from my sketchbook: artist’s lament

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Go tell that long tongue liar/Go and tell that midnight rider/Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter/Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down
I have chosen a very unusual career. I’m an artist. For most of my life, I’ve had to explain exactly what I do and it’s never been an easy task. Everyone knows what a policeman or an accountant does. My father was a butcher; even vegetarians knew what he did. But, being an artist is different. Unless you are an artist yourself, you can never know how  different.

When I was a kid, I drew a lot. When the other neighborhood kids were out playing, I’d be in the house drawing. My older (and way more athletic) brother would often question my mother about my behavior, but still I’d draw. I’d doodle the inhabitants of worlds that existed in my mind. I’d create characters and illustrate their adventures in elaborate, multi-paneled comics drawn on any spare blank piece of paper I could get my hands on. I decorated my side of my shared bedroom with my drawings as a strange dichotomy to the sports pennants that graced my brother’s allotted space.

I was an average student in school, excelling only in areas that allowed me to express my artistic prowess. Assignments requiring me to create some sort of poster were my specialty. My classmates were amused by the little scribbles I’d pass around just out of the realm of the teacher’s gaze. As my schooling progressed, I began to consider my future plans and options of employment. By high school, most of the teachers of my academic subjects, exasperated by my disruptive and borderline-rude behavior, tossed me out of their classrooms. I gravitated to the art department where I felt comfortable, though not always welcome. As a senior, I had one art instructor who was not much older that I was. She was a sort of mentor to me. One day, without my permission, she submitted a drawing of mine to a local student art show. When I found out, I was furious, as I was not into any type of competition. When she handed me the “Third Place” medal that my piece had won, I was still a bit annoyed, but secretly pleased with my accomplishment. And when she told me that I showed endlessly more talent than she ever did, I was bewildered. I also decided, much to the chagrin of my parents, that I would pursue a career as a professional artist.

Despite little support or encouragement from my parents, I enrolled in a small, but reputable art school in Philadelphia. Offering no academic courses in favor of a full palette of all aspects of art study, it was a difficult curriculum. But the teachers were seasoned professionals in the commercial art field and I learned a lot. I received in-depth instruction and (mostly) constructive criticism from fellow artists whom I viewed as peers. Four years later, with my Associates Degree and honed portfolio, I felt I was prepared to face the worst that the working world could dish out. The deceptively optimistic scenarios depicted by my teachers left me with little idea as to how bad it really would be.

I eagerly began my career as a professional artist as the art director for a chain of popular ice cream parlors. I was responsible for producing the advertising, store signage and material connected with promotion and marketing of the business. For a first job, right out of school, I thought it couldn’t get better or more fun than ice cream. Well, the gentleman who owned the company was the sleaziest, slimiest, shiftiest asshole I had ever met (at least up to that point in my life). He often told me he wished he had more time to teach me from his vast experience of advertising, composition, color theory and general artistic knowledge. The only things that this jerk-off could teach me were smoking, gambling and adultery. He knew how to make chalky-tasting ice cream and that was the extent of his talent. Another executive who felt it was within the boundaries of his expertise to offer me his career guidance was the company’s general counsel. Protecting an ice cream company’s legal interests and rights would seem the ideal background with which to critique my creative and artistic output.

And so began my lifelong battle with bureaucratic decision-makers whose latent artistic tendencies were hindered only by their complete lack of talent. For twenty-five years, I have been hired by organizations that were impressed by my imaginative illustrations, my unique eye for design and my keen wit, only to have those same people belittle and vilify my work out of frustration over their own creative inadequacies. I have been subjected to the artistic judgment of accountants, lawyers, computer geeks, carpet salesmen and one VP who — I swear to God — was stoned every second of the day. The so-called “powers-that-be” are less concerned with producing a quality piece of work than they are with arrogantly showing that they have the last word. I have been told, after hours of “higher-ups” poring over an ad crammed with arrows and bursts and bold type and hundreds of products, to change a small block of background color from red to yellow. I have been asked to “make this bigger, but not too big”. I have changed and changed back and changed again, only to have the final decision revert back to the original incarnation. Logos made large, pictures made small, logos made small, pictures made large — I’ve heard it all!

