Deconstructing Sammy

by Matt Birkbeck

  Weisman laid out the usual 50/25/25 deal. Sonny remained mum after his initial ill-advised suggestion, and he simply nodded his head in agreement as Weisman and then Finkelstein suggested other plans and potential Rat Pack business deals. Only the “suggestions” were clearly orders and directions more in line with “This is what we are going to do, and you’re just along for the ride.”

  Other “suggestions” included assembling Sammy’s recordings to determine what songs he did and didn’t own for a potential Rat Pack album, licensing of Rat Pack images, from pictures to caricatures and figures, and approval of the initial airing of the long-lost film, which was scheduled to premiere on the TV Land cable network in April. Other issues revolved around individual projects, and whether they could be incorporated as a Rat Pack deal. Mort was working on a Dino movie with director Martin Scorsese and his Goodfellas screenwriter Nicholas Pileggi. Early discussions mentioned a cast that included Tom Hanks as Dean and John Travolta as Frank.

  Another matter concerned some minor bickering within the Sinatra family. Mort said that Frank’s ailing health and the future of his estate caused tension, with daughters Tina and Nancy at odds with his wife Barbara and son Frank Jr.

  “Not a problem,” said Weisman. “I’ll take care of it.”

  If there was one minor victory for Sonny it was that Finkelstein agreed that anyone can void any deal at any time. But it was a small token, and Sonny left the meeting completely overwhelmed and isolated, with no one to complain to and no avenue for recourse. Walking out of the hotel with Mort, he suddenly realized this was how Sammy must have felt as a member of this esteemed group. Weisman was Frank barking out orders and Sonny was Sammy, saying “Yes, sir” and “Thank you.” It wasn’t a good feeling, and following the meeting Sonny pulled Mort aside and told him so.

  “Is this how it’s always done? I mean, that’s not a negotiation,” said Sonny.

  Mort smiled.

  “Look, kid, I make sure Dean’s estate is part of any deal knowing in advance what the terms were and always have been,” said Mort. “It ain’t fair, and it never was, especially for Sammy.”

  Mort said Dean’s estate grossed millions, so a Rat Pack deal would not make or break Dean’s estate. Sammy’s estate, on the other hand, could surely use any revenue that resulted from a Rat Pack project. Mort said he didn’t believe Sammy owned many, if any, of his masters. In most cases, Sammy was simply brought in to sing, as was the case with his most famous hit, “The Candy Man.” Dean and Frank, he said, owned their masters and the publishing, and it amounted to a virtual gold mine. Sammy may have been one of the most famous names of the twentieth century, but Mort was stunned that Sammy was so inept when it came to business.

  “I don’t think that’s right,” said Sonny. “I have someone auditing the record companies now and I’m expecting a full breakdown soon. But Altovise told me that Sammy owned much of his work.”

  “I hope so,” said Mort. “Sammy was wonderful and I just loved him, but he didn’t have good people around him.”

  “Who, exactly, are we talking about?” said Sonny. “Shirley Rhodes? John Climaco?”

  Mort said Shirley was clearly out of her depth, and he only heard bits and pieces about Climaco.

  “You should talk to Sy Marsh,” Mort said. “He can tell you more.”

  “I will,” said Sonny. “But first I’ve got to figure out Sammy’s recording contracts.”

  CHAPTER 17

  In the years following Sammy’s death, his estate received only $360,000 in income, which went to the IRS. Money dribbled in from the Screen Actors Guild, or a royalty check from some long-forgotten deal, or a few bucks from a commercial endorsement using Sammy’s image. Sammy’s executors, Shirley Rhodes and John Climaco, accepted $5,000 from The Gap in 1993 to use Sammy’s image in a national print advertising campaign for khaki pants. The full-page black-and-white ad, which appeared in the New York Times and other newspapers, featured a photo of Sammy from the 1950s clicking his heels in the air. But the payment to Sammy’s estate was far less than what was paid to the estates of other celebrities, including James Dean, Humphrey Bogart, and Norma Jeane Baker, aka Marilyn Monroe. Tracey Davis was furious with Shirley for accepting such a small amount. Shirley simply figured it would be good to get Sammy’s name out to the public. She also reasoned that no one else was calling and the money was going to the IRS anyway.

