Of the many remembrances of J.D. Salinger that have been published over the past few days, these
are the two that I enjoyed the most. The first is written by Lillian Ross of the New Yorker, who was was a close friend of Salinger’s for over fifty years:
The second is about Roger Lathbury, owner of Orchises Press, the small company that almost landed a publishing coup with Salinger’s “Hapworth 16, 1924″:
I feel terrible that I neglected to mention my friend Jason White along with my other co-writers in the Thank You’s for Mayfair. Jason and I wrote “Topsy Turvy Love” together, just one of many cool songs that we’ve collaborated on over the years. He’s one of my favorite songwriters, and he’s a great artist too. If you haven’t heard his records, check him out at:
There were a lot of things that scared me when I was a kid. Quicksand, tsetse flies, cemeteries, spiders, leeches, cobras, witch doctors, voodoo dolls, to name just a few.
There was also The Lighthouse Man.
The first time I saw him was in the early 1970s, in one of those Ripley’s Believe It Or Not paperbacks. I knew right away he was going to give me nightmares. According to the book, The Lighthouse Man “bored a hole in his head and wears a lighted candle in it.” The copy in the Ripley’s books was full of sentences that disregarded the basic rules of grammar. But somehow the word “wears” instead of “wore” made me believe that The Lighthouse Man was still alive, still walking the streets of Chungking, China, still letting that stubby candle illuminate his terrible rotten-toothed grin.
Why did he bore a hole in his head? Like so much in the Ripley’s books, it wasn’t explained. Was it a birth defect? A head injury? A trephining operation gone awry? Whatever caused it, The Lighthouse Man chose not to cover the hole with a hat or a wig. Instead, he inserted a burning candle in it, then offered his services as a nocturnal tour guide around the streets of Chungking. Or so the story went.
I guess because many of Ripley’s oddities were not documented with photographs, they illustrated them in the book with drawings. Or maybe it was cheaper to produce a book without photos. Whatever the case, the illustration of The Lighthouse Man was pure horror. It made him look like a cross between a skeleton and a clown (both of which were on my list of scary things). Those crazy eyes, one sliding left, the other right. Those tufts of greasy hair sprouting behind his ears. And that awful death’s head grin that made me imagine the raspy, hysterical laugh that would surely accompany it.
Whenever my brother and I pulled out the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not book, I tried to avoid looking at The Lighthouse Man. But I couldn’t help it. I was hypnotized. I probably did have a few bad dreams about him, though thankfully, I don’t remember them.
But now that I’ve found him again after all these years, I have to admit that he still gives me the creeps.
Don’t be surprised if this post is deleted at any minute.
Paul Williams never learned to take no for an answer.
After briefly pursuing an acting career in the mid-60s - he once had a bit part in a movie with Brando - he was told by his agent, “The offers have dried up and you should look for a different profession.”
The Nebraska-born Williams, who’d grown up adoring great American composers like Irving Berlin and Rodgers & Hart, started to tinker with songwriting. On the set of The Chase, Paul used his downtime to teach himself acoustic guitar. With a handful of demos, he soon got signed by White Whale Records to an artist deal.
“After about two months, the label called me into the office and said, ‘We don’t think you have a future in music,’ and they tore up my contract,” he recalls with a chuckle.
Undaunted, Williams kept writing songs and within two years, he became a staffer at A & M. By the early ‘70s, he and writing partner Roger Nichols landed cuts by Bing Crosby, Ella Fitzgerald and of course, the Carpenters, who turned exquisite ballads such as “We’ve Only Just Begun” and “Rainy Days and Mondays” into standards. Paul’s streak continued through the decade with hits such as “Just An Old Fashioned Love Song,” “I Won’t Last A Day Without You,” “Rainbow Connection” and “Evergreen.”
As his songwriting star rose, he returned to the two pursuits he’d left behind. As an actor, he did memorable comic turns in Smokey & The Bandit, Battle For The Planet of the Apes and The Muppet Movie (he was also a frequent guest on The Tonight Show and variety shows from The Muppets to Sonny & Cher). As a recording artist, he made seven fine albums for A & M. But along with success came excess. Lots of it.
“You know you’re an alcoholic when you misplace a decade,” Williams says now. And for him that decade was the 80s.
