To say that the powers that be had completely altered the “Humper’s” image to fit persuasively into the persona of the late Elvis Presley would be stating this transformation mildly. Engelbert was dressed in the former style of costume that Elvis wore, the stage was set as Elvis had performed on it and even the opening of the show featured a large motion picture screen and a brief film of the “Humper” demonstrating his Karate expertise and flashing his big smile. This representation was an exact duplicate of the same film that preceded each show when Elvis reigned on the throne. Show business has always amazed me, but this “Xerox” copy of a dead pop star was even more than I could believe. Basically, for the six months that I toured with “Enge,” we played to show rooms at Vegas, Reno and Atlantic City, doing our “Elvis Lives” road show. Now down to business.
One day mid-week during one of our stays in Vegas to perform at the Hilton show room, I needed to make an arrangement with one of the management team concerning a flight back to LA on our day off to do a recording session. I called the hotel operator and asked for “so and so” and she immediately informed me that Mr. Humperdinck and his entire entourage of management had checked out that morning and were staying in another undisclosed hotel along the strip. I set down the receiver and thought, “...wow, this is really strange!
I wandered down to breakfast in the “all you can eat” for a buck and half coffee shop in the hotel and found our conductor Carl Hermanns reading a book and slowly enjoying his pancakes. I slid into the booth next to him and said, “What in hell is going on, Carl? I called to get a hold of someone with management and Christ, they’ve all checked out!”
Carl gently padded his mouth with his napkin to remove a trace of syrup and calmly replied,“Oh, there was a bomb threat against “Enge” so Harry thought it best to remove Engelbert to a safer hotel.”
This explanation being delivered with the same emphasis as if they had just gone to get the car washed and would be returning any minute.
I wigged.
“Carl, are you shittin’ me? There’s been a life threatening scenario towards our “boss” and he left the band here to deal with the consequences?”
Carl responded with the same calm demeanour,
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| Won a Grammy for "After The Lovin'" |
“Oh Art, this happens all the time, we don’t pay any attention to it anymore.”
Returning to his orange juice and crisp bacon, I excused myself and decided to take a little walk along the strip
before breakfast to do some thinking.
What the fuck was this all about? These bodily threats occur often? And no one does anything about it except to eat a leisurely breakfast and get ready for another show that night? My internal computer was not accepting this information with any glee. Was this guy that dangerous? I had to assume, giving this current information, that I had better be watching my “back side” constantly. That evening, just before a performance, would prove my reckoning to be valid.
I arrived at the stage of the Hilton showroom, early as I usually did, to set up my guitar and effects pedals. While in the process of doing so, I observed several persons with black jackets embossed with the initials, “F.B.I.”. This was truly not a good sign. I said nothing to the stage crew and went about my business as usual. I changed only one piece of my stage equipment. I exchanged the normally high stool that I sat on for the shows, for a low normal height chair. I had no real idea why I did this, just call it intuition. I figured that the lower I was in reference to the audience, the better off my chances of living through the evening, if indeed there was an assassin in the room. I still could not be sure what in the hell F.B.I. personnel were doing onsite, but I could and would always in this type of circumstance assume the worst.
As it turned out, I was right. We began the show as usual, with the back lit movie screen depicting “Enge” demonstrating his fako Karate kicks in a white Karate uniform, as I noticed two F.B.I. agents, one at either side of the stage, in the wings, with black, 45 caliber automatic hand guns drawn in the ready. My heart started to pump big-time as the conductor, Carl, kicked off the tempo for the opening instrumental barrage. What really blew my mind was that absolutely no one seemed to notice our new members on stage. My adrenaline went into overdrive.
The possible sequence of events presented themselves to my consciousness: Two F.B.I. agents are armed and ready at the wings of the stage and that can only mean one thing---death threat reality via a possible attempt by assassination by person or persons unknown.
I virtually cowered in my chair, tucking myself down as low as possible and playing my guitar frantically counting the minutes until the show would conclude, hopefully with everyone intact, including yours truly.