  But during the seven years that Shirley and Climaco managed the estate for the IRS, they only took in a little over $50,000 annually. Given the magnitude of Sammy’s stardom, Sonny thought there should be more, much more, considering his lengthy recording career. So for two years forensic accountant Jay Shapiro dug deeply into each real and rumored deal Sammy had been involved with. But to Shapiro’s great surprise, he could find few contracts or any other paperwork detailing Sammy’s deals. And in those he did find, Sammy had no ownership of his work. Aside from perhaps a small performance royalty, the far greater percentage of the royalties usually went elsewhere.

  Dating back to the 1940s, Sammy’s record deals were simple cash payments, with small sales royalties. From what Shapiro could find, that arrangement extended to most of Sammy’s business dealings, including his television and film work. Sammy’s long and storied career was based on a cash advance and was indicative of a lifestyle that was in the here and now, not the later. When it came to business, Sammy was caught in the Sinatra syndrome: pay me what you think I should earn and I’ll be thankful for it.

  Luckily for Sammy, the recording industry mandated signed contracts with performers, and Shapiro retrieved some of those contracts, including those from Reprise and Decca, which revealed terms that were decidedly in favor of the companies. One of Sammy’s earliest contracts, with Decca, in April 1954, was for a minimum of twenty-four records that paid him a 5 percent royalty against 90 percent of sales. Sammy received a $150 advance for each recording, which was recoupable by Decca against Sammy’s royalties. Sammy was also an employee, a singer/musician for hire, and the contract stipulated that all recordings were the property of Decca, not Sammy.

  The contract was extended several times through the 1950s and Sammy had no ownership over any of the dozens of songs he eventually recorded for Decca, including “That Old Black Magic,” “My Funny Valentine,” and “The Birth of the Blues.”

  Shapiro was greatly disappointed. He began his review believing he’d find streams of Sammy Davis Jr. income hidden somewhere but instead he found that Sammy was, for the most part, a cash business, which left nothing for the future.

  When Shapiro delivered the bad news, Sonny was crestfallen.

  “A star like Sammy required professional management to fill the void of his own informality, and money should have been streaming from so many different areas,” said Shapiro. “I was surprised and shocked because when you compare it to the rest of the Rat Pack, and I mean Sinatra and Dean Martin, they owned their work, made far more money, and invested wisely. I really thought Sammy’s body of work would have been more lucrative.”

  “So did I,” said Sonny.

  Shapiro’s audit severely dampened Sonny’s revenue projections and his belief that Sammy’s estate could be a major financial success. Sonny was also mystified. Why didn’t Sammy have ownership in his work? Why didn’t he appreciate the potential enormity that ownership provides and, if part of a successful project, the revenues would stream in perpetuity? It didn’t make financial sense to simply take whatever fee was being offered, no matter how lucrative, and give away the rights to the kingdom.

  Without ownership of his work, and the revenues that come with it, Sammy left little to work with, forcing Sonny to change his strategy, particularly with Altovise. Despite Sonny’s admonishments, Mrs. Sammy Davis Jr. believed once the IRS debt was settled, she could pick up where she left off before Sammy’s death, rejoin the Hollywood social scene, perhaps buy a new home in Beverly Hills. But even with plans to keep revenues minimal until 2003, it appeared that, aside from
a couple of one-shot, big-ticket deals, there were no large continuing streams of income to depend on.

  After pitching a Sammy CD box set to Sonny in August 1997, music producer Ron Weisner spent countless hours researching Sammy’s voluminous body of work. Weisner, the industry veteran, had an impressive list of credits. Along with his work with Michael Jackson, Weisner managed Gladys Knight and produced a slew of music projects, including Eric Clapton’s 1993 album, a tribute to Curtis Mayfield, which featured performances from Whitney Houston, Bruce Springsteen, and Elton John. Weisner’s sterling reputation helped him strike a deal with Rhino Records, which planned to release the Sammy Davis Jr. catalog post-1964. The $445,000 was a substantial offer, and given the bad news from Jay Shapiro, it was the only tangible deal on the table, since the Broadway musical and television mini-series were still far off.