“I think it was always self-medicating for me,” he continues. “The confidence booster. Life is scary and I found something that made the boogey man manageable. Until I went too far and became the boogey man.”
Before he got clean, he did manage to write the wonderfully bad-good songs for Ishtar. Forget the cliché about Ishtar being the worst movie ever. It’s not. It’s funny. And you haven’t lived until you’ve heard Dustin Hoffman sing “I’m Leaving Some Love In My Will.”
These days, the 61-year old Williams is back in the game in a big way. In the past year, he’s written songs with the Scissor Sisters and Jason Mraz. Lily Allen and Dizzee Rascal recently cut a duet based on a song from Williams’ Bugsy Malone musical. He landed another song from Bugsy in a new Coke commercial. He has four stage musicals in progress, including Happy Days (“Yes, the Fonz sings,” laughs Williams) and the cult film Phantom of the Paradise. He’s acting in Georgia Rules, a new film with Jane Fonda and Lindsay Lohan. And he’s been performing around the world, from Vegas to Manila.
“But the best part of my life today is that I’m playing again at writing as opposed to working at it,” Williams says. “I’ve really fallen in love with the whole process again.”
Your first two records were by Tiny Tim and Claudine Longet - a quirky couple. At the time, did that make you wonder about where your songwriting career might lead?
I was thrilled to have somebody singing my songs, and totally confused about what kind of a writer I was. One of the real gifts of my career and my life is the timing of the whole thing. My career as a writer began as some huge iconic careers were winding down. So, I could catch a cut with Elvis, Crosby, Sinatra. What you might call calendar luck.
Any Tiny Tim stories?
Tiny always called me “Mr. Williams.” He was very sweet, a gentle spirit and very strange. I remember a period when he’d only eat baby food. According to Richard Perry [Tiny’s producer] he’d buy a case of baby food, open a jar, smell it and if he didn’t get a good feeling he’d toss the whole case.
Can you describe a typical day as an A & M staff writer?
I’d get to the studio around 10 in the morning. So would Roger [Nichols]. We’d get the word on who was looking for songs, write a few hours, have lunch, a few drinks, write a little more, have more drinks. We’d trot over to the Etc., a club across the street. Eventually, Roger would go home and more often than not I’d go back to the office and write, either by myself or with other writers. I loved the security of the lot, and the history of the old Chaplin Studio. For an out of work actor it was a wonderful feeling to have finally found that thing I could do. Long before making a living with music, music gave me life, a kind of healthy outlet for whatever was stirring in my chest or unconscious.
What was your writing process with Roger Nichols like?
Roger always gave me a finished melody to write to. And he expected a note-for-note lyric. They usually came pretty quickly. And more than once we were driven to an office by our publisher to play something new even before it was demoed. I finished “Rainy Days & Mondays” in the back of a car on the way to play it for Bones Howe, who was recording the 5th Dimension. He turned it down.
When you get a melody, what are your first steps in setting a lyric to it?
I gather materials. Play it over and over again and write down what I hear. I’m like those United Nations interpreters who hear Spanish and then translate it to Vietnamese. I hear words in the music. Sometimes I come up empty. But usually I hear stuff, and just start writing down what I hear until it begins to take shape.
You’ve said, “When I write, I intentionally let myself sound vulnerable.”
I don’t remember saying that. I did write from the center of my chest though. I joke about being the master of the co-dependent anthem. The fact is I wrote about my own fantasies and neediness and longing. And other people relate to the emotions sometimes. It’s what we have in common that makes a song work. Not the uniqueness of the lyric. Honesty and authenticity are key to writing.
Tell me about writing “We’ve Only Just Begun”
It had all the romantic beginnings of a bank commercial . Roger and I were approached by Crocker Bank. They were going to show a young couple getting married, their first kiss, the wedding reception and then riding off into the sunset. No voice over, just copy at the end that said, “You’ve got a long way to go. We’d like to help you get there.” We wrote the first two verses of the song in the studio while we were working on something else. I remember writing the lyrics on the back of an envelope. It came together very quickly. We slapped it on the commercial. We added a bridge and 3rd verse just in case anyone ever wanted to cut it. It was never going to be a hit. Then Richard Carpenter heard it and cut it. An angel sang it and everything changed. Crocker Bank never had any of the publishing, so there was no problem with them wanting a cut of it. Quite the opposite, our publisher then went around and licensed the song to other banks for commercials all around the country. I meet a lot of people who’ve been married to “Begun.” That’s heart payment for a songwriter. To have been a part of something that important in someone’s life. It makes you feel like you’ve done something worthwhile.
