atmosphere of Las Vegas, Shirley’s first concern was her voice. She had two humidifiers installed in her suite, and told Bernard she would not stay long downstairs. A number of entertainers who were performing in other hotels congregated afterwards at the Sahara for a post-show drink and a chat. Bernard recognised some of the showgirls who had worked with him in London and Copenhagen, mostly English and American girls, and he was delighted to see Rudolph, an old friend from Paris, who had been a dancer at the Paris Lido.

  Rudolph was tall and slim with blond hair and blue eyes and was now earning
two thousand dollars a night in Las Vegas for dancing in nothing but a rather large G-string. Rudolph couldn’t take his eyes off Shirley, and she found him very personable. When she stood up to say goodnight, Rudolph was dashed.

  When it happened again the next night, Rudolph demanded to know why ‘anyone so beautiful as you always goes up to her suite after her performance. Why do you not stay below talking and having a drink like the rest of us?’

  ‘Because,’ said Shirley honestly, ‘I love to watch television.’

  ‘So do I,’ exclaimed Rudolph, ‘but I hate to watch it alone.’

  From then on, after their shows were over, for the rest of Shirley’s season at the Sahara, no one saw much of her or Rudolph again.

  Security at the Sahara Hotel was overpowering. Rather than use the lift all the time Bernard would run up stairs to see Shirley. On every floor he was stopped by armed guards. He became quite accustomed to a gun being pointed in his direction, but in the end had to accept that Las Vegas was run by the Mafia. The Sahara Hotel had everything to offer but freedom and nothing would tempt Shirley down at night. She and Rudolph preferred to watch TV, she told Bernard. It was the easiest way to pass the time and the safest. She’d seen how rough ‘The Mob’ could be on her first visit to New York years ago. Not even the fact that Sammy Davis Jr was often around made her change her mind and come down from her room.

  Bernard was now unexpectedly engaged to an American showgirl called Jillian from the Flamingo Hotel. If he married an American citizen he could get the much sought-after Green Card that would enable him to work in the States, and Jillian would become a British subject, able to work in London.

  Bernard thought he’d better ask Shirley what she thought of the idea. ‘She’s a very nice girl, probably make me a very good wife,’ he told her.

  ‘You must be out of your mind,’ she said. ‘You need a wife like you need a hole in the head. Forget it.’ He thought about it and realised she was right; he could only live with bad-tempered, power crazy, strong women like Shirley Bassey or Marlene Dietrich.

  At the end of six weeks Shirley and Bernard boarded a plane for New York without further entanglements. Shirley had a full schedule waiting for her, including photo sessions and an appointment with a throat specialist before the opening at the Royal Box nightclub in the Americana Hotel.

  In the meantime Bernard took Shirley to spend a day with Milton Greene, the man who was once close to Marilyn Monroe and who had taken many photographs of her. Shirley was going to be photographed for some of the covers of her new recordings, and Bernard’s job was to get her in and out of her costumes, look after her make-up and ensure that the pictures were flattering.

  Shirley held Bernard’s arm as they walked back along Madison Avenue that afternoon when a taxi suddenly swerved to a halt by the kerb.

  ‘Bernarr!’ a voice called. To Bernard’s delight, his old friend Gilbert Bécaud, one of France’s premier singing stars, young, good-looking and charming, hurried towards them. Apart from being pleased to see Bernard, whom he had known in Paris, Bécaud had recognised Shirley, whom he had much admired, and was eager to meet her. He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Madame, mes hommages. You are a great artiste.’ There was something else Gilbert wanted to thank her for. He had written a song called ‘Et maintenant’ which roughly translated means ‘And now’. Shirley had recorded it in English as ‘What now, my love’, and it had gone to the top of the British charts. To his compliments, Gilbert added, ‘And every time you sing that song, Madame, I get a commission from the music publishers. You are my beautiful benefactrice.’

  There was one particular scene in the lift at the Americana Hotel that Bernard remembered about their stay in America. He and Shirley were going up in the elevator together. She was beautifully turned out with a mink wrap over an elegant dress. A group of men and women from a Southern state, perhaps Texas, got in. They were more flamboyantly and roughly dressed in checks and bright colours, not a bit New York style, and the men were certainly rednecks. They seemed to have been drinking, and one of them looked Shirley up and down and said in a loud voice, ‘How come we get nigras riding with us folk in the same elevator?’ Shirley’s fingers dug deep into Bernard’s upper arm as if to hold him back and stop herself, or him, saying anything. A brawl in the lift didn’t solve anything and would reach the front pages of tomorrow’s tabloids. It wouldn’t do her any good.

  Kenneth Hume arrived in New York very early in time for Shirley’s first rehearsal at the Royal Box. He took a taxi straight to the Americana. On the way he read the careful itinerary arranged by his London office manager. By the time Bernard got there half an hour late at ten o’clock, Kenneth was exploding with rage.

