Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr.

by Davis, Sammy

  The morning papers had me on Page One, and the stories read like a kiss on the lips. I looked across the breakfast table at Murph. “Baby, your employer and friend has successfully run the British Blockade.” I went into the bedroom to dress. I looked over my clothes for just the right rehearsal outfit … light gray slacks, a double-breasted six-button blazer and a white, button-down-collar shirt.

  As we walked into the theater a buzzing began among the performers. Morty went backstage and Arthur and I sat in the back of the theater. Nat Cole was onstage. This was his second Command Performance. The press, most of the same guys I’d seen the day before, were shooting pictures and writing things down. They waved hello to me and I waved back and mouthed the words “Thank you.”

  I watched the rehearsal. It was like a gigantic Ed Sullivan show, with the biggest stars of two continents. There was a chorus of twenty boys and girls—the top popular singers in England, like Cliff Richard and Adam Faith—who did nothing but sing “Tell Me, Pretty Maiden.”

  A man had walked up the aisle. “Mr. Davis, my name is Jack Hylton, I’m the producer of the show and I’m delighted to meet you. We’ve put you next-to-closing.” At any other time I’d have expected the honor of being given the star spot and accepted it with satisfaction, but right then all my cool went out the window. He was smiling pleasantly. “Liberace will follow you and close the show with a simple song on the piano.” I wanted to say: Lee doesn’t know how to play a simple song, but it was no time for jokes. He said, “You’ll have nine minutes.” Well, that was good. It was a minute more than I’d been told and it would mean that much more I could do to get them.

  I sat back and watched an act do a beatnik sketch, and they were sensational. Bruce Forsyth, the M.C., walked onstage and started in with lines and stories and ring-a-ding-ding, and he was brilliant. Talk had always come back from London: They’re old-fashioned. They’re square. Like hell. They are solid, fine performers with no old-fashioned or anything connected with it. There could be no thinking: They don’t have what we have. Everybody’s got it. And I’m hip that if I went to India there’d be a guy there doing it, and as hip as we are here he’d be that hip there.

  Arthur turned to me. “We ain’t out-of-town, old buddy.”

  I nodded. This was show business at its best. It was Broadway or Hollywood but with all the dignity of the old vaudeville in which I’d been raised. Despite the sour grapes stuff I’d heard from guys who’d come back after dying in London I always knew that they had to have great performers if for no other reason than variety had lasted twenty years longer in England than in America, and it’s still going strong.

  A man onstage peered out into the audience, “Mr. Davis? You’re on next, sir. Rehearsal, please.”

  I walked down the aisle and rather than making a leap onto the stage as I would at home I went around through the door which connects the backstage to the audience and walked onstage. Everyone, from the performers and the stagehands to the maids and cleaning women and the people from the office, the press and performers’ friends, had taken seats. As I reached for the microphone the performers began applauding. I never had that kind of courtesy in my life. A performer doesn’t know what courtesy is until he goes to London.

  Murphy had ordered dinner sent upstairs at the hotel. I couldn’t look at it. I had the colds, the hots, and I was shaking like a leaf.

  Arthur watched me walking up and down the room. “Relax. You saw what happened this afternoon. You wrecked ‘em.”

  “Baby, it’s beautiful to be a hit at rehearsal, but it’s a little more comfortable when it happens after the performance, right?” I stopped walking. “Hey! Nobody gave me the protocol on what happens if I get introduced to the Queen after the show. Baby, get moving and find someone at the theater who knows these things.”

  “What can it be? You shake hands. Why’re you so worried?”

  “Arthur, when I was a kid in Harlem nobody told me, ‘Now here’s what you do when you meet the Queen of England!’ ”

  The backstage doorman said, “You’re dressing on the third floor, sir. Mr. Cole asked us to put you with him.” He smiled. “The best luck, Mr. Davis.”

  At each landing kids leaned out of dressing rooms, calling to me, “You’ll be a smash tonight,” “Don’t worry about a thing,” “You’ll be magnificent!” It was that way with every performer I passed.