After the show’s hour and twenty minute duration, the curtain closed and I jumped out of my chair and headed for Engelbert’s dressing room. I entered without knocking and exploded on the “Humper” and his entourage.
“Excuse me, mother-fuckers; can someone enlighten me as to the reason why we had some of ‘America’s finest’ ready for an ambush mid-show?”
Engelbert was already shitfaced on brandy and sat with a towel wrapped around his waist laughing at me. I suddenly realized that nobody gave a shit. Let’s face it; it’s 1982, a long ways away from 9/11 and the need for security is almost non-existent. In fact, as it was explained to me by Harry, Engelbert’s manager, there had indeed been a death threat that night from an Arabic Sultan who was a little bit more than peeved that “Enge” had molested a female member of said Sheik’s family. Perhaps a wife, daughter, sister—it didn’t matter, the guy was pissed and someone had informed the powers that be, through an anonymous fax, that a gunman would settle things during this particular show.
Great! I thought to myself, I’m playing guitar for a roving sexual terrorist who strikes at will, anywhere in the world he happens to feel horny, which is of course, generally, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
I went back to my room at the Hilton that night to think things over. My time alone was not long to be. One of the other band members knocked on my door to inform me of an all night poker party being held in Carl’s room, complete with room service and a clean deck of cards. I had been invited to “sit in” on several such after-hours poker gatherings in the past and had always declined, saying that I really didn’t know much about the game.
Truth be told, I was and am a decent poker player and perhaps tonight, by participating, I could scope out how everyone else involved with the tour felt about tonight’s event, and at the same time, pick up lunch money for the next several weeks.
By the time we wrapped up our “friendly” poker match at 5:00 in the morning I had found out two things: one, these guys had that dangerous concept that nothing could harm them because they were musicians travelling with a big shot. That somehow, they were protected with an “invisible” shield: a truly stupid concept for grown men. Two, that indeed no one in the hotel room that night with cards in their hand could bluff me out of a thin dime! I left the disgruntled band with $165.50 cash in my pocket and slept soundly in my room until around 2:00 the following afternoon.
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| Eng made friends with Elvis backstage at a concert. Elvis gave him a big hug, and then grew his sideburns after meeting him |
I continued to take a chance and tour with the “Humper” for a few more months. The gig paid well and I was stashing away the buckos big-time back in LA when we were off the road for a week or a few days. But it was soon becoming apparent that his lifestyle had little or nothing to do with my way of thinking and that I would eventually have to make my move but not until a few more intriguing experiences.
Engelbert has an incredible fan club. Spread throughout the USA, Canada and Europe, it must count into the thousands, consisting mostly of women varying in age groups from early twenties to late sixties and beyond. Many of which could easily fall into the now popular variety of “desperate housewives” who eagerly follow the “Humper” from gig to gig. It was not unusual to observe six to ten women in the front row of the Atlantic City casino and a few days later, find the same group “front row” in Vegas.
One drawback to this extremely organized fan club was the constant nagging that his backup band of “Sidemen” were expected to show up at the various social functions organized for the “Humper’s” benefit. The reader by now should be quite accustomed to my disappearing act regarding such events. I was once confronted by the actual “President” of said fan club in the lobby of the Marina Hotel in Berkley California.
“Young man”, I heard an insistent voice calling to me as I strode across the lobby one afternoon.
“Yes?” I responded with my best phoney-baloney countenance.
“I have a bone to pick with you!” continued Ms. Pickleface.
Again, returning with a style of charm reserved for those I couldn’t care less about.
“And what might that be?”
“Young man”, obviously I hadn’t been assigned a name yet, “...we have left several invitations in your hotel mail box in many cities for you to attend some of our functions and we’ve never heard a word from you.”
I replied immediately, Hollywood smile plastered all over my face,
“...Well there’s a good reason for that.”
She countered with the expected,
“…And what might that be?”
I, in my best show-business smart-ass response mode, offered my excuse,
“...Because, dear lady, I am a working musician paid to do a job with a very big star, but not paid to attend award shows, silly lunches, or boring teas in honor of this big star who pays me gobbles of money to be perfect on stage every night. In short, my personal life is my own—period!”