  But when the Universal Music Group heard of the deal, they came in with an offer for $1 million. Bruce Resnikoff, a Universal executive, sent a letter to Weisner on March 9, 1998, confirming the offer, which included $850,000 up front and another $150,000 once certain sales were reached. The offer also included a 10 percent royalty payment, payable to the estate of Sammy Davis Jr. in perpetuity once all advances were recouped. Rhino, upon learning of the Universal offer, matched it immediately.

  It was, on paper, a million-dollar deal, and would be the first and last for Sammy’s music. But Sonny and Weisner encountered great difficulty trying to determine the extent of Sammy’s recording career. Sammy had recorded dozens of albums for a number of labels, and he had eight Top Twenty hit singles, but no one knew the exact number of recordings.

  Sonny searched through the estate records and found some references and information, and he even visited several record stores searching for Sammy material. But all he found were bootlegs. The IRS debt prevented the rerelease of any Sammy material, and the market was flooded with illegal compact discs and other recordings that gave no indication as to the original date of the recording, the author, or the record company. Sonny even contacted Frank Sinatra’s people for information on songs Sammy recorded with Dean and Frank. Bob Finkelstein told him they owned the rights to those and to all the Rat Pack material.

  Weisner used his industry contacts to dig deeper, and by April 1998 he developed a lengthy and comprehensive discography. The music of Sammy Davis Jr. spanned several decades and featured more than fifty original albums, from Starring Sammy Davis Jr. in 1955 to Closest of Friends in 1982. Sammy had recorded for several labels, including Reprise, Warner, Universal, EMI, Decca, and Motown. Within his body of work were hundreds of songs, many standing the test of time and recognized as American classics, including his versions of “Mr. Bojangles,” “I’ve Gotta Be Me,” and the pop-slick, 1972 AM radio classic “The Candy Man.”

  But just when Sonny and Weisner thought they had finally come to the end of their search, they discovered they didn’t have the master recordings. Sonny thought Weisner knew how to get them, and Weisner thought they were kept in storage by each respective record company. They weren’t. They also learned that two of Sammy’s bestselling albums, including the 1972 Sammy Davis Jr. Now and Portrait of Sammy Davis Jr., could not be part of the deal since ownership remained with the labels. The Portrait record was of considerable concern, since it included “The Candy Man.” Rhino also wanted Sammy’s television theme show covers, but questions over ownership of those prevailed. Was it the Sammy estate, Polygram, or Twentieth-Century Fox?

  When Rhino learned of the difficulty in finding the masters—without which Weisner and Sonny had nothing to sell—Robert O’Neill, Rhino’s vice president and general counsel, sent a letter to Weisner expressing his serious concerns about the direction the project was taking. Rhino was led to believe Sammy’s estate had possession of the masters Rhino thought it was buying. O’Neill said Rhino made its offer in the belief that Weisner and Sonny had custody or knew the whereabouts of all the post-1964 recordings. Rhino, said O’Neill, would only move forward if the deal included all those tapes. Desperate, Sonny went back and searched again through the estate records, but there was no paperwork for any masters, or any indication where they were. Sonny met with Weisner in Los Angeles and delivered the bad news. The masters were somewhere, he said, but without them, they had no deal.

  The Hillside Inn was empty and dark, save for a single light in the office. It was after midnight, and Sonny sat thumbing through reservation lists. The resort was sold out for every weekend during the upcoming summer season, and there were plenty of midweek bookings as well. Many of the names on the reservations were familiar; the usual family from New York, the church group from Philadelphia, the youth group from New Jersey. And, as usual, the families and groups were black.

  Nothing had really changed since the Judge broached the idea of Sonny putting together a management team to take over the Hillside. His actions notwithstanding, the Judge regretted his behavior toward the Marriott people and, after reconsidering, realized he lost a golden opportunity that would have allowed him and Mama to take it down a notch, to do some traveling and enjoy some sort of semiretirement. Instead, the Judge and Mama remained in charge, and daily expenses, including food and fuel, continued to rise while the Hillside’s rates remained the same. Knowing his clientele, the Judge couldn’t raise his rates if he wanted to, since many of his bookings, particularly the group business, still received deep discounts. Losses were mounting, and the Judge turned to loans from Sonny, whose legal work provided him a good income.