In the eyes of those outside of the creative field, this is the easiest job in the world. I fool around on the computer all day, for Christ’s sake!  I draw funny pictures with pencils and markers. Kindergarten kids do that! That’s not a job!  That’s not work! I have witnessed some colleagues being told that an eight-year-old who is “pretty good” on the computer could do this job.

Conversely, artists are rarely critical of each other. I think we all agree that art is totally objective. Who’s to say what is good and what is bad. It’s all just different and that’s what makes it all good. My friend Matt is a phenomenal artist. When I see his illustrations, I want to toss my pens and sketchbook in the trash and take up a more respectable trade like plumbing. Then, I’m taken aback when he lavishes praise on a drawing of mine that I would consider sub-par. We tend to be harsher critics of our own works than the works of others. If the perspective is out of kilter in my drawing or I mess up the rendering of a hand or foot, the mistake is amplified, if only in my eyes. I do, however, resent when I am cut down by someone who doesn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.

I consider myself lucky. Of the 42 students who graduated with me from art school in 1984, I am one of but a handful who continued to follow their dream. A recent reunion revealed that many opted for non-art-related fields as diverse as nursing and home-construction. I plugged along and have managed to maintain an unwavering run in my chosen profession for over twenty-five years. I openly admit that I have voiced my share of un – or under – appreciated opinions, but I felt I was standing up for my convictions. I know that I will never be Picasso or DaVinci, nor do I want to be. I know that I am not smart enough to be a nuclear physicist nor do I pretend to be. I just want to be an artist and do my job. Now, get the fuck off my back.

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from my sketchbook: ernie kovacs

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Nothing In Moderation
Ernie Kovacs’ influence can still be seen. Groundbreaking shows like Laugh-In, Monty Python, Saturday Night Live — even Captain Kangaroo  and Sesame Street  owe a large debt to the pioneering techniques of this comedic wizard.

From his humble beginnings as a disc jockey, Ernie landed his own early morning show on Philadelphia NBC-affiliate WPTZ (now KYW). The program, Three to Get Ready, was a blank canvas for Ernie’s creativity. Employing a variety of camera tricks and stage settings, Ernie developed a rapid-fire repertoire of skits, pantomimes and visual illusions for, basically, his own amusement. He figured no one would be watching at the pre-dawn hour at which his show was broadcast. Much to the surprise of both Ernie and the network, the format was a hit. Ironically, it led to the cancellation of Ernie’s show in favor of a network-wide morning show called Today.

While at WPTZ, Ernie created and honed his menagerie of characters including intellectual Percy Dovetonsils, German disc jockey Wolfgang von Sauerbraten, horror show host Auntie Gruesome and bumbling magician Matzoh Heppelwhite. A series of popular monthly specials made way for Ernie’s own show in the 1950s and a twice-a-week stint filling in for Steve Allen as host of The Tonight Show. The biggest stars of the day lined up to appear and perform with Ernie. When he introduced the musical comedy group The Nairobi Trio on this show, it was made up of Ernie as conductor, Ernie’s wife Edie Adams, and close friend, Academy Award winning actor Jack Lemmon, all hidden behind rubber ape masks.

After his seven year marriage to Bette Wilcox ended, he was awarded custody of their two daughters, due to Bette’s unstable mental health. Bette kidnapped the girls, but after a long search and with the help of girlfriend Edie Adams, he regained custody. Ernie and Edie were married in Mexico in a ceremony performed entirely in Spanish, a language that neither one of the couple spoke.

Ernie and Edie appeared together on the last episode of I Love Lucy. It was the last time Desi Arnaz and Lucille Ball appeared together and they barely spoke between takes.

Ernie had brief success in movies, with roles in  Wake Me When It’s Over  and the Richard Quine-directed  Operation Mad Ball and Bell Book and Candle.

