When Variety Was King

Memoir of a TV Pioneer

Frank Peppiatt

• Publisher: ECW Press
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9781770410299
• eBook ISBN: 9781770903555
• Topic: Medios de comunicación y artes escénicas
• Subtopic: Televisión

A television producer's "fascinating" memoir of the golden age of the variety show ( Kirkus Reviews).
 
A humble Canadian boy who grew up to create iconic American TV shows featuring the Hollywood celebrities of the day, Frank Peppiatt made his breakthrough by developing the rock TV show Hullabuloo with his partner, John Aylesworth. That led to a writing gig for Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé—and then to the long-running smash hit Hee Haw.
 
In this autobiography, he recounts a career that spanned from the 1950s to the 1980s, writing comedy and turning entertainers into household names on variety shows hosted by Jackie Gleason, Andy Williams, Judy Garland, Julie Andrews, Sonny and Cher, and Perry Como. This anecdote-filled memoir of a bygone era will enthrall anyone interested in the early decades of television.
 
"Full of behind-the-scenes stories . . . For fans of TV history, there's a gold mine here." — Booklist

Chapter 1

AND AWAY WE GO!

It was the strangest Saturday of my life.

The year was 1965. The setting was New York. My partner, John Aylesworth, and I were writing a pop-music show we had created called Hullabaloo. It featured all the big hit makers of the ’60s — the Rolling Stones, the Supremes, the Mamas & the Papas. I was 36, John 34, which made us older than most of the acts on our show, so we could play grown-up to some of the drug-addled talent that came through the door each week.

John was about five foot ten, with straight blondish hair, intense blue eyes and a wonderful laugh. He did marvelous impressions of almost anybody in show business, but he had two left feet and no sense of rhythm. I was six three and gangly, with curly brown hair, hazel eyes and a gap-toothed grin. I had trouble doing an impression of myself, but I had rhythm and plenty of it. John hated sports; I loved them. I was a worrier; John assumed everything would turn out just fine. We were complete opposites, and it worked for us.

On this cold Monday in January our agent, Lester Gottlieb, showed up unexpectedly at the Hullabaloo office. Lester was a born-and-bred New Yorker, from his snap-brim fedora down to his wingtip toes. His sharp gray eyes were constantly shifting, sizing up everything. He always looked like he’d just had a haircut. People would ask him, “You just had a haircut, Lester?” I think his wife gave him a trim every morning, or maybe he was having an affair with a lady barber. I don’t know how much Lester made as an agent, but I’ll bet he spent at least half of it on clothes. Every week he sported something new. Not a button out of place, not a crease that wasn’t razor-sharp. He carried an umbrella, rain or shine; summer or winter, he had a tan. He looked much younger than his 40-odd years and he considered himself a ladies’ man. The ladies, however, hadn’t been informed.

He lunged his umbrella at us as if it were an épée and said, “How’d you guys like to take a train ride to Florida this Friday?”

John and I looked at him, slightly stunned.

“Well?”

“Is this some kind of joke, Lester?” John asked.

“No, not at all,” Lester said. “Jackie Gleason has requested that the two of you come up with some great ideas for a big special for him.”

“Okay, but why does Gleason want us?” I said.

“Because Jackie Gleason is the agency’s biggest variety star and variety is king of TV land and Peppiatt and Aylesworth are the crown princes.”

I laughed. “Crown princes? That’s over the top, even for you, Lester.”

“Is Mr. Gleason willing to pay a princely sum for our week?” John asked.

Lester took off his winter fedora and threw a big smile at us. “You take the train Friday, meet with Jackie Saturday afternoon and come back Saturday night.”

“And?” John asked.

“And all expenses and $5,000!”

“Each?” John and I said as one.

“For the team, guys, for the team. That is damn good money for a day’s work.”

“One day?” I said. “Will the great ideas be slipped to us under our door by the Fairy-Great-Idea-Godmother?”

“Come on, you guys can do it. You’ve got a whole week.”

“The so-called one day’s work just flew out the window,” John said as Lester put his fedora back on.

“I take it that’s a yes?” Lester smiled and held out his hand.

“Yes,” we both said, and shook on it.

“See you Friday morning at Penn Station. Ten-thirty sharp.”

“Why the train?” I asked.

“We can meet in the club car and go over what you guys have written.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, knowing full well Lester the Debonair was terrified of flying. What the hell, I thought, a train ride will be nice and relaxing.

Lester smiled again and buttoned up his dark blue cashmere topcoat. “Don’t be late.” He touched the brim of his fedora with the tip of his umbrella and sauntered out of the office.

“Well,” John said in a perfect Stan Laurel impression, “this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Ollie!”

We spent the week writing Hullabaloo during the day and racking our brains for Jackie Gleason each night. By Friday morning, just in time to leave, we had written up what we considered a few good ideas.

On the way to Penn Station I asked, more than once, “We’re as ready as we’re ever going to be, right?”

“It’s great stuff!” John assured me.

“From your lips to Jackie’s ear, Johnny,” I grumbled.

Lester was waiting for us at the gate. “And away we go!” he shouted. His Jackie Gleason impression was very bad, but indeed away we went.

Over lunch in the club car we pitched our ideas to Lester.

“Those are good,” he said.

“What happened to great?” John asked.

“Don’t worry, boys, it’s in the bag,” Lester said, taking a pack of cards from his pocket. “Anyone up for some draw poker?”

