Polka King Read online

  But I digress. Let’s get back to the music.

  4

  Sturr-ing It Up in the Studio

  By the time I was fifteen, I decided that I was ready to cut my first record. Using my father’s many professional connections, we got in touch with one Eric Bernet, a gentleman who we were told could point me in the right direction.

  Eric was a music industry lifer who owned a “one-stop” in New York City called A-1 Records. (A one-stop is a company where independent record stores can order albums from different labels and distributors, both large and small. Since the music industry has changed so much, one-stops have gone the way of the cassette tape, but back then they were crucial for the tiny mom-and-pop shops that weren’t able to establish a line of credit with the major record labels.) One sunny summer Saturday morning, one of my bandmates and I hopped a bus to Manhattan and made our way over to Tenth Avenue to meet with Eric, who proceeded to do everything in his power to convince me it would be in my best interest not to make a record.

  “It doesn’t make sense for you,” he said.

  “But—”

  “You’re too young, you’re too inexperienced.”

  “But I—”

  “You’re not ready yet.”

  “Um—”

  “There’s a lot of competition out there, Jimmy, a lot of competition.”

  “Er—”

  “Lots of great musicians making lots of great music, and they all have a helluva lot more experience than you.”

  This went on for about forty-five minutes, Eric telling me about my shortcomings, and me not being able to get a word in edgewise. My pervading thought was, Right now, I could be playing baseball.

  Finally—finally—Eric paused, then gave us a considering look and said, “Boys, I want to take you down to my basement.”

  I was hesitant, because what with the intense way he was talking to me, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he would’ve held me captive. “Why?” I asked.

  “I just wanna show you something. Come on. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

  We wound our way through his massive stockroom—it was like a hedge maze, except with records rather than evergreen bushes—then went down a thin, dark, dank stairwell. He turned on the light, and we were greeted by the sight of dusty boxes filled with, you guessed it, more records. “Look at this, kid. Ten thousand jazz records. Some of ’em have been here for months. Some of ’em have been here for years. I can’t give ’em away.”

  “I want to record polka.”

  Eric scratched his head and gave me a funny look. “Polka? Don’t you lead a jazz group?”

  “Oh no, we’re polka.”

  He grinned like a madman and said, “Ahhhhhhhh, polka! I thought you were a jazz guy. That changes things. Can you be ready to record something this Friday night?”

  “Um, s-s-s-s-sure.”

  Patting me on the shoulder, he said, “Great. At 7 p.m., be at this studio called Gotham Records.” He gave me the address and sent me on my merry way.

  The following Friday, Florida’s finest, Jimmy Sturr and the Golden Bells Orchestra, trekked from the Big Onion to the Big Apple, ready and willing to cut our first single. After we recorded that one song, Eric pulled me aside and breathlessly asked, “Jimmy, kid, d’you have enough material to record an entire album?”

  “Yes.”

  He wiped some sweat from his upper lip and said, “Oh thank God. Let’s get to work.”

  The next track we recorded was an original song of ours, a peppy instrumental called “Hepsa.” (Why it was called “Hepsa,” I have no clue.) We followed that up with another instrumental called “Sax Polka,” after which I laid down a few vocal tracks. It apparently went well, because after our seventh song, Eric poked his head out of the control room and said, “Okay, guys, we need more music from you . . . a lot more music. So one week from tonight, I need you at Beltone Studios on Thirty-First Street. Seven o’clock, sharp.”

  Eric seemed especially excited when he mentioned the name of the studio, so I asked, “What’s so special about this Beltone place?”

  “What’s special about Beltone? What’s special about Beltone?! Not much . . . except Buddy Holly recorded there, and so did Miles Davis and James Brown and Thelonious Monk. And pretty soon, Jimmy Sturr and the Golden Bells Orchestra!”

  That sounded pretty darn good to us. Who were we to refuse?

  So at 6:59 p.m. the next Friday, Eric was waiting for us at Beltone’s front door. He said, “Thanks for showing up on time, guys. But I have some bad news.”

  All the blood drained from my face and went straight to my stomach. I thought, Did we come all the way down here for nothing? Is my chance to record at this hallowed ground out the window? I steeled myself and asked Eric, “What’s up?”

