"There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky," rhapsodized arch-romantic Percy Shelley; but Wisconsin coed Bo Bussmann, the football-togged damsel gracing our cover, signifies another season of mayhem on collegiate athletic fields. (The well-rounded Miss Bussmann also helps display our back-to-campus attire shown elsewhere in this issue.) Playboy's Pigskin Preview, our annual crystal-balling, compiled for the tenth time by staffer Anson Mount, who last year topped all other football forecasters in accuracy by correctly picking 14 of the nation's top 20 elevens (according to the Wyatt Summary of Pre-Season Pigskin Picks, which honored him with an appropriate plaque), provides a perfect prelude to the carnage.
Playboy, September, 1967, Vol. 14, No. 9, Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Co., Inc., Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the U. S., its possessions, The Pan American Union and Canada, $20 for three years, $16 for two years, $8 for one year. Elsewhere add $4.60 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Playboy building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Associate Advertising Manager, 405 Park Ave., New York, New York 10022, MU 8-3030; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, MI 2-1000. Detroit, Joseph Guenther, Manager, 2990 West Grand Boulevard, TR 5-7250; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard, OL 2-8790; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street, YU 2-7994; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
Though the recollection of immortal moments in film history--such as the scene in To Have and Have Not where Bacall tells Bogart, "If you want anything, just whistle"--has long been a favorite parlor game for movie buffs, the great treasure-trove of dramatic moments in Hollywood's lesser-known productions has, for some reason, been virtually untapped. A list of deathless--and lifeless--lines that have escaped critical notice, we feel, might well include such poignant pronouncements on l'amour as Johnny Sheffield's down-to-earth description of the eternal triangle in The Lost Volcano (1950): "Bomba like David--Nona like David--Bomba like Nona"; Patricia Livingston's poetic evocation to Audie Murphy, of Cupid's bull's-eye shot in The Guns of Fort Petticoat (1957): "When I saw you come riding in, it was like a dam busting inside me"; Robert Clarke's pulse-pounding discovery that his lady employer in Secret File--Hollywood (1962) is all woman: "I knew there was more than ice behind those glasses--if I could ever catch you with them off"; and John Eldridge's rueful reflection, addressed to Bette Davis in Dangerous (1935): "I'm a bookkeeper now, Joyce, in the company that I used to own. The worst of it is that I can't hate you." A classic revelation of the creative moment is Gene Raymond's composition of an instant hit in Flying Down to Rio (1933): "She's like an orchid--and there's the moonlight--Orchids in the Moonlight!" The irrationality of human prejudice is crystallized in Stuart Randall's mordant exclamation to Robert Clarke in Captive Women (1952): "The only good mutate is a dead one!" Man's helplessness--syntactically as well as emotionally--before the unknown is eloquently exemplified by the police commissioner's ominous announcement in Konga (1961): "There's a huge monster that's constantly growing to outlandish proportions loose in the streets!" An admirable example of imperturbability, on the other hand, is provided by a delivery boy matter-of-factly checking an order with a nurse in Attack of the 50 Ft. Woman (1958): "Meat hooks--fifty feet of chain--an elephant syringe." Appropriate at this point, we feel, would be Tony Curtis' insightful observation in Son of Ali Baba (1952), spoken in pure Bronxese: "I sense an evil hand has wrought this chain of circumstances"; and William Harrigan's Jovian indictment of Claude Rains' transparent transgressions in Invisible Man (1933): "He meddled in things men should leave alone"--a line we wish we'd heard before we compiled this list.
Edmund Wilson is one of the last aristocratic radicals. His radicalism is based on a dedication to stable values, a firm sense of personal character and the old-fashioned virtues of intellectual curiosity and discipline, clarity and conviction. His literary criticism, far from exhibiting the glib formulas of the popularizers or the esoteric trivialities of the academics, reflects both sound scholarship and humane insight. Yet his journal of his early years is somewhat stuffy and stiff-necked--as if those high starched collars had kept him from losing his head. To adopt the prevailing tone of A Prelude (Farrar, Straus & Giroux), Wilson was rather a solemn youth. His entries consist largely of sepia family portraits, callow bons mots, pretentious exercises in landscape writing, soberly earnest reflections on literature, and the tedious pomp and banal circumstance of school life. Fortunately, he admits, "my notations were scrappy, and I have had to fill them in with something in the nature of reminiscences," and these passages are by far the best part of the volume. But Wilson has a lucid, steady, armchair mind suited to criticism rather than to creativity--a point well illustrated by the companion volume, which reprints Galahad (a story about the sexual timidity of a boy in a puritanical prep school, unfortunately much funnier than Wilson intends) and I Thought of Daisy (a novel of Greenwich Village in the Twenties, rigidly "literary" and as dated as an antimacassar). Yet the book also reveals how Wilson, in post--World War One America, the social aristocracy gone, moved so easily into the aristocracy of the intellect, keeping pace with life by discarding his insularities and prejudices, yet linking, as the best critics do, the radical insights of the new to the enduring values of the old.
