Zeppo went on to say that he had been “nervous, usually very uneasy” when he had to perform. He said he wasn’t as fortunate as Groucho, who he believed never experienced that kind of pressure. “He was always confident. Groucho could get up and tell something that was supposed to be funny and have it fall flat, and he didn’t care.”
Groucho’s superabundant charisma was showing as blatantly in Palm Springs as everywhere else he ventured. Heads turned constantly. The only difference between one setting and another was people’s obviousness about staring. Zeppo and Gummo were totally aware of their recognizable brother’s recognition. Gummo even got a few autographs for friends.
In the chic restaurants you can judge your celebrity status by how noisy and uncomfortable your table is. When your chair is the one every person in the restaurant has to bump into in passing and you can’t hear what you are saying, let alone what anyone else is saying, then you know your rank is high.
We were awarded “the best table in the house,” a calamity as far as conversation was concerned. We got the table next to the piano. The piano player looked at Groucho, gasped, and was overwhelmed. Groucho was underwhelmed. The piano player proceeded to give his all. Each person at our table could only hear, and that barely, what he himself was saying. The piano player did occasionally go out, and during those brief moments the conversation flourished. It always turned to the old days, to East Ninety-third Street, to Chicago, to Minnie and Frenchie, and to Chico’s escapades. They talked about Uncle Julius, after whom Groucho was named, who had lived with them for a while on Ninety-third Street, and about “Opie,” their German grandfather, who was incorrigible and encourageable in his flirtations well into his eighties.
In the Ninety-third Street reminiscing, Zeppo was relegated to second-class-citizen status as a much younger brother (“you’re too young to remember that”), for though the Marx Brothers of East Ninety-third Street no longer existed for anyone else, for each other they were still little boys and young men: Julius, Milton, and Herbert, the children of Minnie and Sam.
Groucho called his brothers “Zep” and “Gum.” Gummo, during the conversation, referred to George S. Kaufman as “only a play doctor,” voicing an opinion that could not have been more exactly opposite to Groucho’s. Groucho seemed annoyed. Helen looked at Gummo as if to indicate that this was not the first time that subject had been raised.
Zeppo glanced at his watch, as he did frequently, because he knew that somewhere there was a card game being played without him.
Groucho and Zeppo discussed their mutual overweight problems. Groucho was disturbed because he had added two or three pounds. Zeppo was somewhat less disturbed, having gained fifteen pounds. Groucho ordered half a grapefruit for dessert, and Zeppo demolished a Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte with whipped cream, down to the last cherry and crumb of chocolate cake.
On the way back to Beverly Hills, I told Groucho that I’d forgotten to take a menu for my collection. He consoled me. “That’s all right. Ask Zeppo and Gummo. They’ll steal one for you. Then they’ll sell it to you.” He chuckled. He rarely laughed at anything he said, the exceptions being comments about his own family, which evoked for him unusually rich imagery.
A pivotal person in Groucho’s life was the piano player who accompanied him and other guests at his parties. When a party was being planned, no guest was selected with greater consideration and forethought than the piano player, and he or she was often the first guest invited.
For Groucho, a party without a piano player would have been like Lydia without her tattoos, and his standards for piano playing were indeed high. The songs he liked to sing at parties, like “Lydia, the Tattooed Lady,” were obscure and stylistically difficult. They required someone who knew Groucho’s repertory and had a secure knowledge of many popular music styles, such as classically trained Marvin Hamlisch. Marvin also played at Groucho’s special concert appearances at Iowa State University and Carnegie Hall, and he provided the accompaniment for An Evening with Groucho, Groucho’s successful record album.
While playing for him, Marvin was busily writing music for The Way We Were and The Sting, films that ultimately won for him three Oscars—on the same night that Groucho won his special Oscar. Then he left Hollywood to do A Chorus Line. Although he returned to Groucho’s from time to time, Marvin’s piano bench was frequently vacant. Arthur Whitelaw was often called upon to play, which he did with skill and elan.