In January 1962, Ernie met his wife at a party hosted by Milton Berle. Ernie left in his own car and drove through a heavy southern California rainstorm. While distracted, possibly to light a cigar, Ernie lost control of his car and crashed into a utility pole. He was thrown halfway out of the passenger side of the car and died instantly from head and chest injuries. When Edie learned of the crash, she frantically called the police. When she identified herself, she heard a voice, muffled by a hand over the telephone receiver, say, “It’s Mrs. Kovacs. He’s on his way to the coroner — what should I tell her?” Jack Lemmon identified Ernie’s body at the morgue when Edie was too distraught to do it.

At the time of his death, Ernie was negotiating for the role of Melville Crump in Stanley Kramer’s It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, with Edie playing his wife. Sid Caesar took the part in the finished film.

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from my sketchbook: iva toguri

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good evening mister and missus america and all the ships at sea
Tokyo Rose didn’t exist.

The name “Tokyo Rose” was a catch-all  for a collective of women whose voices were heard on Radio Tokyo’s “Zero Hour” broadcasts during World War Two. These were radios shows presented specifically for US servicemen. They featured popular American swing and big-band music and brief comedy and chit-chat mixed with non-political news. The treasonous stigma that became attached to “Tokyo Rose” was pinned, unjustly, on Iva Toguri.

Iva Toguri was born in Los Angeles, California on Independence Day 1916. In her pursuit of a career in medicine, she attended and graduated from UCLA with a degree in zoology. One day after her 22 birthday, Iva sailed from Los Angeles to Japan to further her studies and to care for a sick aunt. She left without a passport and was issued a “Certificate of Identification” by the US State Department. While in Japan, she contacted the US Consul and applied for a passport, but the process was interrupted when Pearl Harbor was attacked later in the year and the US went to war with Japan. Iva, an American citizen now stranded in Japan, remained voluntarily for the duration of the war. She enrolled in Japanese language classes and landed a job as a typist for Radio Tokyo. She was pressured by the Tojo-controlled Japanese government to renounce her American citizenship. She repeatedly refused.

In November 1943, Allied POWs forced to broadcast propaganda selected her to host portions “Zero Hour.” Her producer was an Australian Army officer with previous radio experience. Iva knew some other POWs from the times she smuggled food and blankets into camps. Although she refused to broadcast anti-American propaganda, Iva, using the on-air name “Orphan Ann” (Orphan because of her stranded status and Ann being short for “announcer”), was regularly featured on weekday installments of “Zero Hour”. Scripts for her show never featured any anti-American propaganda. Army analysis suggested that the programs had no negative effect on troop morale and that it might even have raised it a bit. She used some of her $7 per month salary to continue to smuggle food to POWs.

After the war, the several press sources identified Iva as “Tokyo Rose” and the US Army had her arrested. An investigation followed and Iva was released for lack of concrete evidence. Once again, Iva applied for a passport and a campaign, led by broadcaster Walter Winchell, demanded that Iva be considered a traitor be arrested and tried.

Iva appeared before the Department of Justice in what would become the most expensive trial in US history to date. A parade of witnesses offered testimony after perjured testimony, including several who were coached by reporter Harry Brundidge, a zealot of questionable morals. Although Brundidge steered clear of the proceedings, his indelible witch-hunting mark was prevalent throughout. Many of the defense’s witnesses were denied appearances and hundreds of hours of actual recordings of Iva’s broadcasts were never presented. On September 29, 1949, the jury found her guilty on one count of treason. The jury ruled that: “…on a day during October, 1944, the exact date being to the Grand Jurors unknown, said defendant, at Tokyo, Japan, in a broadcasting studio of the Broadcasting Corporation of Japan, did speak into a microphone concerning the loss of ships.”  This verdict was based on several fabricated stories and recorded speeches whose announcer was never identified. Iva was sentenced to ten years imprisonment and fined $10,000.

In January 1956, Iva was released from a federal prison, where she had served a little over six years of her sentence. In 1977, on his last full day in office, President Gerald Ford granted her a full and unconditional pardon. Iva passed away in 2006 at the age of 90.