  Nat was already in the dressing room with his man and Murphy, and George Rhodes, my pianist. I sat down and looked around. Murphy had my clothes and make-up laid out. Nat was sitting across from me, not saying a word, doing some quiet drinking. I looked at the bottle next to him. “Nat, you don’t drink scotch.”

  “I’m drinking it tonight.”

  “I don’t drink scotch either. Lemme have some.” I poured a water tumbler full of straight scotch, and dumped it, neat. Whack! I felt it land in my stomach but it might have been tomato juice. I looked at Nat and shook my head. “I ain’t never been this scared before!”

  He said, “Take it easy, we’ve got three hours to kill.”

  Arthur burst in. “The place is packed. People are standing in the back, they’re out in the streets….”

  The show was starting. I could hear the music. Nat was on the bill before me, closing the first half, and he started dressing. When it was time for him to go downstairs I wished him luck, and stood on the third floor landing to listen.

  Nat is the personification of sophistication and calm. When he walks on, whatever nervousness he may feel stays inside of him, it never shows, and it was comforting to hear his smooth, mellow voice—like a touch of home. I started to relax. Then suddenly he cracked. “Oh, God!” Nat Cole has never cracked in his life! He has perfect control at all times, under any conditions. Even when he’s hoarse, he knows how to play with his voice so that it doesn’t come out rough, it becomes even more resonant, a little lower, and richer—never cracking!

  He came back upstairs, dripping wet, shaking his head miserably, “I don’t never want to do that no more! Not ever!” He collapsed into a chair and pulled his tie open. “Man, they is out there tonight!” He beckoned to his valet. “Give me a drink.”

  I was Charley Trembles but ten times worse than before, like I had a vibrating machine in my mouth and someone just plugged it in. “Whhhhh—wwwwwhattya mean ‘they is out there’?”

  He looked at me, “Get yourself another drink and sit down. Everybody else get out.” He closed the door. “Now listen good. When you get out on the stage you go for it. Don’t hold back nothin’, ‘cause they’s ready! There ain’t nothin’ happened down there yet. You is it! They is waitin’ fo’ you!” He’d been talking “colored” to emphasize his point, and to relieve some of the urgency, but now he settled down to business. “When you come on, take your bows slow and easy. Don’t let anything rush you. Do you remember what that cat told us before about don’t look at the Queen? Forget it! Damn protocol. You give her a sneaky little peek out of your good eye, otherwise you’ll be looking for her when you should be worrying about your song. And at the end of your act they’re going to try to rush you off. Don’t let them. Just take and tear them apart!” He took another shot of scotch. He must have had a dozen in the past three hours but he was cold sober. “And, if you don’t kill ‘em, if you don’t, I’m gonna take my fist and beat you to death.”

  He was beautiful. He knew that if ever I needed someone from home to encourage me, someone on my own level as a performer, someone who knew me well, I needed it then.

  “Now, when it’s over and you do your bow, bow to the Queen last. Bow here, here, here, and then give her one of them—I know you know how to bow with all that gracious bull you do—so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “What did you do, Nat?”

  He reached for the bottle again. “I didn’t do none of that. That’s how I know you should do it.”

  The second half of the show had started and I went downstairs a few minutes early to stand in the wings and get a lo
ok at the audience. It was like a movie scene: diamonds were dripping all over the place, almost every man there was wearing a red sash across his chest with medals hanging down and walrus mustaches—they didn’t look anything like my kind of audience.

  I watched Charlie Drake onstage. He seemed like Chaplin, Jerry Lewis, and Marcel Marceau rolled into one, plus The Keystone Kops, with the pie throwing. He was doing a silent sketch, a slapstick-vaudeville thing with balloons, and the people were falling out of their seats.

  Bruce Forsyth whispered, “You’re next. Walk onstage while Charlie’s finishing and stand behind the closed curtains in back of him.”