  “Johnny Tillotson’s session is running late. You guys’ll have to wait a few minutes.”

  Johnny Tillotson was big time, a singer/songwriter whom you could call the Kenny Chesney of his day, a country-tinged artist who found his greatest successes when he sprinkled a bit of pop music into his tunes. I was familiar with a couple of his earlier hits, specifically “Poetry in Motion” and “It Keeps Right On A-Hurtin’,” and I certainly appreciated his talent and his sales figures, which is why I had no problem whatsoever cooling my heels while he finished up.

  Some forty-five minutes later, after Tillotson called it a night, we took to the studio and set up our equipment. The studio was exceptional on every level: great sound, comfortable atmosphere, and as clean as a whistle. Little wonder that it played home to all those great recordings. After a quick, efficient soundcheck, we cut a track called “Blue Skirt Waltz,” a polka favorite that was most memorably performed by Frank Yankovic and His Yanks, a version that sold more than a million copies. Before the final note died, Eric burst into the recording room and roared, “Guys, that was smashing, just smashing! Sounds like you’ve been doing it for decades. So let me ask you this: What label do you guys want this little gem to come out on? Capitol? Mercury? Roulette? Vee-Jay?”

  As we packed up our instruments and cleared out space for the group that had been waiting patiently in the hallway for us to finish, I said, “Mr. Bernet, you tell me. You’re the expert. I don’t care. I’d be thrilled with any of ’em. We’ll go with whomever you think would give us the best opportunity to be heard.”

  Without hesitation he said, “Vee-Jay.” He went on to explain that Vee-Jay was an up-and-coming independent label launched by Vivian Carter (she was the “Vee”) and James C. Bracken (he was the “Jay”), a husband-and-wife team from Gary, Indiana. They were best known for recording blues greats such as John Lee Hooker, Memphis Slim, Jimmy Reed, and soul acts like The Spaniels, the Dells, and the El Dorados.

  “Do they have any polka acts?” I asked.

  “Nah, but that doesn’t matter. They know how to break a record, no matter what the style is. Besides, you want go with them, because they’re the smallest. You go with a Mercury or a Capitol, yeah, you’ll have a big, fancy name to put on your résumé, but I guarantee you’ll get lost in the pile. Vee-Jay’ll take care of you.”

  “Sounds great, Mr. Bernet! And I want to thank you from the bottom of my—”

  Before I could wrap up my thank-you speech, four strikingly good-looking, noticeably cool young men sauntered into the recording room. Eric pointed to the quartet and said, “If it’s okay with you, Jimmy, I’m gonna have these cats lay down some background vocals with you. They’re terrific; you’ll love ’em. And you should get to know them anyhow, because they’re gonna be your labelmates. They’re already on Vee-Jay and are having the time of their lives.”

  I peered at the leader. He was as handsome and charismatic as he could be. If he was even the tiniest bit talented, I figured he’d have it made. “What’s the group called?”

  “The Four Seasons.” He pointed to the leader and said, “That guy over there, the short one, he’s called Frankie Valli. I think the world’ll be hearing from these gu
ys pretty soon. They’re just getting started, so having them on this nice little record of yours will be a good notch in their belt.”

  Without his experience in the studio with me, who knows where Frankie would’ve ended up?

  Turned out Eric Bernet knew what he was talking about: Vee-Jay was a pretty good place to be. In addition to Frankie Valli and Jimmy Sturr, Vee-Jay put out a couple of records by a little group from England you might’ve heard of called The Beatles. That was some great company to be in. My recording career was off to a flying start.

  Postscript #1: Soon after our recording session, both Vee-Jay Records and Beltone Studios went bankrupt, and in the process, they lost track of much of their respective property. To this day, the master tapes of my first single for a nationally recognized record label are nowhere to be found. They might’ve been misplaced, they might’ve been lost in a fire, or they might be in a museum in suburban Warsaw—who knows. The whole thing is simply heartbreaking.

