Chapter Nineteen
As a child I had imagined, erroneously, that Tin Pan Alley was a physical alley next to the Brill Building. Both were symbols of music publishing in the twentieth century, which is probably why so many people think, erroneously, that Gerry and I wrote in the Brill Building. But we didn’t. The Brill Building was at 1619 Broadway. The building that housed Aldon Music was 1650 Broadway. With a logic peculiar to Manhattan, the entrance to 1650 Broadway was on West 51st Street. (New York Real Estate 101: why use a street address when you can charge higher rent with a Broadway address?)
At first, when we drove to Aldon from Brooklyn, we parked in the outdoor parking lot across the street. We had to find another location when the one-story lot became a twenty-two-story Sheraton hotel. (New York Real Estate 102: why maintain a business on one level when you can make so much more money renting space on twenty-two floors?)
Crossing the street we invariably passed a man whom local vendors called “Larry Sick-Sick.” Homeless and mentally ill, Larry was never far from the entrance to 1650. We never knew his last name, and someone other than he must have told us his first name, because we never heard him utter anything but the one word he hissed repeatedly whenever anyone walked by: “Sick-sick-sick-sick-sick-sick-sick!”
Another local character was Moondog, an imposing figure often seen outside the Warwick Hotel on Sixth Avenue and 54th Street. Sometimes he stood on the corner of Broadway and 51st Street. His form of mental illness compelled him to stand on a corner in the same upright position all day. He wore a blanket and big leather boots and held a long wooden staff. I never heard Moondog speak. In fact, I never saw him do anything other than stand upright with his long wooden staff through rain, snow, sleet, heat, and fine weather. Though I never saw Larry or Moondog soliciting money or food, some kindly souls must have made sure they had enough to eat. To most passersby, including young and naïve me, Moondog and Larry Sick-Sick were two among many odd citizens among the eight million residents of the Big Apple.
Aldon Music has been described as boot camp for songwriters. That it was. And yes, we did write in cubicles. The cubicles were the source of the cacophony I’d heard when I first visited the office. Each was barely big enough to contain an upright piano with a bench, a chair for the lyricist, and a small table with enough room for a legal pad, a pen, an ashtray, and a coffee cup. The proximity of each cubicle to the next added an “echo” factor. While I was playing the song on which Gerry and I were working, we heard only our song. As soon as I stopped playing we could hear the song on which the team in the next cubicle was working. Not surprisingly, with each of us trying to write the follow-up to an artist’s current hit, everyone’s song sounded similar to everyone else’s. But only one would be chosen. Inevitably the insecurity of the writers and the competitive atmosphere fostered by Donnie spurred each team on to greater effort, which resulted in better songs. It wasn’t only about writing a great song; it was about winning.
Though Gerry and I typically wrote together at home after dinner, sometimes he’d call in sick to his day job and we’d write in a cubicle while the secretaries fussed over Louise. Gerry, in particular, thrived on being where the action was. I didn’t realize at the time that we were the action. By “we,” I mean the Aldon songwriters. I don’t believe any of us knew then how much influence we would have on popular music.
Vital to that influence were the musicians and background singers who performed on our demos. One night we were listening to a playback when Gerry happened to mention that we were looking for female background singers. The engineer suggested three young black women from Brooklyn known collectively as the Cookies. Dorothy Jones, Margaret Ross, and Earl-Jean McCree had a near-perfect vocal blend. After a number of our demos became masters and then hits, the Cookies were heard around the world. Among their hits were “Girls Grow Up Faster Than Boys,”“Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad About My Baby,” and, most famously, “Chains.” Other records featuring Tony Orlando and Neil Sedaka on which the Cookies sang also became hits. Sometimes they were in the studio with Aldon writers from midmorning to the wee hours.
One night Gerry, Dorothy, Margaret, Earl-Jean, and I emerged from a demo session at 3 a.m. onto an almost deserted Broadway. Apart from a few hookers and johns, we seemed to be the only people around. While the Cookies and I waited for Gerry to get the car, we were approached by several different vehicles containing men inquiring about everything from a single to a five- or six-some. Thankfully, Gerry pulled up and whisked us all back to Brooklyn, leaving the potential johns to wonder what he had that they didn’t.
What he had was a wife and a baby daughter to support. He also had a mother-in-law who lived too far away to babysit on a moment’s notice. My participation in late-night demo sessions was possible only when Grandma Sarah, who lived nearby, could watch Louise. My grandmother couldn’t understand how anyone could earn a living writing songs that appealed to teenagers, but that’s exactly what Gerry and I were doing. Though now in his twenties, Gerry hadn’t forgotten which three-letter word was foremost in the mind of every teen. It was s-e-x that kids thought about when they listened to lyrics about hearts full of love, hearts breaking, lovers longing, youth yearning, cars, stars, the moon, the sun, and that most innocent of all physical pastimes: dancing.
We wouldn’t write a song about dancing until the following year, but sex was definitely the implied third character in our first big hit.