by Brad Garrett
Unfortunately, I heard it. Did he really just say “But first”? Are you kidding me? Was the announcer insane? “But first”? He should have said, “But instead of the person you really want to see, please bear with us as we kill some time with Brad Garrett!”
I took the stage to a smattering of light applause. The front row looked like a lineup in Jersey. Feeling the need to shake these folks up a bit, I said exactly that to them. As if that weren’t enough, “Raise your hand if you’ve recently been indicted, and keep ’em there so I can see if you decide to reach for something” followed. Small titters started to build.
I actually heard a guy in the front say, “The balls on dis fuckin’ guy.”
Then his buddy next to him, “Where’s Dreesen?”
I immediately went into some hacky casino material, followed by my Sammy Davis Jr. impression. By now I pretty much had the crowd’s attention, and as people came in late, I took aim at them, going so far as to ask the lighting tech to put the spotlight on the stragglers. He obliged, to the crowd’s delight. This was something that most openers wouldn’t pull, so it got more attention than not. I quickly started to realize that most crowds love it when you break their balls. Especially the Sinatra cronies. Again, I needed to be fearless to get through it. I knew no other way.
Two guys with no necks slithered into the front row. I figured “fuck it” and went with “Maybe after the show, I can help you fellas drive the dead hooker out to the desert?” Some big laughs were starting to roll from the back of the cavernous room, and the front row loosened up a touch but remained rather chatty. It was Vegas on New Year’s Eve, so they had been drinking since three P.M. I went back to the tamer material for a few minutes.
I’ve never had much structure when it comes to my act. Most of my set at that time revolved around being a seven-foot Jew, my smallish pecker, my parents’ multiple marriages, and more ethnic stuff, which they ate up. Then I glanced into the wings and saw Frank and Gino standing there. I was twenty-two minutes in, and Gino gave me the “wrap it up” hand signal. I was off in sixty seconds to decent applause. As I walked past Mr. Sinatra, he whispered, “Wait here, you’ll come out for a bow.”
All the tension from needing to be well received, having to overcome Frank’s obvious disappointment about not having his regular opener, and now the acceptance from the biggest man in show business was overwhelming. My three-hundred-dollar tux was drenched with flopsweat as I waited again in the wings.
Frank walked out, and as expected, the place went berserk. He grabbed his Jack Daniel’s on the rocks from the piano, toasted the crowd in Italian, and smiled through what seemed like a five-minute standing ovation. “Welcome to Bally’s, you gamblin’ bums. Let’s bring this New Year in right, okay?” More screams. “But first . . .” (not kidding) “How about a hand for the big guy who opened the show tonight.” I couldn’t believe this was happening. Nor could the audience. They thought they had gotten rid of me. “Come out and take a bow! Greg Barrett, ladies and gentlemen. Marvelous stuff. Greg Barrett!” And there I stood. Taking a bow to mild applause and someone else’s name. With the greatest singer of all time standing right next to me. Shrimp cocktail would have been envious.
He called me Greg Barrett at least a dozen more times over the next four years. And I continued to bow to it. Because everyone knows you don’t correct Frank.
A month after my stint with Sinatra in Vegas, I received a call to open for him in his home state of New Jersey at the Sands in Atlantic City. I had played A.C. several times in the past, and the crowds were a lot less predictable than those in Vegas, but I wasn’t nearly as nervous as I had been on New Year’s Eve. Besides, the fact that “Mr. S.” wanted me back really boosted my confidence, as well as my credibility as an opening act.
I got into Atlantic City two days before the gig, because life was good and my hobbies had become drinking and gambling at warp speed. Because of my size, I had the capacity to handle what was becoming close to a fifth of nectar on any given night. I was a high-functioning alcoholic, and if you weren’t one of the guys from the band or crew with me at three A.M., you wouldn’t suspect I had an issue with the bottle. I was always pretty crazy and outlandish anyway.