When San Franciscans go out of town for dinner, they usually take the Golden Gate Bridge to one of the Sausalito restaurants where it is possible to dine while gazing back across the water at the city. Le Vivoir (156 Bulkley Avenue) is a French restaurant in a 100-year-old house that hangs on the downside of a Sausalito hill and looks not at San Francisco but at a yacht-studded harbor. Yet Le Vivoir (the living room) is a spot everyone can imagine he discovered for himself. The chef speaks no English, refuses to leave the kitchen and is a woman. She is Marie-Louise. Her husband, Robert, is the maitre de; her daughter, an attractive young brunette, Marie-France, is the hostess and general talker of English to non-Gallic parties. A son and a grandmother are also involved. Robert is from Le Perreux on the outskirts of Paris. Because they are not yet American citizens, they cannot get a liquor license. For that martini or Scotch before dinner, it is simple enough to try the bar at the Alta Mira Hotel and then cross over to the downside of the street for dinner at Le Vivoir. The house has an extraordinary wine list. It favors the Bordeaux wines; but, more important, it is possible to order the fine California wines, such as the Beaulieu Cabernet Sauvignon Private Reserve 1961, that are rarely seen on local retailers' shelves. Duck with an olive sauce (Canard de l'Esterel), at $15 for two, is the pride of the house. This same duck can be served with a cherry sauce, for those who prefer baser canards. The menu is filled with the expected French dishes--Coquille St. Jacques, Escargots de Bourgogne, Les Pigeons de Berville and Coqau Vin--all handled extremely well. The Medaillon Bergerac, slices of fine beef served in a rare sauce, is a splendid dish. The atmosphere lifts Le Vivoir beyond that of just another fine French restaurant. Le Vivoir is literally the living room of an old house; the library and entrance hall have become the lounge, where one may have an aperitif or champagne cocktail; the extensive porch areas have been enlarged for veranda dining on summer nights. The remaining floors of the old house have been turned into a typical French country inn by the owners. There are 14 immaculate rooms whose bed pillows are rolled French style; a provincial desk lists the credit cards accepted; and a sign, representing solid Gallic business practice, bears the words No Personal Checks Cashed. Dinner reservations are necessary for those who want a table near the window. A dinner for two, including wine, will run about $25 including tip. Open every day except Monday, from 6 P.M. Remember--when the distinguished-looking maitre de gives you the Continental greeting, he doesn't understand a word you're saying. If you're stuck with English, ask for Marie-France before you get into the fine demands of the evening's repast.
Still serving up bountiful batches of soul is the nonpareil Lou Rawls. This go-round, it's Too Much! (Capitol), which finds Lou doing some talking (monologs have now become a familiar part of the Rawls repertoire) but mostly singing. Among the high points are a pair of tunes by John Loudermilk--You're Takin' My Bag and Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye--and the lovely old I Wanna Little Girl.
As you've probably heard, Sean Connery is bored with playing James Bond. It is clear from the detachment of his performance in You Only Live Twice. Nor is Connery alone in his languor. Albert R. Broccoli and Harry Saltzman, those perfectly--if incredibly--named dishers-up of the Bond exploits, are beginning to run out of inventive ways to do what they do. Their present effort is somewhat lacking in the wit and verbal crunch of its predecessors and relies on larger, nuclear explosions. The bombs bursting in air burst very well, indeed, but interest flags when most of the action is in the careening of blasted bodies. As Playboy readers know, the topography this time is Japan's, and it is handsome, as are a couple of the Nipponese ladies with whom Bond tangles--Akiko Wakabayashi, who succumbs prettily to poison dripped down a string, and Mie Hama, the only bra-wearing lady pearl diver in Japan, who survives. (You saw a preview of them both in the June Playboy.) There are crisp scenes--a vividly photographed sumo wrestling match, a tour of supposed police training grounds, where the lads work out at judo, karate and kendo with impressive enthusiasm, and a splendid encounter between the newest supergadget--a minicopter called Little Nell--and The Forces of Evil. There is merit, too, in the eerie opening scene before the titles. But too much of the action focuses on aluminum tubes, underground laboratories and spacecraft--and all of them go bang-bang-bang at once in a scene far too reminiscent of Dr. No. The capable Donald Pleasence throws away a bit part as Blofeld by doing him in plastic scar and mad-scientist cackle. Even the serene source of Bond's international misdeeds has lost his cool. M is now disclosed many fathoms deep in Hong Kong harbor, clanging about in the bowels of a submarine marked M-1. Cute but bad form and hardly worthy of Her Majesty's Secret Service.