  Aside from his work with Altovise, for which he was now owed over $600,000, Sonny managed to bring in a considerable income from his many other clients and projects. Despite his sudden and sad break from singer Shelby Starner, he received a settlement. He also sold his interest in Scrub Island, a small Caribbean island he bought with several partners years earlier. The plan was to build vacation homes and condos there, but Sonny cashed in his interests and eventually opted out with a seven-figure settlement, which he reinvested in the Hillside. He had also been hired by the local Monroe County commissioners to investigate the murder of a nine-year-old girl who was beaten to death by a caregiver. The county’s Children & Youth Agency had apparently been warned the girl was subject to regular beatings prior to her death, and Sonny was asked to get to the bottom of the tragedy. His “Murray Report” led to dismissals within the youth agency.

  To bring in more revenues the Judge opened the Hillside to the general public on Saturday nights, offering dinner, a DJ, and dancing. He also sent out feelers to the local business community, seeking their group or meeting business. He reached out to Monroe County government, United Way, Pocono Mountains Vacation Bureau, and Pocono Medical Center, among others, with invitations to hold their meetings or special events at the Hillside. The business events usually took place midweek, when the resort was less than filled, so it didn’t matter if a few dozen white faces settled in for just a few hours. The Judge wasn’t a racist. To him it was just good business. The Judge and Mama also resorted to driving along local roads to other hotels, resorts, and bed-and-breakfast inns to see if any black guests were registered there. They’d drive up to the front of the lobby and Mama would peer inside. Often, they’d enter the facility, approach a black family or individual, and hand them a business card.

  “You know, there is a black-owned resort here in the Poconos, and we’re just down the road,” Mama would say, with a smile and a touch of the hand.

  Sonny urged them, particularly the Judge, to get their minds out of the 1960s and look toward the future. A new century was fast approaching, and catering to a specific clientele simply wasn’t good business. The Judge didn’t want to hear it, and that was fine with Sonny, whose thoughts remained on Sammy Davis Jr., particularly the inability to locate Sammy’s masters, which seriously jeopardized the Rhino deal. Other money had trickled in, following the settlement announcement thirteen months earlier. Sonny and Altovise signed the deal with Global Icons, which paid a $50,000 advance. And there w
ere a few thousand here and there for rights to certain film and television clips. But the big deals, chiefly film and television rights, had yet to materialize, and the book project for Altovise had also hit a road bump. Burt Boyar’s interest notwithstanding, he didn’t respect Altovise, and Sonny didn’t want to pair her with a writer who didn’t like her and who, in Sonny’s mind, could sabotage the project. Burt cared only about Sammy and maintaining his image, and if he was given editorial control over Altovise’s manuscript, Sonny believed that her story would be distorted. There was no way, Sonny felt, that Burt would give an honest account of Altovise’s life with Sammy. All that, however, wouldn’t matter unless he found Sammy’s master tapes. Without the Rhino deal, Sonny knew he’d be hard-pressed to make the next payment to the IRS. That, in turn, would negate the tax settlement.

  As he half-heartedly flipped through the Hillside’s paperwork, he heard the front door open, and then the familiar footsteps, which drew closer and closer and stopped only when the Judge stood in his robe in the doorway.

  “I saw the light on,” he said.

  “Just looking at the books, Judge,” said Sonny, closing the reservation list. “We really have to talk about updating things around here.”

  “I don’t want to talk about business right now. We can argue about that tomorrow.”

  “I don’t feel like arguing at all, tonight or tomorrow,” said Sonny, his voice filled with resignation. “I’ve got other problems. I can’t find those tapes. I can’t find anything anywhere that even references Sammy’s masters. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Well, that hasn’t stopped you before from finding things, has it?” said the Judge. “Maybe you already have what you’re looking for, but it’s just not easy to see. What’s that you tell me all the time? Expand my mind? Think out of the box? Maybe that would help.”