  Postscript #2: In the summer of 2007, I trekked out to Atlantic City, New Jersey, to see my former background vocalist Frankie Valli. After the show, I managed to get backstage and land an audience with the man himself. After introducing myself, I said, “You won’t remember me, but you laid down some background vocals for me back at Beltone Studios.”

  Frankie smiled and said, “You were Bernet’s pal! The polka kid. Man, I remember that.”

  5

  Book It!

  Stylistically speaking, polka was number one in my heart and soul, but country music was a close second. When I was fifteen, in 1956, one of my favorite country artists was Hank Snow. Hank recorded for RCA Victor (with my experience in the music industry, I’d start to become rather business savvy and paid attention to things like what label played home to my preferred artists), and between 1949 and 1965, a whopping thirty-one of his singles made it into the top ten, singles such as “Let Me Go, Lover!” “I’m Moving On,” “The Golden Rocket,” and “I Don’t Hurt Anymore.” Whenever I heard one of Hank’s songs on the radio—and considering how much those things sold, he was on the radio a lot—I’d think, How am I ever going to see Hank Snow in person? Guys like him don’t get up to the Northeast, and I don’t get up to his birthplace in Canada, or his hometown of Nashville. Hmmm . . .

  One afternoon, I was reading some music magazine, and tucked there in the back of the magazine was a little article about Hank and his agent. After I read it several times, an idea started forming that would either lead to something brilliant or something silly.

  After some intrepid research, I managed to track down the phone number for Moeller Talent, the company Hank’s agent worked for in Nashville. When I finally got the guy on the phone, I said, without much in the way of preamble, “I wanna book Hank Snow for a show. How much would that run me?”

  Without hesitation the agent asked, “Where’re you located?”

  “Just outside of New York City.” Okay, maybe I was stretching it with the “just outside” part. As previously mentioned, without traffic, Florida is just under two hours away from Manhattan. With traffic, it could be days.

  My voice must’ve cracked on that one, because the agent asked, “Hey, how old are you?”

  Ignoring the question, I again asked, “How much would it be to book Mr. Snow?”

  He paused, then said, “Fifteen hundred dollars. Half up front, half after the show.”

  “Wow. Fifteen hundred bucks? Um, wow.”

  “How old are you?” the agent repeated.

  I wished my voice would hurry up and change into its lower register right then and there. “It doesn’t matter. I, um, I have to check with my associates about the feasibility of bringing Hank Snow up to my area. I’ll get back to you as soon as I meet with my team.”

  After I said good-bye and hung up, the wheels started turning . . . and turning . . . and turning. It finally hit me. My band performed regularly at this place in Middletown, New York, called the Orange County Fair. (Middletown is just a hop, skip, and a jump from Florida.) I called up Al Howard, the Orange County Fair’s general manager, and said, “Mr. Howard, I have a question for you. How do you feel about Hank Snow?”

  “How do I feel about Hank Snow?” he said. “Jimmy, I love Hank Snow. The guy is one helluva singer.”

  “He sure is,” I agreed. “And you know what? I think can get him to play at your place.”

  “What do you mean?” He sounded a bit taken aback. But if some fifteen-year-old pisher told you he could book one of the day’s most popular country singers, you’d probably sound a bit taken aback too.

  “I talked to his agent, and if some things fall into place, I can get him up here. Is there a way I can use your—”

  Without letting me complete my request, Al said, “I’ll give you the grandstands for free. I’ll take all the money for the food and drinks, and you can have the ticket sales.”

  It couldn’t be that easy, could it? “Really?” I asked.

  “Really.”

  “Done!” I hung up, then went over to my father and said, “Dad, I need a favor.”

  Without taking his nose from his newspaper, he said, “What kind of favor?”

  “It’s kind of a big one.”

  The newspaper stayed put. “Do tell.”

  “I need $750.”

  Down went the newspaper. “What does a fifteen-year-old need $750 for?”

  I gave him a huge grin and said, “I’m booking Hank Snow to play at the Orange County Fairgrounds.”

  Dad stared at me for a bit, then said, “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. He needs half up front. And Mr. Howard and I worked out a deal so I’ll make a nice profit on top of it.”

  He gave me a long, appraising look, then said, “Whom do I make the check out to?”