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IF: giant

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This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “giant”.
We're bored to tears until he comes/And then we're crying cause he's come

Robert Wadlow was a relatively normal eight pounds six ounces at his birth in 1918, however an overactive pituitary gland would soon change the course of his life.

By eighteen months, Robert weighed sixty-two pounds and by the age of eight, he was 6 feet 2 inches tall. By eighteen, Robert was 8 feet 4 inches tall. His clothes required three times the amount of material as those worn by his peers. He found it difficult to find comfortable shoes and needed them custom-made for one hundred dollars per pair – a huge amount of money in the early part of the twentieth century.

When he turned 20, Robert signed a contract with the International Shoe Company. In exchange for a lifetime of free footwear, Robert would travel the country promoting the company and their products. He, along with his father, visited 41 states and his quiet and friendly demeanor earned him the nickname “The Gentle Giant”.  Robert’s father needed to modify a car, removing the front passenger seat, so Robert could sit in the back seat and stretch out his long legs. Although he required leg braces to walk, and had little feeling in his legs and feet, Robert was always cheerful and delighted to meet so many people.

During a July 4 appearance at a National Forest Festival, an ill-fitting leg brace caused an irritation and subsequent infection on Robert’s leg. He was confined to a hotel bed while doctors worked frantically to lower his fever and treat his ailment. Despite a blood transfusion and emergency surgery, Robert died in his sleep on July 15, 1940 at the age of 22. He had reached a height of 8 feet 11.1 inches.

Approximately 40,000 people attended Robert’s funeral. He was buried in a half-ton coffin that required twelve pallbearers to carry. It was interred in a vault made of solid concrete, as Robert’s family were concerned that his remains would be the target of grave-robbers with exploitative plans. His family also destroyed most of his belongings to deter memorabilia-seeking collectors.

Robert was the tallest person who ever lived and one of only eleven people who ever reached a height of over eight feet. He has been honored and memorialized with life-size statues at Southern Illinois University School of Dental Medicine and six Ripley’s Believe it or Not  Museums throughout the world.

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DCS: richard quine

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Now he's gone, I don't know why'And till this day, sometimes I cry/He didn't even say goodbye/He didn't take the time to lie.
After making his Broadway debut in 1939, Richard Quine was a hit in the play My Sister Eileen and made a handful of motion pictures before entering the Coast Guard in World War Two.

After his discharge from the service, he married Susan Peters, a promising young actress. Fresh off her Academy Award nominated performance in 1942’s Random Harvest, the couple vacationed in Southern California on a hunting trip with Richard’s cousin. During the trip, a .22 caliber rifle accidentally discharged as Susan picked it up. The bullet lodged in her spine, rendering her paralyzed from the waist down. The accident essentially ended her acting career, as she appeared in one more film, The Sign of The Ram in 1948, playing the paranoid wheelchair-bound matriarch of a family, and brief soap opera in the early 50s. The couple adopted a son in 1946, but divorced soon after. Susan passed away from complications of anorexia in 1952. After the divorce, Richard was romantically linked to actresses Judy Holiday and Natalie Wood, but he repeatedly lamented, “I will always hear that shot.”

After the war, Richard embarked on a career as a director and became quite successful. He helmed mostly light romance and screwball comedies, although he often campaigned for projects with deeper substance. His most popular films were The Solid Gold Cadillac, Operation Mad Ball  and a remake of My Sister Eileen.

In the early 1950s, Columbia Pictures president Harry Cohn gave Richard the task of turning the pretty former Thor-refrigerators spokesgirl Kim Novak into a star. He cast Novak in a cheap redo of Double Indemnity  called Pushover. Richard became infatuated by the mysterious Novak. He not only featured her in several more of his movies, the two were engaged to be married. Columbia Pictures built a house in Malibu Beach. The house would be used as a set for Richard’s upcoming movie, Strangers When We Meet, and, after filming, it would be a wedding gift for the new bride and groom. However, the marriage never materialized.