I could do my job half in the bag and usually crush it as an opener, because all you really needed was a strong twenty-five minutes. The great thing about being a stand-up with a booze problem was that you had more than enough hours to sober up; you worked only thirty minutes a night. That said, many times the hours leading up to the show could be brutal when the nerves got the best of you, which was often.
Ironically, on that particular night in Atlantic City, the crowd was even more unruly than they had been on New Year’s Eve in Vegas. There was a fight in the audience over seats moments before I was scheduled to go on. No one was thrown out; let’s face it, who’s going to tell these guys to leave?
I hit the stage right at nine and might as well have been invisible. There was a couple so drunk in the front row that they got up and started slow-dancing during my act as the guy sang “The Lady Is a Tramp” to his date. That’s something that stays with you forever. The guy was in a top hat and tails, holding a cane and wearing dark shades. I called him “Mr. Peanut.” His lady had a scary perm that shot out in all directions. “Next time,” I told her, “tease your hair. Don’t piss it off.” The folks around them were not laughing, but the rest of the audience and the orchestra behind the curtain howled.
Next I went into a lame bit where I did impressions of Sammy playing blackjack with Carroll O’Connor and Jim Ignatowski from Taxi. Swear to God. Gino was laughing from the wings. By this time, he was very supportive of me and had become a bit of a drinking buddy. Just then from the audience, a large fella with no neck yelled, “Where’s Frank?”
That caused another inquiry: “Where’s the comic?”
A woman in a mink stole yelled, “Frankie! I love you!” Now the crowd was getting bigger laughs than I was. I wanted to die. And I got my wish. But before leaving, I did one ad-lib just for me, something comics sometimes do to amuse themselves, especially when things aren’t going well.
I said, “You’ve been very . . . lifelike. Thank you. And stick around for Frank!” As I passed “Mr. S.” in the wings, he whispered to Gino, “Find out what that means.” The orchestra tried not to laugh, but they got it. It was a harmless inside joke. But some of the crew didn’t agree.
As I sat in my dressing room, wringing the sweat out of my jacket and pouring four fingers of straight vodka, there came a knock at the door. It was Jilly and an enormous guy named Mike who wore an eye patch. “Hey, guys. Come in, please,” I said.
“How’d it go out there tonight, Brad?” Jilly asked.
“Tight. Probably not the best night to record the album,” I said with a chuckle. Stares. Then I countered to Mike, “I loved you in Pirates of Penzance.” Now it was really quiet.
“Well, you’re doing a fine job,” Jilly said.
“Thank you. Appreciate it.”
“One question, though. What did you mean when you said, ‘Stick around for Frank’?”
“Oh, that? That was a silly joke. It meant nothing.”
“Well, it musta meant somethin’. It was the last thing you said, right?” Jilly questioned.
“Correct” fell from my mouth. More uncomfortable bewilderment from guys I pictured dismembering me in my sleep.
“But they’re here to see Frank,” Jilly said.
“Exactly. Of course. And therein lies the joke,” I stammered. “Stick around for Frank!” I tried again.
“I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I.”
“I was making fun of myself. ‘Stick around for Frank!’ You know? He’s comin’ out!” Still nothing.
“But they’re already here. Where are they going? They came to see Frank. Why do they need to stick around for him?”
“And that’s why it’s funny! They don’t!” I pleaded as I prayed for a sudden stroke. They
weren’t getting it. It wouldn’t go away. The room was getting smaller.
“Were you making fun that Frank is sometimes late to a show, like ‘Stick around for Frank,’ as in ‘He’ll be here soon, don’t leave’ kind of thing?”
“Lord, no. That is not my style, Jilly,” I said. Though, of course, it was.
Just then Jilly looked to Mike, the sleeping mountain, and asked him, “What did you hear, Mike?”
And in broken human, he replied, “I thought I heard ‘Stick it to Frank.’ ”
Now I was envisioning being crammed into the trunk of a Lincoln.“Wha? No! Never would I say ‘Stick it to Frank’!”
Jilly held up his giant mitt. “Let’s just forget it.”
“Done. Thank you. Forgotten.”