  I called Hank’s agent and told him we were a go. Again he asked how old I was, and again I didn’t answer.

  The contract showed up in the mail a few days later, which I signed and returned to Moeller Talent, with my dad’s $750 check enclosed. Just like that, I was a concert promoter.

  A couple months later, on a warm Friday evening, Hank Snow’s giant tour bus pulled up to an almost-sold-out Orange County Fairgrounds. I very badly wanted to meet Hank, so as soon as his driver cut the engine, I sauntered up to the door and gave it a tentative knock. A grizzled-looking gentleman poked his head out and asked, “Can I help you, son?”

  “Um, yeah. Hi, I’m, um, Jimmy Sturr. Is, um, is there any chance I can, um, meet Mr. Snow?”

  “You’re Jimmy Sturr?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “You?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “You’re the guy who booked us?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  He gave me a big smile and said, “You bet you can meet Hank!” Then he turned around and called, “Hey, Hank! Jimmy Sturr’s here to see you!”

  “The man who booked us?” Hank yelled.

  The grizzled-looking guy said, “More like the boy who booked us.”

  Hank ambled down through the bus and peered at me for what seemed like ten minutes before asking, “You’re Jimmy Sturr?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “The guy who booked us?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  Nodding, he said, “I’d like to meet your father. I always like to meet the promoter.” He squinted, then asked, “Because you’re Jimmy Sturr Jr., right? There’s no way you could’ve done this. You’re just a kid.” He stepped out of the bus and gazed around the grounds. “Where’s this Jimmy Sturr Sr. character at?”

  I said, “Jimmy Sturr Sr. is at home. I’m Jimmy Sturr Jr., but I’m also just plain Jimmy Sturr. Honest to goodness, I’m the promoter.” I pulled the check from my back pocket. “And after the show, I’ll be giving you this!”

  He chuckled and said, “Well, all right, that’s what I like to hear. Come on aboard, son.”

  After I climbed up the stairs into the bus, Hank sat down next to a tall blonde woman. Like a dummy, I aske
d him, “Is this your wife, Mr. Snow?”

  He snapped, “No, sir, it’s not!”

  The rest of Hank’s band cracked up, and I took that as my cue to leave. I found out later on that evening that the tall blonde was a prostitute Hank had imported from Hartford, Connecticut, just for the show. I realized then and there that I was going to learn some life lessons as a concert promoter.

  Like the true professional that he was, Hank took the stage right on time, and played hit after hit after hit: “The Rhumba Boogie,” “The Gold Rush Is Over,” “Lady’s Man,” “Spanish Fireball,” and “Tangled Mind.” He was in great form throughout, and the crowd ate it up. Heck, I ate it up. It jazzed me knowing that if it weren’t for me, none of these people would be congregated here tonight. The fans would’ve been in their respective homes, the ticket takers would’ve had the night off, Hank would still be in Nashville, and the hooker would still be in Hartford. Single-handedly, I changed the lives of all these fine folks, and it felt great.

  After the show, and after I bid Hank a fond farewell, I jogged over to the box office where I was handed an envelope . . . a bulging envelope . . . an envelope filled with cash. Lots and lots of cash.

  I couldn’t wait until I got home to tally up the money, so I found a quiet corner and did some mental bookkeeping. First I pulled out the $750 that was set aside to cover Hank’s cut, and then I counted. And counted. And counted. And counted some more.

  Double-, triple-, and quadruple-checking the numbers told me that I had made a profit of $3,315. As I got ready to head home, I thought, “Man, this is the job is for me!”

  Naturally, the concert booking continued. First there was Hank Thompson and The Brazos Valley Boys (a superb country-western crooner, Hank was the basis for Jeff Bridges’ character in the film Crazy Heart), then Tom T. Hall of “Harper Valley PTA” fame, then a young Tanya Tucker, then a yet-to-be-famous (and yet-to-be-unhinged) Hank Williams Jr., then future Country Music Hall of Fame inductee Porter Wagoner, then Johnny Cash’s brother Tommy, then the legendary “Whispering” Bill Anderson, who eventually became one of my most cherished friends and musical associates.