Frank Peppiatt - When Variety Was King: Memoir of a TV Pioneer

I dedicate this book to my beautiful, loving wife Caroline because she deserves it.

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 s the Rolling Stones, the Supremes, the Mamas & the Papas. I was , John , 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 hed 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 dont know how much Lester made as an agent, but Ill 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 wasnt razor-sharp. He carried an umbrella, rain or shine; summer or winter, he had a tan. He looked much younger than his -odd years and he considered himself a ladies man. The ladies, however, hadnt been informed.

He lunged his umbrella at us as if it were an pe and said, Howd 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 agencys biggest variety star and variety is king of TV land and Peppiatt and Aylesworth are the crown princes.

I laughed. Crown princes? Thats 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 $,!

Each? John and I said as one.

For the team, guys, for the team. That is damn good money for a days 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. Youve got a whole week.

The so-called one days work just flew out the window, John said as Lester put his fedora back on.

I take it thats 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. Dont 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 youve 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, Were as ready as were ever going to be, right?

Its great stuff! John assured me.

From your lips to Jackies 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.

Dont worry, boys, its 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 $ 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 didnt 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.

Well 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 Lesters 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? Youre late!

It couldnt be helped, Sam, Lester said.

We werent driving the goddamned train, John said with a grin.

Anyway, whats the rush? I said.

Jackies finished his golf game and hes waiting for us in the clubhouse. Just waiting. Dont you get it?

Get what? John asked.

Hell start drinking, and bye-bye meeting!

Jackie Gleason drinks? I asked.

Quit with the jokes, Frank, Sam said. Come on, the cars right over there. Lets go!

Now we were frantic. After a week of late-night work and the long train ride, Sams bye-bye meeting put a scare in us. But we didnt have long to think about it. He made like an Indy 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.

Thats Jackies, Lester said. Its got a color TV , a full bar, and its 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.