“Okay, good. ‘Mr. S.’ invited you for Chinese after the show. Small group. Downstairs. You know where I mean?” I did. And it was wonderful. I dined with a king and his court, and the jester ate his Kung Pao pork and didn’t say a fuckin’ word for the rest of the night.
By the way, turns out “Mr. Peanut” was John Gotti. Apparently, I have nine lives.
The cast of Everybody Loves Raymond shooting the “Sweet Charity” episode in season 7. (Tom Caltabiano)
8
The Road to Raymond
The early nineties was the time when things started turning for me. I was in my thirties and enjoying my decadent and fruitful prime. Unlike now, when I find myself primed for flesh-eating diseases and incontinence.
It was 1995, and I had just finished filming an episode of Seinfeld where I portrayed an auto mechanic, Tony, who stole Jerry’s Saab because he wasn’t giving the car the care it needed. I had seen him perform at a club in New York ten years prior, and even then I knew it was only a matter of time until he became a major star. I recently saw Jerry perform again, this time at a benefit in L.A., and pound for pound, he’s still the most brilliant comic out there. He also appears to be the least tortured comic I have ever encountered. It’s well known that his childhood was pretty normal, and I can’t pick up any Jew-neurosis whatsoever. It worries me. How can one be that gifted without the dysfunction that plagues most performers? Maybe he’s a Martian. Or a spy for the gentiles.
A couple of weeks before my Seinfeld episode aired, I was gaining a little heat in the television arena, and my managers got their hands on a CBS pilot script called Everybody Loves Raymond. I wasn’t remotely on the network’s radar, but my reps at the time used the recent Seinfeld gig to open the eyes of the executives at CBS. To this day, it remains one of the funniest pilots I have ever read. I heard that they were interested in possibly going out to some comics to play the role of Robert, Ray Romano’s older brother, and the rumor was that the network was eyeing a very funny comic named John Mendoza for the part.
Ironically, with all my years on the comedy circuit, I had never met Ray. I knew of him as a really solid and talented stand-up, but our paths had never crossed. From the minute I read the script, I had an innate sense of who Robert was. I knew my interpretation of the character was different from what they originally sought, and I was told that “physically,” I was at the other end of the spectrum as far as what they were looking for. Ray’s real-life cop brother, Richard, on whom the character was based, was shorter and scrappier than Ray, very much unlike my oafish self. But for some strange reason, I just knew how to play Robert as I prepared for my audition. I knew I could downplay my size by keeping Robbie succumbed to the fact that he would always come in second in life’s race with Ray. A lot of it would come down to how I carried myself in the role. As an actor, I had a secret when it came to playing him: I went in with the mind-set that Ray was an only child, they just forgot to tell Robert.
I auditioned several days later in front of Phil Rosenthal (who created the show along with Ray), Leslie Moonves, the president of CBS, Stu Smiley from HBO, and Lisa Miller-Katz, the casting director. This was the only audition Ray was not a part of because he was en route from New York at the time. As I began the audition, a slightly different, lower voice than my own emerged. It was the voice of a beaten man that you automatically cared about and rooted for as he dangled from the ledge of life. Phil was a great laugher and helped get the roll in the room started. I was asked to come back the following day, and the rest is history. Robert became the first supporting role to be cast.
A few weeks later, I met Raymond and promptly felt that we were doomed. How could this guy lead a show? He looked like the teenager you would see at Whole Foods spraying down the produce. With a demeanor like that of a kid who’d just witnessed his puppy being stolen and a profile taken from an Indian nickel, he was subdued and egoless, which I misdiagnosed as someone who should be on suicide watch. He had a nasal quality to his voice that I prayed was seasonal. And he took hypochondria to a new level, requesting that different crew members weigh in on a “suspicious” mole or confirm whether he was “the only one who smelled propane” during rehearsal. I had never felt so omnipotent around anyone in my life.