  Charlie was in the wings and he gave me a wave like “Good luck.” Bruce was onstage to introduce me. The audience was starting to buzz. I stared straight ahead at the threads of the curtain in front of me, trying to clear my mind of everything.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Al Burnett.”

  What the hell is that? Nobody told me Al was going to be on. His voice came through the curtain between us. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I have been a performer and a nightclub owner for the better part of my life, and as a nightclub owner I have contracted the finest entertainers available. Three years ago I saw a young man perform in America. I wanted the pleasure of this moment, and thanks to all concerned—to Mr. Hylton, to all the people here at the Royal Command Performance, the pleasure is mine. Ladies and Gentlemen, the greatest entertainer in the world: Sammy Davis, Jr.”

  Our wedding day. My father, my mother-in-law and father-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Ernst Hugo Wilkens

  A few minutes before the ceremony. In the living room of my home. Peter, Frank, Rabbi William Kramer

  Gunnel von Essen

  MY WIFE

  Our son, Mark Sidney

  Our daughter, Tracey Hillevi

  Bengt Erwald

  The curtains opened in front of me, Al stepped back to shake hands, left the stage, and I was alone.

  By the grace of God I never performed better in my life.

  Cheers and applause roared up at me, crashing all around me and I stood limp, absorbing the beauty of it. As Bruce “carried” me offstage he whispered, “You were magnificent. Wait in the wings. You were magnificent.”

  Pandemonium was building out front. A stagehand screamed, “The Queen put down her fan and applauded!” Another answered, aghast, “She did. She really did.” Bruce was at center stage leading the applause, motioning for me to come back on. I hesitated because we’d been strictly warned that nobody takes an extra bow. A stagehand pushed me. “He’s the boss. Out you go. Can’t keep the Queen waiting, y’know.”

  I bowed and walked off, but the audience was still calling for me and again Bruce, still clapping, reached his hands toward me and I walked to the center of the stage, took a deep bow and then the long walk back—and I did it not two or three times which would have been unbelievable, but eight times.

  They were starting to shout “More—more—more” in time with the applause, like one voice, but I knew I didn’t dare go out there again and as I closed the dressing room door I could still hear them calling for me.

  Nat lifted me off the floor. “You did it, you dog, I knew you’d do it.” He was carrying me all around the dressing room, laughing, “I knew you’d do it, I knew you’d do it …”

  “It’s over, it’s over, Nat, oh, thank God it’s over!” He put me down on a chair, and just sitting there was heaven. “What a night. Oh, what a gorgeous, beautiful night.”

  The door opened and the assistant stage manager called in, “Eight minutes before the Finale.”

  I jumped up. “Finale? What Finale? What’ll I sing? No one told me about any Finale.”

  Nat said, “The number we all do together.”

  Of course. We were all supposed to come out in our tails and top hats and sing “Strolling,” a typically English song. Then there was a big production number with a ramp and stairs down which we all walk in a promenade with Vera Lynn coming down the center to close the show with “We’ll Meet Again.”

  “Murphy, where’s my suit?”

  “Hanging right here, Sammy. All ready for you.”

  I ripped off my tux and jumped into the pants they’d sent. I didn’t need to look at them in a mirror. I could feel the way they fit. I could have put a grapefruit between me and the waistband. I was flapping them in the air. “They’re like ten inches too big. This isn’t my suit, Murphy.”

  “Yes, it is, Sammy. Look. It’s got your name on it.” I’d never rented a suit in my life and I hadn’t thought to try it on. Murphy was panicking. “What are you going to do?”

  “Do I have a choice? Give me a safety pin, baby. We’ll pull ‘em up from behind so at least they’ll stay on.” We pinned them. “Well, it’s not exactly my type of fit but the tails’ll cover it.”

  He held the shirt for me. I slipped my hands into the sleeves, but they never emerged. I stood there, arms extended, not even a fingertip showing. “Rubber bands. Quick.”

  The assistant stage manager called in, “Two minutes, please.”

  Murphy was ripping the dressing room apart. “I can only find one rubber band.”