Recently, I saw the excellent film version of James Joyce's classic novel Ulysses and was puzzled by a phrase uttered by Molly during her soliloquy toward the end. Looking through her husband's wallet, she commented that she might find a "French letter." The implication was that this letter would be evidence of infidelity on Bloom's part, yet there was no other reference during the film to any possible cross-Channel correspondence. Can you enlighten me?--M. W., New York, New York.
As New Ski Spas continue to sprout throughout the French Alps, France this fall and winter promises to become the Continent's most cosmopolitan ski center. The Hôtel Du Mont-d'Arbois, located close by the slopes at Megève, exemplifies the affluent new wave of France's opulent Alpine accommodations. Offering guests outdoor swimming in a heated pool, the Mont-d'Arbois enhances its appeal with such appurtenances as a fully equipped gymnasium, skating rinks, a sauna room, a fine restaurant overlooking the ski runs and a cluster of chic boutiques representing the expensive entrepreneurs of Paris' famed Faubourg-St. Honoré. In addition to the droves of French demoiselles always in attendance, Megève also plays host to a swinging set of young Swiss and Italians, whose countries are less than a 45-minute drive away.
During his campaign for mayor of New York in the spring of 1965, John Vliet Lindsay often told audiences how he had boarded a New York--bound train in Washington and found himself in a car full of grim, unsmiling men with arms folded across their chests. "Who are they?" he asked the conductor. "They're patients going to an insane asylum," came the answer. "And where are you going?" "To New York to run for mayor," said the candidate. "Then," replied the conductor, "you stay right here." In the opinion of most political observers at the time, the conductor had a point. As far as they were concerned, the idealistic, Yale-educated young Congressman seemed to be courting almost certain defeat in pursuing a job that had won a richly deserved reputation as a graveyard for rising political hopefuls. As a Republican, he also had to face the fact that New York had not elected a member of his party since Fiorello La Guardia in the Thirties.
LSD had to happen in Hollywood sooner or later--and it has turned out to be right now. Audiences are getting their first look at a film version of an ultimate acidhead experience. The Trip, currently on view across America, is a series of cinematic psychedelicacies mirroring the ecstasies and aberrations of an LSD joy ride.
It was black friday, the 13th of August, 1965. Like millions of other dazed or complacent Angelenos, I was watching an unscheduled "spectacular," the damnedest television show ever put on the tube. Not long before, I had written an introduction for a new edition of The Day of the Locust, in which Nathanael West projects a Hollywood art director whose masterwork is an apocalyptic canvas entitled The Burning of Los Angeles. West's painter saw his vapid, vicious city consuming itself in angry flames. Here, on television, in prime time--in fact, around the clock for eight days that shook not only Los Angeles but the entire country--was Nathanael West's nightmare vision as if it had leaped from the canvas and was coming live from Watts.
The Bronzed, weather-beaten face smiled at me from the ad, teeth white and even; ice-blue eyes magnetic--those of a particularly alert, responsible eagle--surrounded by thin care lines from long hours of staring into the yawning sky. He wore a jaunty dark-blue cap slashed by broad golden wings, and looked directly at me, or rather through me, from the cockpit window of a sleek silver jet. The caption read:
In the Dog Days of late August, thousands of brawny young men wend their way back to campuses to begin three weeks of head knocking before the first kickoff. At the same time, millions of football fans begin combing sports pages for some hint of what the coming season's tribal warfare will bring. Will the good guys beat the bad guys again (or at last)? Will ignominious defeats at the hands of the arrogant enemy be avenged? The suspense grows until the first referee's whistle blows and the battle is joined. Then, every Saturday for three months, millions of rabid fans savor the sweet taste of victory or endure the humiliation of defeat at no physical risk to themselves and with immeasurable therapeutic value. At least, so goes the theory of some tower-bound (text continued on page 118) psychologists who have recently decided that football contributes greatly to the mass mental health of the American population. This fascinating thesis runs thusly: While modern man's intellect has enabled him to build a highly technical and civilized society, his body and emotions are best fitted for cave dwelling. Modern man smiles sweetly at his neighbor while he burns inside with restrained hostility and tension. Grandfather Piltdown went out and clubbed a sabertooth to death every now and then or he went charging off to ravage a neighboring tribe, thereby satisfying his combative instinct. Purged of his natural hostility, he could live between battles in sweet tranquility.