When composer Boris “Lalo” Schifrin moved into one of Groucho’s ex-houses, Groucho went over to check out the new occupants. Lalo was immediately invited to take his turn on the Marx piano stool, accompanying Groucho in such classics as “Peasie Weasie” and “Show Me a Rose.” Morgan Ames also dropped by to play “There’s a Girl in Maryland with a Watch That Belongs to Me,” “Father’s Day,” or “Stay Down Here Where You Belong.”
Sometimes Groucho kept it in the family, in which case Billy Marx was invited to play musical piano benches at Groucho’s. He was quite proficient at playing the Groucho repertory, including a parody on “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” called “Slipshod Through the Cowslips.” Groucho sang this version, proclaiming, “‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’ is too good for this crummy crowd.”
Another familial stand-in (or, rather, sit-in) as piano player was Groucho’s grandson, Andy Marx. Andy’s maternal grandparents, Gus and Grace Kahn, were composers of, among other songs, “Oh, How That Woman Could Cook!” one of Groucho’s standards.
Others who also played piano socially at Groucho’s included George Gershwin, Bronislaw Kaper, Oscar Levant, and Goddard Lieberson. George Gershwin was a friend and a great fan of the Marx Brothers, as they were fans of his. “He’d drop by, sit down at my piano, and stay there playing all night,” Groucho told me.
In London, actress Luise Rainer talked with me about George Gershwin and his great admiration for the Marx Brothers:
“One of my very first experiences in America was with George Gershwin. My mother was immensely musical but not permitted to become a pianist because it wasn’t done. George Gershwin told me that I inspired him. It wasn’t an affair; he just felt that he wanted to write some music for me, but he died before he could do it. He told me the first thing I had to do in America was to go to see the Marx Brothers in a film. So, he took me to the theatre to see a Marx Brothers film. Everyone in the theatre was laughing the entire time, but I wasn’t able to understand all of it. I spoke British English.”
One Sunday afternoon, Elliott Gould invited Barbra Streisand to Groucho’s house. Elliott wanted his two friends to be friends, and Barbra’s feelings had been hurt at an earlier meeting when Groucho got a laugh at her expense. Arriving at a big Hollywood party, Groucho had encountered Barbra, who had arrived a moment before, in the hall near the door. Taking off his coat, he handed it to her and said, “Here, check this, have it cleaned, and see that it’s back by Thursday.”
Barbra started the visit off on a flat note by disregarding Groucho’s penchant for punctuality. Due at 3 P.M., at 3:45 she was nowhere in sight, nor had she called. Groucho sat in his living room and declared, “If she doesn’t get here by five o’clock, I’m going home.”
He didn’t have to make good his word, because a moment later, the entourage appeared. With Barbra and Elliott were Elliott’s wife, Jenny, and Barbra’s friend, Jon Peters, and Jason, who is Elliott’s and Barbra’s son, and Sam and Molly, Elliott’s and Jenny’s children, and Jon Peters’ son.
Erin and I were there, as well as nurse Donna, and David Hixon, a young actor who had been doing some odd jobs for Groucho while waiting to be cast for a better part. Barbra wore a semi-sheer blouse and faded jeans. Elliott was attired in a plaid blanket coat worn over blue painter’s coveralls and a short-sleeved pink sweater. Barbra was given the seat next to Groucho, and she assumed a dueling position. Groucho, ready to make peace, or pieces, made the first move, a usual one for him: “Kiss me,” he said.
Barbra looked a bit taken aback. Unruffled, Groucho said,
“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” Barbra answered as simply and directly as Groucho himself might answer, “No.”
Groucho never got discouraged easily on or off screen. “Jenny will kiss me.” Jenny untangled one-and-a-half-year-old Molly, who was wrapped around her legs, and murmured, “Oh, oh! Confrontation!” But détente was maintained when Erin, grudgingly, gave Groucho the kiss.
Groucho decided to honor Barbra’s visit by singing a song for her. “There are so many songs about mothers,” he told us, “but hardly any about fathers. There’s no Whistler’s father.” Groucho sang “Father’s Day” for her. Barbra was visibly moved—toward the front door. “It’s funny,” she said, “that you want to be recognized as a singer, too, when you’re already recognized as a great comedian.”