For some strange reason she took offense at my conduct and hurried off muttering something unintelligible under her breath, which could probably be interpreted as derogatory axioms towards yours truly.
Later that day I was politely dressed down on the telephone by Engelbert’s manager and encouraged to attend at least one of two functions in New York as we were headed there next to perform at Carnegie Hall. Carnegie Hall, the “first temple” of classical music for the entire world was now to host an evening with the “Humper”. What in the hell was the world coming to?
Actually, I couldn’t wait to get on that stage. Needless to say the “vibes” were enormous, even from the wings. The afternoon of the concert I was invited to attend two events in honor of the “Humper”. One was a tea and awards show the following day hosted by the ever present fan club. The other was a dinner at a famous night spot in the village with Engelbert present, leading the evening in a fabulous drinking contest.
As I was required by management to attend at least one of these events, I opted for a night out on the town with “Enge”.
This would prove to be a most interesting evening indeed. We finished our concert at Carnegie Hall and off we went after a brief respite into two limos with Engelbert, the touring band and a few of his manager/go-for pals.
When we arrived at the restaurant in the village, and entered by a long bar heading to a banquet room in the rear, I noticed along the wall of the bar, a myriad of photos featuring Frank Sinatra in various smiling poses with many individuals of the Italian persuasion.
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Debuted in Vegas at the Riviera Hotel the marquee read "Dean Martin presents Engelbert Humperdinck" |
This immediately peaked my curiosity. The bartender, looking to be straight out of a Martin Scorsece film, followed all of us with his eyes, arms folded over a barrel chest as we single-filed to the back room.
My mother didn’t raise any slow kids. I sized up the situation. We were dining as guests of organized crime this evening. Offsetting my natural tendency to “expect the worst” of almost any situation was the comforting knowledge that my New York steak would be of the finest beef available.
The room in the back was mid-sized and had three long tables set up with none other than that to-be-expected look of authenticity. You’ve got it! Red and white checked table cloths, with a lavishly lit atmosphere provided by your standard empty Chianti bottles stuffed with candles and decorated with decades of candle wax.
Perfect, I would be toasted tonight by one and all and then taken for a drive. Well hell, I could have been at a tea the next day. This was still better.
Even that dare-devil of all dare-devils Engelbert Humperdinck was seemingly a tad nervous, as men he had obviously never seen in his life, were shaking hands and hugging him like a long lost brother, while a co-hort snapped a photo with a Kodak instant camera; all participants waiting with anxious glee to view the results developing right before their very eyes.
I had the great fortune of sitting at a table with complete strangers. I viewed each one slowly and came to a general conclusion at the end of my pondering. I don’t think this is going to be a meeting of the “Dead Poets Society.” For some reason the man on my immediate right was in a jovial mood and struck up a conversation with me. He had been at the show and loved my guitar playing,
“You were really kickin’ some ass out there dude! You really reminded me of Clapton in the ‘Cream’ days”.
Somehow I was expecting a thick Hollywood-mafioso-type accent from this guy and I was dealing with your typical Hell’s Angel-looking rock music fan. So be it.
“...Oh thanks man, glad you enjoyed it. By the way my name’s Art.”
Our newest acquaintance on planet earth at the moment replied with a smile,
“Hey man, nice to meet ya’, my name’s Mario.”
Well, at least the name was working.
It turned out that Mario was a big fan of Harley Davidsons and just happened to have in his brief-case, an extensive portfolio of photographs of all of his personal Choppers.
I thought---just great, as I nodded my head up and down in approval.
After several minutes of looking at choppers in different poses as if it was a porno mag, I was becoming curious. These damn motorcycles are extremely pricey, what in the hell does this guy do for a living? After two or three vodkas my curiosity was ravenous. We had just finished gaping at a purple and wine colored tri-wheeler police Harley custom to the max when I popped the question.
"So tell me Mario, what do you do for a living?”