The two anyones, John and I, drew cards for who would deal. I proceeded to rake in $118 from John and Lester, which I then raked out for drinks and dinner for the three of us.

Later, in my roomette, I tossed and turned, finally drifting off to sleep with visions of Ralph Kramden, his rolled-up fist menacing my face: “To the moon, Frankie, to the moon!”

I was awakened by the sound of a soft gong and a voice: “First call to breakfast.” I was starving, so I didn’t need a second call. I washed, shaved, got dressed, packed my small suitcase and went to the dining car. John and Lester were already seated, so I joined them and we all ordered breakfast.

“We’ll be there in three hours,” Lester said.

The idea of pitching comedy ideas so soon to the Great One himself set my stomach on fire. I canceled my order and spent the rest of the trip gnawing on my knuckles while Lester took a hundred bucks from John in gin rummy.

As we got off the train in Miami on Saturday, Sam Cohn came running across the platform. He looked scared to death and was tousled as usual. I think he sent his clothes to the cleaners to have them rumpled. There were the customary ink stains on his shirt, papers half falling out of his pockets, messed-up light brown hair, intelligent lively brown eyes and a beaming smile. He was Lester’s boss but looked like his lackey. It was hard to believe that Sam was one of the most powerful men in show business. As the head of General Artists Corporation, a prestigious talent agency, he could make or break you. He ran the company with an iron — but slightly smudged — fist.

Sam rushed up to the three of us as we strolled down the platform. “What happened to you guys? You’re late!”

“It couldn’t be helped, Sam,” Lester said.

“We weren’t driving the goddamned train,” John said with a grin.

“Anyway, what’s the rush?” I said.

“Jackie’s finished his golf game and he’s waiting for us in the clubhouse. Just waiting. Don’t you get it?”

“Get what?” John asked.

“He’ll start drinking, and bye-bye meeting!”

“Jackie Gleason drinks?” I asked.

“Quit with the jokes, Frank,” Sam said. “Come on, the car’s right over there. Let’s go!”

Now we were frantic. After a week of late-night work and the long train ride, Sam’s “bye-bye meeting” put a scare in us. But we didn’t have long to think about it. He made like an Indy 500 driver and soon pulled up to the clubhouse, tires squealing. Then he sent us ahead and went off to get himself a little less tousled.

Suddenly we came upon the biggest golf cart in the known golfing world.

“That’s Jackie’s,” Lester said. “It’s got a color TV, a full bar, and it’s air-conditioned. Pretty snappy, eh?” His fingers lightly caressed the spotless white paint and blinding chrome trim.

“He could live in that,” John said.

“Sometimes he does,” Sam cracked as he caught up to us, tousled as ever. “The clubhouse is right in here.” He motioned, opening the door for us, then started whispering. “Just follow me and smile. Jackie likes smiles.”

We smiled as ordered and looked around. Everything was in rich red leather and expensive-looking dark polished wood, all of it floating on thick white wall-to-wall carpeting.

At the far end of the room, at a massive round table, sat Jackie, bigger than life. He was still wearing his golf clothes, a giant drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. As we made our way over to him, Sam whispered that the man beside Jackie was the executive producer of Gleason Enterprises. He wore a very expensive Italian suit with a vest and glossy silk tie. I wondered if he played golf in that outfit. Sitting on Jackie’s left were two other men who didn’t rate Sam’s whispered introduction.

“Would you care for a drink?” an African-American waiter dressed in red leather asked us before we sat down.

“Have a drink,” Sam whispered. “Jackie likes it if you drink.”

We ordered gin and tonics, and settled in across from Jackie and his gang. Here I was sitting opposite a man I’d admired and who’d made me laugh for years. He was Joe the Bartender, Reggie Van Gleason, the Poor Soul, and my favorite, Ralph Kramden, the New York bus driver. He wasn’t making me laugh at that particular moment, though. His round, puffy face and crinkled blue eyes looked kind of mean and tired after his 18 grueling holes in an air-conditioned golf cart. But he was the Great One. Only a few years before, he was probably the biggest television star in America. “And away we go!” he’d shout, and light up America’s Saturday nights for an hour. Right now he was sitting across from me in cashmere golfing clothes, his black hair neatly parted a...

Table of contents

• Dedication
• Chapter 1: And Away We Go!
• Chapter 2: Depression without a Shrink
• Chapter 3: Neither a Salesman Nor a Lawyer Be
• Chapter 4: Enslaved to the Ad Man
• Chapter 5: From Ad Man to Superman
• Chapter 6: Striptease at the Border
• Chapter 7: Polio Clown
• Chapter 8: Hurricane Wedding and Other Disasters
• Chapter 9: I Take Manhattan and Manhattan Takes Me
• Chapter 10: Brown Christmas with Bing Crosby
• Chapter 11: White Christmas with Perry Como
• Chapter 12: Loss
• Chapter 13: Judy! Judy! Judy!
• Chapter 14: Hullaballoo and Sinatra Too
• Chapter 15: Hurricane Marriage and Hee Haw Honeymoon
• Chapter 16: Hee Hawing All the Way to the Bank
• Chapter 17: Drowning in Money
• Chapter 18: Depression with Shrink
• Chapter 19: Canadian Sunset
• I Remember John Aylesworth
• Photo Section
• About the Author
• Copyright