Groucho told Barbra that a long time ago Irving Berlin offered to give him a dollar for every time he did not sing “Stay Down Here Where You Belong.” Barbra nodded approvingly, indicating that she thought Irving Berlin had shown pretty good sense and suggesting that the amount could be adjusted upward to allow for inflation.
“I love to sing,” Groucho volunteered. “I’m going to sing another song for you.” He hesitated momentarily while he pondered his choice. The momentary respite was enough for Barbra, who dove for her purse, lucklessly failing to come up with a dollar. She found a twenty-dollar bill but apparently wasn’t quite ready yet to go that high for the privilege of being spared one of Groucho’s musical offerings. She looked to Elliott in her moment of need. Elliott dug deep into his painter’s coveralls but came up with only sixty-seven cents, and Groucho was already clearing his throat, menacingly, threatening to burst forth into song. Barbra groped for the twenty-dollar bill. Groucho offered to lend her a dollar.
Then Barbra found enough change to pool her money with Elliott’s, and she gave Groucho a dollar in change, which she called “hush money.”
“You have real audacity, Groucho, just to insult people and make a career out of it. It’s wonderful when a person finds out what he can do, and does it, and makes a whole career out of it.” Groucho accepted the “compliment” and asked her if she had seen any of their films. Barbra said she had and that she particularly liked the roller-skating bit, but she didn’t remember the title of the film. (It was The Big Store.)
GROUCHO
Harpo was a good roller skater. He was a good roller skater and a lousy harp player. Did you know that Harpo taught himself how to play the harp? My grandmother played the harp in Germany.
BARBRA STREISAND
You were lucky to work with your brothers, to have people to work with all the time with whom you had rapport, and not to have to go out there alone…
GROUCHO
Do you want me to sing?
BARBRA STREISAND
Did you know Mae West?
GROUCHO
I knew her before she was famous, in vaudeville, when she just had a piano and three dirty songs. The police were always after her for those dirty songs.
BARBRA STREISAND
She never married, did she?
GROUCHO
She used to live with a middleweight fighter. I saw her when she had the act with the muscle men. I said, “Are you getting any, Mae?” She said, “No, what a waste of manpower!” Do you want me to sing?
BARBRA STREISAND
It’s interesting the way people liked your nonsense songs.
GROUCHO
We have more fans now than we did then.
BARBRA STREISAND
Did the people understand and accept the nonsense then?
GROUCHO
Of course.
BARBRA STREISAND
And they seem to like it especially now. There’s nothing exactly like it.
GROUCHO
I’m going to sing “Show Me a Rose.”
Elliott suggested bringing the party to an end, saying, “I guess I’ll be going shortly.”
“How can you go shortly when you’re six feet six?” Groucho said, adding the aside, “He’s tall for his height.”
As the group departed Groucho gave Barbra back her dollar.
Playboy West in Holmby Hills is more than just a home or a house. It’s a headquarters for Playboy in California, and the reflection of its owner, the creator of Playboy, Hugh Hefner. Built in 1927, the English Tudor–style mansion is stone with a slate roof and leaded windows. The grounds are elaborately landscaped with exotic and indigenous trees and flowers. There is a tennis court and a very special swimming pool with its own waterfall. A grotto with Jacuzzi baths to which you must swim through a waterfall is reminiscent of the social area beyond the pool in the Chicago Playboy House, which could only be entered by swimming underwater to it. There are exotic birds and animals flitting and roaming about, not to mention rare fish in the pond. Monkeys swing in the trees, flamingos pose, and male peacocks fan their tails to make an impression on the dowdy female peacocks. Parrots sit about, needing no cages, because they have no thoughts about flying away, for surely they couldn’t hope to better their lot.
At the gate we were carefully checked. After a phone call to the house, Groucho was authenticated as the genuine “Groucho Marx with one guest,” and we passed through up the driveway. At the house, there were the ubiquitous young men to park the cars, and we entered the balconied reception hall, with its impressive hand-carved oak stairway. Sugar Ray Robinson was standing there admiring the stairway as we entered. He commented to us, “Pretty nifty.” Groucho nodded. “Yeah, some joint.”