There was a time when you were living in Montecito between Jonathan Winters and Robert Mitchum. Can you tell me a story about the three of you?
I never saw them both at the same time. Winters I met in the early 60s when we did The Loved One together. He’s brilliant. We have the same business manager. Now there’s a man with some patience (laughs). Mitchum was a hero. A dark star. He loved music and drinking and storytelling and he never compromised his outlawness to work in the business. He was a great actor and it kills me that he never got real recognition from the academy before he died. He was a great rebel. He was busted for dope that he swears was planted on him. He’d already smoked all his own (laughs). Trying to keep up with him put me in rehab twice!
When did you realize that you had a drinking problem?
It’s a progressive disease. I don’t know when I crossed the line from use to abuse to addiction, but I sure as hell did. By the 80s I was hiding out on the spread in Montecito, peeking out the window at 3 in the morning, looking for the tree police. Cocaine and Vodka. I didn’t want to leave the room because I was afraid I’d miss what I was saying. I missed the infancy of my kids because of my drinking and using. And the career took a big break. I had my last drink in 1989 and have been continuously sober since March 15th, 1990. I’m 17 years sober. Extra innings! The best years of my life.
What’s the most satisfying part of your work now as a counselor?
Sharing the truth. Alcoholism is a disease. And there’s real hope for the alcoholic if he wants to get sober. There’s hope for the hopeless.
Like many of my songwriter friends, I love Ishtar. It can’t be easy to write bad songs that are that good.
Thank you. I’m very proud of my contribution to Ishtar. I wanted to do more than just write bad songs. I wanted them to be true to the characters. I wanted their pure love of writing and the process to show. I think those bad songs are some of my best work.
Did you make yourself laugh when you were writing?
All the time. The overworked metaphors. The song that starts out pretty good that they’d screw up. “Dangerous Business” starts out pretty good - “Telling the truth can be dangerous business / Honest and popular don’t go hand in hand.” Then it comes, the classic Chuck and Lyle line - “If you admit that you can play the accordion / No one will hire you in a rock and roll band.”
Was there a soundtrack album?
Yes, complete recordings of the entire score. Great musicians playing with the boys singing. Jim Keltner, Waddy Wachtell, Lawrence Juber. But the album was shelved when the press began reviewing the budget instead of the picture. They’re trying to do a major documentary on Ishtar right now. I don’t think the soundtrack release will happen unless Warren goes along with it, but I’d love to see it come out.
I’d like to mention a few names of people you worked with just to get your brief response. . . Karen Carpenter
She gets better and better the older I get. I owe so much of the life I have today to her brilliance.
Johnny Carson
He made me feel at home in front of millions of people. A great laugher, a great entertainer, he was as good as late night TV will ever get.
Jack Klugman and Tony Randall
Just like their characters on the Odd Couple. Jack is so easy going you forget what a great actor he is. Tony was very emotional. On Hollywood Squares he’d get very weepy talking about his pal Wally Cox. I like weepy people.
What’s the best advice you’ve ever been given about songwriting?
Avoid waltzes. They produce 3/4 of the sales. I didn’t really listen. My favorite song is probably “Rainbow Connection,” a frog waltz.
After writing songs for so many years, what about the process still mystifies you?
All of it. You sit down with someone, or alone, and you talk and you poke around at the piano, and all of a sudden you’re writing down words and music that are pouring out of you. Sometimes you stay up all night and get all zippy about something you’ve created you’re convinced is gonna be a rock and roll classic, then you listen the next day and it sounds exactly like “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.” But sometimes you find a phrase or a verse or a whole song that’s just too good, too important to have come from you alone.
Summer 1962. Rio de Janeiro. At the Veloso Bar, a block from the beach at Ipanema, two friends, the composer Antonio Carlos Jobim and the poet Vinícius de Moraes, are drinking Brahma beer and musing aloud about their latest song collaboration.