  I put it on my left shirt sleeve and experimented with my right arm. “If I hold my arm tight to my side maybe the cuff’ll stay up. Okay, let’s go with the vest.” I put it on. “Horrible! All right, lemme have the coat.” The sleeves dropped past where the shirt sleeves had gone. Murphy reached into a box and took out a black silk high hat. I put it on my head and it went plopppppp! Over my ears. Completely over my ears. Only my nose stopped it.

  “Come on, Murphy. Give me my hat.”

  He was almost in tears. “Sammy, this is your hat.”

  “I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. It’s not true.” I sat down. “I can’t go on like this, that’s all. It’s impossible. I look like a Walt Disney character.”

  The door opened again. “Onstage for the Finale. Onstage, everybody.”

  Nat said, “Here, take my hat. I have another.”

  It wasn’t much better. I could get both hands completely under it while it was on my head. I stuffed some kleenex into the hatband and tried it again. At least it was resting on the top of my head. I put on the gloves, which of course were four sizes too large, and I held the walking stick they’d sent. Why wasn’t it six feet long? I stood in front of the mirror—baggy pants, gorilla-length sleeves, one arm pressed tight against my side, hat teetering on my head, cane held in a baseball glove—the whole thing was like a Chaplin movie: the poor soul fighting for dignity against all odds. “Hello, your Majesty. You like my outfit?”

  We were singing, “Strolling, when we’re strolling down the lane …” Vera Lynn walked down the center and began singing, “We’ll Meet Again …” and everything was fine. The big finish to the show is when all the performers sing “God Save the Queen.” Naturally when you sing this you remove your hat. We’re less than a minute away from it and I’ve got both arms pressed tightly against my sides and I can’t for the life of me remember which sleeve has the rubber band and which one leads to the hungry lion. The music strikes the first notes of “God Save the Queen.” The audience is standing. I have to make a choice. I go for my hat with my right hand and as I move it from my side the sleeve falls, swoosh! over my fingertips. I raise my arm, shaking my wrist to get my hand free, the cuff slides back, my fingers appear, and I can feel the hat. I get it off my head a few seconds behind everyone else and as I swing it down to my side the kleenex flies out of the hat, sails over the orchestra pit into the audience, and hits a man in the face. It falls to his shoulder and he plucks it off with two fingers and drops it to the floor.

  I am so humiliated, so mortified that I’m praying I’ll fall straight through the floor and never be seen or heard from again. We’re coming to the last bars of “God Save the Queen” and I’m thinking: how do I put the hat back on? I can’t be the only one standing here holding his hat.

  The song is over. I put the hat on and it slide
s down over my ears and onto my nose. I try to tilt it back so maybe it’ll catch on my forehead. I’m wrinkling my forehead trying to grip the hat with my eyebrows, but nothing helps. Only my mouth and chin are showing. All I can see is the inside of the hat but I can hear the audience starting to fall apart. They’re English and they’re dignified and they’ve been trying to hold on but there’s a limit to everything and we’d passed it long ago. Even the performers, the two hundred disciplined kids behind me were cracking wide open and starting to die all over the stage. Finally we start filing out and I hear Jack Hylton hissing, “Take it off. Get the hat off….”

  I stood backstage like a kin of the deceased as performers and stagehands came by, tapped me on the shoulder and muttered, “Tough luck, Mr. Davis.” … “Bad break.” A red carpet was being rolled down the center aisle of the theater from the steps of the stage to the door of the Queen’s car. At a signal the stars of the show filed onstage and lined up for presentation to Her Majesty, the orchestra began playing “Pomp and Circumstance” and two little girls came down the carpet dropping rose petals. Then, the Queen was walking down the aisle toward us, Prince Philip a few yards behind, with dignitaries following in strict royal procession.

  The Queen reached the stage and began walking down the line of people, smiling but stopping at only one out of every four or five. You’re not supposed to touch the Queen’s hand unless she extends it. I saw out of the corner of my eye that when she did stop she did not put out her hand. She was four people away from me, then three, then two, then one….