What had brought Groucho and me there was the live closed-circuit relay of the 1974 Foreman-Norton fight. Groucho loved the fights. “I don’t usually go with a girl,” he informed me. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said. Security was tight, and so was the fit into the screening room. Squeezed in around us were Sugar Ray Robinson, Jack Nicholson, Bill Cosby, Dick Rosenzweig, and Mick Jagger. The audience was almost entirely men, but Bunnies and gatefold girls decorated the periphery. As the fight began, Groucho called out, “I remember when there were white fighters.”
Foreman knocked out Norton in the second round. “Foreman had an early date,” Groucho said. Then he offered the opinion, “He’s better than Dempsey.” Groucho was the only one there who had seen Jack Dempsey fight.
The opulent buffet-style dinner was served early. For Groucho only, there was a special done-to-order, salt-free sirloin steak.
Returning from the men’s room, Groucho confided to me that it was “all mirrors.” I never found out if he was joking. He also mentioned that “a girl with the world’s biggest knockers came over and offered me a feel.”
During a visit to New York City, in 1974, Groucho, Erin, New York Times writer Mel Gussow, and I went to “21” for dinner. Among New York City restaurants, “21” and La Côte Basque remained among the last bastions of jacket and tie tradition. In the history of “21” no one had entered or departed its portals tieless until that fateful night when Groucho darkened its doorstep. (He told me later, “I also darkened their towels.”)
When we entered, he was conventionally garbed, but somewhere between the soft-shell crabs and the decaffeinated coffee, Groucho, accustomed to Southern California informality, removed his tie. “I haven’t worn a tie in years,” he announced. In response to Erin’s “Groucho, you can’t do that here,” he rose from our table and walked over to a rather formally attired group at the next table. Showing them his tie in hand, he suggested that they follow suit. Clearly, they would have preferred not to do so, but when it came to risking the loss of their place and face at the revered “21” or saying no to Groucho, the men removed their ties.
He moved on to the next table with the same results, and on to the next, creating no small stir. The captains and maître d’ gathered for a conference of war, and the owners, who quickly arrived on the scene, huddled. Meanwhile, Groucho continued making his round of the tables, and ties kept coming off, although not with enthusiasm. To make sure his ends were accomplished, Groucho stayed at each tabl
e until every man had removed his tie.
The owners hesitated and finally decided not to pit themselves against a living legend, who was obviously the sentimental favorite and who would certainly become more so if they opposed him. But the owners did not smile as the tieless began to outnumber the tied.
Groucho met his match only once. At the last table he approached two men who were speaking an Arabic language and who failed to understand him. They also didn’t seem to recognize him. When Groucho had completed his rounds, the owners, the captains, and the two Arab patrons were the only ones on the second floor of “21” who were wearing ties.
Ice cream and Sanka consumed, we headed for the stairway with Groucho boldly twirling his tie as he passed Pete Kriendler and Jerry Berns. On the stairway, Groucho flaunted the tie with a smug “I’ve won” look. The maître d’ smiled a small smile for what he knew was a small victory.
As Groucho had passed each table on his way out, behind him the men were hastily donning their ties. By the time Groucho had begun his descent, every man in “21” was once again wearing his tie.
The next day the story appeared in all of the newspapers and on radio and television. A few nights later, arriving at the elegant La Côte Basque restaurant, Groucho was greeted warmly but warily at the door by Madame Henriette and Albert. Groucho hesitated for one brief instant, then said:
“Okay. Give me a tie.”
There was a round of applause from patrons, and the story appeared in Earl Wilson’s column the next day.
Reminiscing with me months later about the “21” incident, Groucho showed no remorse. “I was driving the headwaiter crazy. I think it’s silly to wear a necktie. I can eat without a tie. You don’t need a tie to eat. They’re lucky I didn’t take off my pants.”
Talking with Jerry Berns, one of the owners of “21,” about Groucho’s visit, he summed it up for me: “Groucho is a law unto himself. He’s a king. He could do no wrong. He’s above convention.”
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