I remember asking Ray if he had ever done any acting. He replied, “I was just fired from NewsRadio.” I wanted to flee like a hooker in church. How could this guy be so completely unnatural, lovable, and real all at the same time? And then my T. Rex brain put it together: he was fuckin’ perfect. This was exactly who Raymond needed to be. And lucky for us, he had a shitload of talent as a writer, as well as the acting chops to play himself authentically. He was truly the everyman whom a nation would soon fall in love with.
I remember how excited I was when I heard that the great Peter Boyle had signed on to play our dad. That was a big coup for the show, and we were all pumped to work with him. Ray was a little intimidated by Peter at first, but then again, he was also intimidated by one of the three-year-old twins, who I felt all along were circus midgets. I guess I shouldn’t use the word “midget.” Out of respect, let’s use the term “ground angels.” Peter was one of the sweetest guys in the world, so our comfort was established early on, along with our adoration.
Peter was a true individual, the same affable person to everyone, and had zero airs. He did things his way and at his tempo. He ate what he wanted, went to the gym if he felt like it, and said what was on his mind. He didn’t buy the hype or expectations that went along with aging or Hollywood. He was bald at twenty-three and wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a toupee unless it was for a gag. He was adept at playing both comedy and drama and was married to a writer from Rolling Stone. John Lennon was the best man at his wedding, for God’s sake! He was all man. Almost to the point of killing the cast.
You see . . . Peter, unfortunately, had a flatulence problem. He gave farts a bad name. But in the beginning, it was one of the biggest mysteries to ever hit the Raymond set, because no one knew where these deathly, silent scuds were originating from. Let’s be honest, any time a fart creeps into a room, everyone automatically assumes it’s the big guy. People figure that the giant’s colon is at capacity and withering under immense girth and constant discomfort. I felt Romano glaring at me like “Why don’t you just fess up, Garrett, and admit you ate the gumbo, so we can all move on.” But that was not the case. And these fumes would haunt Stage 5 at Warner Bros. up until season four on a particular night in early spring.
We were filming an episode in front of the studio audience, and one of the cameras went down prior to a scene when the cast was supposed to enter through Ray and Debra’s kitchen door, all in a heated argument. Rosenthal yelled his infamous “Hold!” as a cameraman tried to fix the B-camera. So there we were: Ray, Patty, Peter, Doris, and I huddled together in a four-by-four-foot area just off the set, awaiting our entrance. And there it came. Like an invisible gut-wrenching fog from a buffalo’s brown star. And there was nowhere to go. Ray closed his mouth and opted to breathe through his nose. This used up 50 percent of the available air. Doris’s makeup started to run. One of Patty’s new breasts began to deflate. My hair gel ran into my eyes. And that was when we heard Peter meekly say, “Sorry.�
�� Yet the most amazing thing is what he said next: “But I gotta tell ya . . . I got two more comin’.” That’s when you know you have a real ass problem—when you can actually tell how many are left in the chamber. I never wanted to hear the word “Action!” more in my life. And so it was that the Phantom Farter was finally revealed. And just like global warming and homely strippers, it was something we all had to learn to live with.
* * *
Doris Roberts, who played Marie, was the only cast member who could outdrink me. The broad could party and loved to play cards. It was like we were separated at birth, right down to the forty-two-inch waist. The woman is a tenacious self-promoter and will go to a ribbon cutting at the Pottery Barn if there’s free champagne. We were never sure how old she was, but when we were all traveling to film an episode in Italy, I noticed she had a luggage tag with a picture of the Titanic. She’s an extremely gifted actor, and you can’t imagine anyone else playing the role of Marie.
I felt Patty Heaton was the anchor to the show as far as being able to play Ray’s wife, Debra, with strength and fortitude, as opposed to the stereotypical sitcom wife who plays the powerless victim. On the show, she was surrounded by this band of crazies, and she would fight against the powers of evil hilariously. Even before the new boobs, she had a sorority swagger about her that few midwestern women possess, and I always found that very sexy. She reminded me of this chick in high school who turned me down for a date because I was a Jew. I found that very titillating. If I had my way, Robert and Debra would have been caught banging in the final episode. Don’t judge me, I’m allowed to dream. But Patty being a Republican made it easier for me to emotionally move on.