Richard was married three more times, including twenty-four years to actress-singer-Playboy model Fran Jeffries. Fran was featured in 1964’s Sex and The Single Girl  in which she sang the hit title song and a year later she appeared opposite Elvis Presley in Harum Scarum.

Richard remained an active director throughout the 70’s. He directed Peter Sellers’ last film and directed some episodic television. But, amid failing health, depression and a career-long creative battle with movie studios, Richard took his own life by gunshot in 1989.

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from my sketchbook: veronica lake

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Get out of here and get me some money too
Pushed into acting as a teenager, Veronica Lake, the former Connie Ockelman, picked up some early roles which led to a contract at Paramount Pictures in 1941. Veronica’s roles became bigger and eventually she starred in a string of hits including Sullivan’s Travels, This Gun for Hire, The Glass Key,  and So Proudly We Hail!   Her most popular film, I Married a Witch,  became the basis for the TV sitcom Bewitched  twenty-two years later. Veronica became the number one female box-office draw and enchanted audiences worldwide with her mysterious good looks coyly hidden behind a lock of golden blond hair that perpetually hung over her right eye. Women everywhere began copying Veronica’s iconic style. Although attractive, the hairstyle was causing problems in factories as women, helping out in the war effort, were getting their hair caught in machinery. She was asked to change her hairstyle and make public service messages requesting extra care be taken to insure a safe working environment.

She found steady work with Alan Ladd, since his short stature of just over five feet made it difficult to find compatible actresses with which to work. Veronica, at four-foot-eleven inches, was a perfect match and they made four films together. However, Veronica gained to the reputation of being a diva on the set and most co-stars found her impossible to work with.

In the mid-1940s, the events in Veronica’s life began to turn. Her second child died within days of birth, several of her films received poor reviews, her peers refused to work with her and she began to drink heavily. Paramount decided not to renew her contract in 1948.

A fickle public caused her popularity to dwindle and by the early 1950s Veronica had made two films — Slattery’s Hurricane and Stronghold— both forgettable. The IRS seized a portion of her assets for past unpaid taxes. After breaking her ankle in 1959, Veronica was unable to continue working as an actress. She drifted between cheap hotels in New York City and was arrested several times for public drunkenness and disorderly conduct. A New York Post reporter found her working as a barmaid at an all-women’s hotel in Manhattan. At first, Veronica claimed that she was a guest at the hotel and covering for a friend, although she finally admitted that she was an employee. She filmed one last movie, Flesh Feast, a low-budget horror film with a convoluted Nazi theme. Although filmed in 1967, it was not released until 1970.

Despite her physical and mental health declining steadily, Veronica published her autobiography in 1972, followed by a promotional appearance on Dick Cavett’s talk show. She divorced husband number four in 1973. Shortly afterwards, a greatly debilitated Veronica was admitted to the hospital. In July 1973, she passed away at the age of fifty from acute renal failure, complicated by alcoholism.

The character of Jessica Rabbit in 1988’s Who Framed Roger Rabbit?  was patterned after Veronica Lake.

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DCS: linda lovelace and marilyn chambers

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my blood runs cold/my memory has just been sold
Because of her straight-laced upbringing, Linda Boreman earned herself the nickname “Miss Holy Holy” at her strict Catholic high school. Later, in the “free love” times of the 1960s, Linda gave birth to a son. Her mother insisted the boy be given up for adoption to spare humiliation and preserve the family’s good name. Soon after that, Linda was involved in a car crash that almost claimed her life. It would be the cause of a lifetime of health problems.

While recuperating from the accident at her parents’ home in Florida, Linda became involved with Chuck Traynor, a controlling and manipulative sleazebag twelve years her senior. Traynor threatened and beat the impressionable Linda into having sex with strangers and performing in pornographic “loop reels” for his own financial gain and pleasure. Using a loaded M-16 rifle aimed at her head as persuasion, Traynor forced Linda to make the infamous pornographic short film Dog Fucker  in 1971. In 1972, on a budget of around $22,500, Traynor (acting as production manager) and his rifle, “insisted” that Linda, using the name “Linda Lovelace,” participate in Deep Throat. The film was shot over a period of six days in a hotel in Miami, Florida. During the filming, Linda was subjected to regular beatings at the hands of Traynor. Bruises are noticeable on Linda’s legs in various scenes of Deep Throat.