Mario, still possessing the proud smile of a father as he gazed at his “babies”, said casually out of the side of his mouth, “Oh, I take care of people for the family.”
I immediately thought he might be a male nurse or something like that.
“So, Mario, you in health care”, I asked?
“Not exactly, I’m a contract killer.”
At this moment my computer was entering “abandon ship” mode and I froze. Not a good idea to persue this subject any further and I must immediately find another topic to launch into.
“So,” I queried, his eyes directly into mine now, “what kinda gas mileage do you get on these guys, better than a Volkswagen or what?”
It was time for me to get real stupid and totally unobservant; just another one of the guys, out on the town, havin’ a beer with his pals.
I hit pay dirt and had no problem steering Mr. Murderer off into the land of gleaming, masculine machines. We ate our steaks and chatted away the hour or so with me wondering if this guy was carrying a gun the whole time we were pouring ketchup on our fries.
I made an excuse to head for the toilet after devouring my “medium rare” and headed out the front door waving cordially to “Mr. Friendly” the bartender, henchman, whatever.
I grabbed a cab and kissed the door man as I entered the hotel: home, safe and sound with a good book, a joint and a comfortable bed. Maybe I would even check out the tea tomorrow to offset this experience.
Nah!
Weeks passed as we toured throughout the U.S. and Canada.
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| Engelbert in Vegas |
At the time I was heavily into learning how to play the renaissance lute. The what? Yea, I said the lute. It was the premier instrument of the 16th century and I fell in love with its sound. While with Lena in Philadelphia, I had wandered into a classical guitar shop and there it sat: a perfect copy of the “plucked keyboard” fashionable during the “Golden Age”. I couldn’t resist playing it and the first time I played a chord on the instrument I was hooked. While with “Enge”, I shipped it with the band luggage and carried the black anvil case with me from hotel to hotel. I suspected that many in our crew thought that I was spawning a new career as a ventriloquist. The anvil case would have been just the right size for a dummy.
Also at that time, one of the reasons I was on the road was to add to my already growing collection of rare books on metaphysical subjects. I always took a few rare editions with me to make any hotel room feel like home. Oddly enough, in one of the Casino/hotels in Atlantic City where we performed, I discovered a rare book shop right next to the cafeteria. I couldn’t believe it. Along the corridor all lined up: women’s’ bathing suits and accessories—news- stand with tobacco and racing forms—rare books from the 18th century on!
I spent every day of our two week run crawling around on my hands and knees virtually reorganizing the shop for the German Owner. I bought around fifty books and loaded them into a new suitcase bought on the boardwalk. The roadie was thrilled when we got to the airport and he had another fifty pounds of luggage to deal with.
My “Romantic” enthusiasm for everything mystical and antiquated soon brought me under the scrutiny of my fellow “Sidemen”.
One afternoon in Reno, Nevada at the Hilton, I knew we were going to have a long afternoon of rehearsing the orchestra, for it was our debut at this venue. I decided to bring one of my books with me and left it in the dressing room on top of my guitar case while doing a sound check for my guitar in the show room. When I returned the band was standing around the book in question with a page opened up to a picture of “Behomet” or the devil as commonly known. Don’t panic, I was never around Charles Manson. It was a book on the Tarot by Eliphas Levi, the grand occultist of France in the mid-nineteenth century. I was studying the symbolism of the fifteenth card of the major tarot trumps.
We could sojourn here into an overview of the influence of the occult revival upon literature and the arts in general from the 1850’s –1950’s but that would be best documented in a future work.
Needless to say, the “boys in the band” were a bit agog at my reading preferences. No one said anything but the atmosphere in the room grew dark as everyone wandered around with a sheepish look on their face. I said nothing, closing the book and locking it in my guitar case.
A few days later, Carl Hermanns and his brother Don who was the bassist in our touring group, invited me to dinner along the river bank running through Reno. Drinks and hors d’oeuvre were ordered and we settled into our leather-tufted booths to talk. Carl launched immediately into the incident with my book.
“....Art, I have a question for you that we’ve all been dying to ask.”