  When he calmed down he was eager to wake Shirley. He told Bernard he’d brought a new recording contract with him for her to sign. These days Kenneth was becoming a first-rate recording producer. ‘Big Spender’, Shirley’s latest disc was going to race to the top of the charts. Bernard, who didn’t really understand these things shuddered. How could Kenneth think of waking Shirley up early? Managers had been fired, partnerships ruined and agents kicked out for disturbing her before the magic hour of twelve mid-day. It was Shirley’s opening night so he really had to keep Kenneth out of her room.

  Breakfast arrived. ‘Leave the trolley here,’ Bernard told the waiter, ‘I’ve got to wake her up first. Have a cup of tea Kenneth, it’s nice and hot.’ He looked at his wristwatch. Eleven-thirty. It might work if she didn’t see the clock but he daren’t go in yet. He looked at Kenneth drinking his tea and wondered how, having been married to Shirley he still didn’t understand.

  At eleven-forty-five there was no holding Kenneth back any longer. Bernard went in first and woke her gently as he could. Her dark eyes looked up at him then at the clock. They clouded. After she’d had a cup of tea, Kenneth marched in, waving his recording contract for her to sign.

  It was a cool reunion at first. Kenneth could have waved a bunch of flowers or brought a gift, a little piece of jewellery, perhaps. Once he had sent her a full box of Mars Bars because he knew that she liked them. This time however, his gift was a recording contract – one with a difference. It was signing her to United Artists. He paced back and forth excitedly, telling her about it. He read out ‘that her American sales would rise dramatically, she was going to become a world-class recording artist who would compete favourably with the best of the American stars.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Shirley. They understand me better in London and my voice is better there.’ Kenneth brandished the contract again. ‘It’s all down here, you will record your future albums and singles in the UK.’

  Shirley smiled and Bernard, watching, realised he was mistaken. Kenneth Hume knew Shirley much better than he did. He was in charge of her career and she trusted him. It was irrelevant that he hadn’t praised her success in the tour, and that after a five-month break there were no preliminaries. He was planning her future.

  That night Shirley opened at the Royal Box and it was an important occasion. She really needed to conquer New York. The city was the jewel in the crown of her tour. When Bernard went into Shirley’s dressing room he thought she looked a bit glum. She sat in front of her mirror concentrating on her make-up, dabbing her face with a powder puff.

  He crept up behind her, leaned over her shoulder and whispered, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall . . .’

  Shirley saw him in her mirror now. Suddenly her face lit up like a little girl who listens to a well-loved nursery rhyme and always knows the happy ending. In a deep, gruff voice he whispered again, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall who is the fairest of them all?’ Shirley giggled and laughed, then he hissed in her ear, ‘You! You, you black bitch. You!!’ She was still laughing when Bernard kissed her cheek before he left and whispered ‘Merde!’ for luck.

  When it was all over and Shirley came off the stage amid tumultuous applause, a jubilant Kenneth was waiting for her in the wings. He put his arms around her and hugged her. ‘Yo
u’ve made it,’ he told her. Shirley looked radiant. These two had an unusual and unpredictable relationship, but there was a strong bond between them.

  Next morning this bond seemed to have loosened a little and Kenneth Hume was in a hurry to catch his plane back to London. ‘Shirley’s decided to have a holiday in Jamaica,’ he told Bernard, ‘going to look up her ancestors I should think, so she won’t be flying back with you when the show closes.’

  His racial jibe was ridiculous, and showed how glibly he talked of Shirley’s parentage. Shirley’s mother said, ‘I could never get on with Kenneth Hume. I couldn’t even talk to him.’ She would have no doubt told him to mind his own business.

  The American tour had been an unqualified success. As one Las Vegas reviewer had enthused, ‘Shirley Bassey has the ferocity of Lena Home, the trickery of Ella Fitzgerald and the dramatic appeal of Streisand. And when she sang torch songs about the men in her life, she gave off the same magical sparks as Judy Garland and the melancholy of Helen Morgan.’

  But, more than that, Shirley Bassey had conquered New York.

  No longer a rising star, but an established international name with guaranteed sell-out potential, Shirley Bassey arrived home in London in the summer of 1966 to a fanfare of publicity. Kenneth Hume, meanwhile, had got well into his stride as one of Britain’s most energetic recording producers, despite the fact that he made disgraceful scenes and many enemies.

  At the studios of Associated Television (ATV) he caused one memorable scene at a recording of The Eamon Andrews Show that reached the front pages of all the newspapers. Eamon, with his easy Irish charm, was one of the leading lights of British television in the Sixties and Seventies, and an appearance on his show was always a plus, especially if you had a song to plug. Shirley had a new record called, ‘Don’t Take the Lovers from the World’, for which she and Kenneth had high hopes. She had recorded the number in the United States and it was released in England in August 1966, but so far it hadn’t made any impression in the charts. Kenneth hoped the sight and sound of Shirley singing it on TV would make it move.