Upon its release, Deep Throat  surprisingly acquired a mainstream audience and became a huge hit among the art film world, with supporters like Jack Nicholson, Johnny Carson and Barbara Walters. Linda was paid $1200 for her work, all of which Traynor took. In 1974, Linda left Traynor and became a fervent anti-pornography advocate. She claimed that she had not consented to any sex act depicted in the film and did so under threats from Traynor.

Linda contracted hepatitis from a blood transfusion after her car accident and received a liver transplant in 1987. In April 2002, Linda was involved in another car accident in which she sustained massive head trauma. After nineteen days in a coma, Linda was taken off life support and died at age 53.

—

Marilyn Ann Briggs aspired to be a model. At 16, she often forged her mother’s signature to get out of school to attend auditions. She was given several modeling jobs and even got a small role in the Barbra Streisand film, The Owl and The Pussycat, using the name Evelyn Lang. Biding her time as a Los Angeles topless dancer, Marilyn’s big break came when she landed a modeling job as a young mother fawning over her baby on the box of Procter & Gamble’s Ivory Snow detergent. Filled with confidence, she answered an ad for a casting call and but expressed disinterest when she discovered it was for a pornographic film. The film’s producers, the notorious adult film pioneers The Mitchell Brothers, noted her resemblance to popular actress Cybill Shepherd. Flattered, she told the Mitchells that she was “The Ivory Snow Girl” and they flipped, realizing the marketing potential. They told her that the film they had in mind for her would “sell a hell of a lot of soap for Procter & Gamble.” She negotiated the terms of her own contract to appear in the film — $25,000 salary, plus a percentage of the profits. When the low-budget film, 1972’s Behind the Green Door, ended up earning fifty million dollars, it proved to be a shrewd forethought for 19 year-old Marilyn. Of course, Procter & Gamble dropped her as their product representative, although the famous Ivory Snow box subtly appeared in nearly every one of Marilyn’s films.

Behind the Green Door was a ground-breaking achievement in the world of X-rated films. It was the first feature-length pornographic film to feature an interracial couple. It caused a huge uproar, even among the adult film industry. Additionally, it made Marilyn Chambers (the former Marilyn Ann Briggs) a star, even though she spoke no lines of dialogue. She went on to star in thirty more films over the next four decades, sometimes crossing over into non-adult, mainstream movies working with directors such as horror wiz David Cronenberg. Not fully satisfied with her career in acting, the ever-ambitious Marilyn pursued a brief venture into singing, recording a disco hit in 1976, and later entered the political arena by running for vice-president in 2004 on the Personal Choice Party ticket, supporting presidential candidate Charles Jay.

Marilyn was married three times, including eleven years to Svengali-like Chuck Traynor, who served as her manager until their divorce in 1985.

On April 12, 2009, Marilyn’s daughter, 17 year-old McKenna, came home to find her mother dead. She had succumbed to a cerebral hemorrhage and aneurysm at the age of 56.

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DCS: johnny stompanato

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Nobody knows where my Johnny has gone
In 1958, Lana Turner was between husband number five and husband number six when she entered into a torrid and volatile relationship with Johnny Stompanato. Johnny was the bodyguard for notorious gangster Mickey Cohen. Lana didn’t care about Johnny’s connections. She was content with his dark good looks and expertise as a lover. So, he had a temper and he was possessive. Lana took the good with the bad.

Lana’s teenage daughter, Cheryl Crane, was leery of Johnny. Although she never actually saw Johnny hit her mother, Cheryl was aware of the welts and bruises Lana often displayed. Cheryl threatened to expose Johnny’s ways to her father (Lana’s second husband, international restaurateur Joseph Crane). Lana pleaded to keep the beatings a secret and Cheryl reluctantly complied.