“Shoot!” I responded, calamari mid-bite.
“Are you some kind of black magician or something...you know, like a sorcerer?”
I had expected the subject to come up soon and had prepared myself for this moment.
“Well, Carl, if I was, I certainly wouldn’t be on the road with Mr. Penis, travelling around mopping up after his indiscretions.”
Nervous laughter from Carl and Don.
“Hey, Art, I certainly didn’t mean to offend you—“
I cut him off before he could finish his thought.
“Carl, it’s very simple. I have always been fascinated with history. The subject requires the scrutiny of both rational and so-called, irrational thought and behaviour throughout the centuries. Right now I’m into “speculative philosophy” a non-material scientific area whose aspects are only recently coming to light in our age.”
Don broke in.
“Oh, you mean all that stuff people used to believe that isn’t relative anymore?”
I replied snappily to close the subject, “Exactly!”
We finished off our evening with a delicious meal and talked about music before returning to the hotel.
The next morning I found Carl in the lobby waiting for me to come down for breakfast. It struck me odd that he seemed to have a somewhat apprehensive look on his face as I approached him. I greeted him with a big smile and he asked me if it was okay for him to join me for breakfast.
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| Jimi Hendrix played for Humperdinck once on stage behind a curtain when Eng's guitar player didn't show up for a gig. They got along great |
We settled in and ordered, starting with my favorite drug, caffeine. Carl then told me that a strange occurrence had happened in his room the previous night.
I jokingly responded, “...Blonde, brunette, redhead?”
He waved me off and took on a grave composure.
“Look man, I got into bed last night to read and uhm....well, the lighting fixture on the ceiling started to weave back and forth very noticeably without any apparent reason. At first I thought it might be an earthquake, but...uhhh, nothing else seemed to be moving and uhhh....”
“Carl”, I cut him off mid uhhhhh....
“Are you wondering if I caused the chandelier to move because you think I am some kind of a transcendental magician?--You’re kidding me!”
Carl began to hmm and ahh a bit more,
“Carl, look me in the eyes. Last night your imagination carried you away. You fixated on our dinner discussion and caused your own nightmare. If I was indeed, someone vested with those powers, I’d “manifest” myself a blond and an Island in Tahiti..., in fact two blonds, an island paradise in Tahiti and you would never have even met me.”
Carl waved me off, excused himself and wandered out the lobby doors onto the street. Jesus, this guy needs a girlfriend, desperately!
A few weeks later, for some unknown reason the organizers of the Christian Country Music Association decided to book the “Humper” and his band for their awards ceremony in Fort-Worth Texas.
This type of booking would be comparable to having the “Hitler youth” orchestra play for Sol Blummberg’s, son’s bar-mitzvah.
This is our final example of Engelbert, “Mr. Danger is our business” Humperdinck’s propensity to wreak havoc on those around him.
A representative from the organizers of said awards show arrived in Reno to take a peek at the “Humper’s” stage presence. After he ate the crouch of some young ladies panties thrown up on stage, said person ran out of the room and more than likely sent a panic fax to Fort-Worth. Sorry guys and gals, no cell phones yet in 1982—unbelievable!
At any rate, a contract was sent the size of the National Budget report, with so many do’s and don’ts that I was amazed he took the gig. The organizers of “sing a song for Jesus” insisted that the show be only thirty minutes in length. That no vulgarity of any description be displayed. That no sexual innuendos be exhibited under any circumstance and that Mr. H start on time and stop on the dot.
No problem. Well, maybe just one or two small problems.
Oh, the “Humper” and his management team agreed to and signed said contract but when we arrived for our very, very important sound check, these pig-fuckin beer drinkers of the Lone Star state were nowhere ready for us. The stage wasn’t set, amplifiers had not arrived, microphones were nonexistent and the sound system sported hundreds of loose wires going in thirty different directions.
I smelled trouble a-brewin’, partner. Yes sir, them folks down here in Texas just might not take too kindly to such goin’ on as was about to be a goin’ on. I wasn’t wrong. We did our show, that is the Las Vegas show of one hour and twenty minutes complete with the standard list of vulgarities and a few new ones he made up on the spot concerning how fond he was of down-home pussy!