The duo favor the place for the good brew and the even better girl-watching opportunities. Though both are married men, they’re not above a little ogling. Especially when it comes to a neighborhood girl nicknamed Helô. Eighteen-year old Heloisa Eneida Menezes Pais Pinto is a Carioca - a native of Rio. She’s tall and tan, with emerald green eyes and long, dark wavy hair. They’ve seen her passing by, as she’s heading to the beach or coming home from school. She has a way of walking that de Moraes calls “sheer poetry.”
As he later wrote of Helô, “She was a golden girl, a mixture of flower and mermaid, full of brightness and grace, but with a touch of sadness.”
Jobim’s description was more direct. “She had a fantastic figure. Let’s just say that she had everything in the right place.”
Legend has it that Jobim and de Moraes were so inspired by this shapely coed, that they wrote a song for her right on the bar napkins. It’s a good story, but it’s not quite true.
Following their success composing songs for the 1959 film Black Orpheus, the writers began work on a musical comedy. Conceived by de Moraes, it was called Blimp. There was a rash of UFO sightings around Brazil in the early ‘60s, and in that spirit, Blimp concerned a Martian who arrives in Rio during the height of Carnavale. And what might impress a little green man the most about our planet? A beautiful girl in a bikini, of course.
Jobim and de Moraes were stalled two verses in on the song they called “Menina que Passa” (“The Girl Who Passes By”). They needed a fresh breeze of inspiration, something vivid to stir their alien visitor’s blood. Conjuring up the vision of their favorite hip-swaying distraction, they poured out all their secret longing and lust into the newly titled “Garota da Ipanema.”
Though Blimp never got off the ground, the Martian girl-watching tune became not only a hit in Brazil, but the international calling card for a style of music that charmed the world - Bossa Nova.
While Helô inspired the song, it was another Carioca who carried it beyond Rio. Astrud Gilberto was just the wife of singing star João Gilberto when she entered a NYC studio in March 1963. João and Jobim were making a record with tenor saxman Stan Getz. The idea of cutting a verse on “Ipanema” in English came up, and Astrud was the only one of the Brazilians who spoke more than phrasebook English.
Astrud’s child-like vocal, devoid of vibrato and singerly mannerisms, was the perfect foil for her husband’s soft bumblebee voice. Jobim tinkled piano. Getz blew a creamy smooth tenor. Four minutes of magic went to tape.
A year later, the song was casting its quiet spell of sea and sand on the charts, washing past the Beatles’ “I Want To Hold Your Hand.” It peaked in mid-June at #5, selling over two million copies.
“The Girl From Ipanema” went on to become the second-most recorded popular song in history, behind “Yesterday.” Covered by an A-Z gamut of performers, it’s become the ultimate cliché of elevator music - shorthand for the entire lounge revival of the ‘90s.
In the mid-’80s, the Veloso bar was renamed Garota da Ipanema, and the street where its located was dubbed Rua Vinícius de Moraes (the poet died in 1980). Jobim, uneasy about the commercialization of the song and the use of his late partner’s name, objected, complaining that “Now the cars are driving over Vinícius and dogs come and pee over him.”
Over the years, Helô Pinheiro (her married name) enjoyed country-wide fame, ranking with Pelé as one of the good-will ambassadors of Brazil. She never settled on an occupation, dabbling in acting, then running a modeling agency. In 1987, she posed nude for Playboy (and again in 2003, with her daughter Ticiane). In 2001, Helô opened the Girl From Ipanema clothing boutique in a Rio shopping center.
Shortly after, the heirs of Jobim and de Moraes filed a lawsuit, claiming, “Helô Pinheiro, besides not having written the song, was only inadvertently involved in its creation, and as a result of that fortunate coincidence has had her life improved. That does not guarantee her the right to use the [song] for commercial purposes.”
Helô says, “Tom used to say to me that ‘The Girl From Ipanema’ was the goose that laid the golden egg. But I never made a cent from any of that, nor do I claim that I should. Yet now that I’m using a legally registered trademark, they want to prohibit me from being the girl from Ipanema, which is really going too far. I’m sure that Tom and Vinícius would never question the use of the name. It was an homage to them.”
After much ugliness in and out of court, Helô was able to keep the name for her boutique. Today, she reflects on the early ‘60s in Ipanema with nostalgia. “I like the time when everything was prettier because of love, as it says in the Portuguese version of the song. I am still touched when I arrive in some place and somebody plays the song in my honor.”