One night in April 1958, Lana and Johnny were having a particularly heated argument behind the closed door of Lana’s Beverly Hills bedroom. Cheryl heard the yelling through the walls of her own room. She became worried for her mother’s well-being. An anxious Cheryl hurried downstairs searching for something to use to defend herself and her mother. She grabbed the first thing she saw in the kitchen — a large knife.

Cheryl returned to the second floor and stood outside her mother’s bedroom, knife poised in her hand. Suddenly, the door flew open and Johnny, still screaming, stormed out of the room. He was still facing the interior of the room as he exited and walked right into waiting knife blade. Johnny fell to the floor dead.

Lana Turner’s testimony at the subsequent trial was believed by many to have been the greatest acting performance. Cheryl took full responsibility for the stabbing, although she claimed self-defense. Public opinion was that Cheryl was taking the fall for her mother, knowing that, as a minor, she would serve a sentence that would be far less severe. Cheryl, found guilty of justifiable homicide, was ordered by the court to spend two years in a facility as a ward of the state. A facility from which she escaped after a year.

In her 1988 autobiography, in addition to coming out as a lesbian and revealing that, as a child, she had been repeatedly molested by Lana Turner’s fourth husband actor Lex Barker, Cheryl Crane again confirmed the true story of Johnny Stompanato’s death.

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IF: paisley

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The current Illustration Friday challenge word is “paisley”.

Yes sir, Mr. Paisley!
Gerome Ragni performed in several small theatre productions until he collaborated with fellow actor James Rado on the first Broadway musical to celebrate hippie culture — Hair. Hair  was unlike anything that was previously presented on the Great White Way. Audiences were assaulted and enraptured by free-form dancing, strange and wild staging, offbeat and topical rock songs, psychedelic and paisley-patterned costumes and nudity for nudity’s sake. It opened on April 29, 1968 and ran for 1750 performances. Gerome Ragni played the lead role of counter-culture tribe leader Berger.

When I was seven years-old, I discovered the original Broadway cast recording of Hair  in a stack of records at my Aunt Claire’s house. I popped the disk onto the turntable of her hi-fi and dropped the needle. I was hooked. I played that record over and over and over again. I dragged that record out on every visit to my aunt’s house. I finally bought the record myself and repeated the ritual at my own house. I knew every word to every song. I knew the dirty song lyrics, too, even if I didn’t know their meaning. I sang along when The Fifth Dimensions’ version of “Aquarius” or The Cowsills’ take on “Hair” came on the radio, and I pointed out when they altered the lyrics slightly from the original. In 1969, the touring company of Hair  came to the Schubert Theater (now the Merriam) in Philadelphia. My mom allowed me to skip third grade for a day and took me to a matinee performance. As we walked up Broad Street toward the theater, we noticed a commotion outside. A dozen or so people — men and women — were marching in a circle on the sidewalk in front of the theater’s entrance. They held signs and chanted, trying to discourage people from seeing the show. With tickets firmly in one hand and my  little hand firmly in the other, my mom cut through the line of protesters. One stern-looking woman yelled at my mother, “How dare  you take that young child in to see this smut!”  My mother shot back, “Have you seen it?” “Oh my goodness! NO!”, the woman protester replied, outraged at my mother’s insinuation. “Well, after I see it, I’ll let you know how it is.”, my mother called back over her shoulder, as she and I walked through the theater doors. I stuck my tongue out at the lady as the door shut behind me.

The Broadway production of Hair  was a traumatic experience for Gerome Ragni. The show’s immediate popularity made him very wealthy very quickly and he had a difficult time dealing with the instant fame. His marriage broke up and he disappeared from mainstream society. He joined a religious cult and contributed money to the Black Panther Party and Yippie causes. His belabored follow-up to Hair, a show called Dude, opened on Broadway in 1972 and closed after sixteen performances. Gerome was working on a new musical when he passed away in 1991 at the age of 55.

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