Well, my goodness. You never saw a more nervous band of Hollywood “Sidemen” pack up faster than at the conclusion of that-thar show. While in the process of doing so, famed cowboy actor Ben Jonson got on stage, grabbed a microphone and began to berate Englebert, and of course the band was included.
“May this man’s soul fry in Hell, along with those who support him!” Ben taunted.
I thought it was a bit critical, considering the official reviews wouldn’t be on the street until the following morning in the papers.
Ben went on and on with his “Hell’s-a-fire-revival” commentary until we noticed that people had moved away from the stage as if anticipating a lynching.
I personally thought that we would be lucky to get out of town by sun up, let alone find a ride back to our hotel which was easily two miles from the concert venue. Luck was on our side in the form of an African-American van driver who observed our peril and offered to give us a lift back to the hotel.
When we arrived, I noticed that a “Posse” had formed at the hotel entrance “just a wait’n to get these no-good varmints and run ‘em out of town on a rail!”
I informed my fellow “Sidemen” of what I believed to be a certain confrontation if we entered by the lobby entrance and casually suggested that we go around back and sneak into to the hotel. These “city-slickers” just paid me no a’mind and headed straight into that-thar pack of vigilantes.
I thought differently and kindly requested that our volunteer driver give me a ride ‘round back. As I circled around to the left of the hotel in the van I noticed our “boys” being confronted by the “Towns-folk” gathered at the entrance and I prayed they would make it through the night.
They did. The next day on a plane bound for LAX, I informed Carl that this was to be my last “round up.” I gave my notice and disappeared off into the sunset in Santa Monica the next day, thanking my lucky stars that I made it out alive.
However, as it turned out, this was not to be my last “round up” with the “Humper.” After arriving back from my moment of Nature and the sea, I found my answering machine lit and flashing heavily. Somehow, I could feel this was trouble and it was. I had five messages from Harry, Engelbert’s manager from his Beverly Hills office. His voice was agitated and he demanded that I get right back to him—immediately! I complied. I reached him on one ring and he laid it on me. Engelbert was due to play the Hilton in Vegas the following week and it would be impossible to replace me, so what would it take for me to do the two weeks before my final departure?
I thought about it calmly for a few seconds and said,
“Double my salary and fly me home on the off-day.”
Harry breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Done deal”, and hung up the phone abruptly.
The events that followed are a fine example of show-business tradition. In Harry’s mind I could not be replaced, that was why he was willing to pay heavily for my brief return. As events developed we shall test this concept.
I arrived at Las Vegas International Airport as usual and was driven to the Hilton Hotel on the strip just in time for a sound check for that night’s show. I had opted to arrive the day of the gig instead of traveling with the band the day before. For me, the less time around this gig the better.
Honestly, I was a bit apprehensive about how “Enge” would feel towards me, since I was sure that he had been informed of my decision to leave the road tour. I was amazed by his attitude towards me that afternoon. He smiled at me and gave me a big hug before I set up my gear. Maybe, I thought to myself, he had not been told by Harry that I quit. This assumption on my part at the time was probably accurate. That night was a totally different story.
All through the rehearsal that afternoon, all of the entourage connected with Engelbert was joking with the band and me as usual. Keeping things light was always a necessity with big stars. No matter how famous a person is or how revered, the aspect of nerves and butterflies before a show is tantamount to the occupation. Kidding around at sound checks and rehearsals always helps.
That evening when I arrived on stage for the first show, the atmosphere had changed drastically. The members of his entourage who were responsible for pre-show checks of staging etc. were very cold to me. I knew then and there, that Harry for one reason or another had to tell “Enge” and his crew that I was, by my own decision, soon to be history.
We started the show and I really let it rip! Notes came flying off the guitar and my chorus, distorted and compressed guitar sound was enormous in the monitors. Engelbert turned towards me with a huge smile and said loudly into the microphone,