Testimony in the Proceedings Concerning Edward Darwin Caparell
Ken W. Purdy
Lucas Stiver: I always thought Ed was a real stable fellow, steady, even-going, you know; but I think now I was just a victim of the common delusion that the stolid, quiet type of character never goes off the track. I've learned a lot listening to Dr. Pike's testimony here and, looking back, I can see things that should have meant more to me at the time they happened. Like one real cold morning last winter, we came out of Grand Central together. It was a brutal day, about 15 degrees below, and blowing hard, lots of snow. When we got to the building it was ten o'clock and there was nobody else in the elevator. Ed hit the 36 button and it lit up and then he hit the Door Close button. Nothing happened, of course, (continued on page 160)testimony in the proceedings(continued from page 121) because the car was programed for so many seconds' wait on the ground floor, and Ed looked up at the ceiling and said, "All right, you son of a bitch, let go of it!" And he stuck his middle finger up, you know. At the time, I didn't think anything about it, but I can see now, it was a little extreme in the circumstances.
A graying, rather pudgy, casually dressed (expensive black-cashmere sports jacket and light-gray slacks) executive in his late 40s sat behind the large period desk. His name was Mr. Gelber. His hands were folded. He was smiling.
When Newton Minow, former FCC chairman, made the trenchant observation that TV was a wasteland, it's a cinch he wasn't thinking of Angela Dorian, our September Playmate. Though she agrees with Minow about the general banality of TV (she doesn't own a set), Angela's an established television actress, a veteran of 26 shows--including Bonanza, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., Perry Mason, Run for Your Life, Big Valley, Hogan's Heroes--who doesn't even have to read for parts. Currently, though, Angela's in the process of making her transition to the larger screen: This past summer, she made her cinema debut as a co-star in Chuka, a rough-and-tumble Western featuring Rod Taylor and Ernest Borgnine. "In TV," the former UCLA coed avers, "you have to get things perfect in a hurry; but when you're making a film, you have more time--and you get more attention. Acting for TV is great preparation for the movies." The articulate Miss Dorian is a well-rounded (36-21-35) artist--a jazz and ballet dancer, a song-writer, singer and guitar player in the folk-rock bag (at presstime, negotiations for a recording contract were under way) and an occasional graphic artist, specializing in ink sketches. Miss September's song-writing, she told us, evolved from a prior interest in language, specifically that of poetry: "I just began setting my verses to music." She did her own singing--a Spanish folk song--on one Big Valley segment; early in her career, on her agents' advice, she declined to dub for Natalie Wood as Maria in West Side Story: "I auditioned for the part myself, but they didn't think I was box office--and I didn't want to get hung up in a stand-by role." The nonsinging part of Lolita in the same-name motion picture was also considered--and bypassed--by Angela, who didn't feel ready to capitalize on herself as a nymphet. When Angela finds time to fill up a sketch pad, she calls on old Sol for inspiration: "I'm crazy about the sun. It's so impossibly ancient, warm and beautiful. I keep the wall over my fireplace covered with images and replicas of the sun. There's one that I carved out of wood and another that I made of papier-mâché. It's a big joke among my friends." Sun worship isn't the only mystical preoccupation of this 22-year-old Thespian, who's steeped in star lore and who believes in reincarnation: "In one of my former lives, I must have been a cat, because when I purse my lips, I can pass for one. I also purr like a cat." A more prosaic side of Angela's many-splendored life is her career as a landlady. She owns and rents out a duplex in Burbank, whose tenants are blissfully unaware of her star status; but although she delights in such round-the-house chores as gardening ("Too many people today are afraid to bend over and touch the earth"), Angela plans to sell the property: "It gives me too many headaches." When she's not fussing over her building or pursuing one of her myriad muses, Angela digs burning up the road in her newly acquired Porsche or her second car, a Sprite ("I like to get behind the wheel and just travel--to Monterey, Carmel or San Francisco"); she's had the experience, thanks to a friend who races at Santa Barbara, of winging around the track herself a few times. Her affection for life on wheels, however, doesn't embrace the antisocial aspects of motorcycling. Angela, whose idea of success includes being able to choose her own movie parts, recently refused a role in a motorcycle epic because she felt the character was too "hard." "Important as my career is to me," she explained, "I'm a woman first. I like to think of myself as being open to the world, brimming with love and music. Some aspiring actresses think only of their careers, and they're just setting themselves up for eventual disappointments." Angela, herself, matured under the spell of show business: Her mother, a native of Rome, is a former Broadway actress who's still active as a club singer in the Sunset Boulevard environs; her father, who was born in Sicily, is an L.A. restaurateur. Angela admits a desire to live and make films in Italy: "I'm fluent in Italian, so the language wouldn't be any problem. I also feel that European movies are generally better than Hollywood's offerings." We wish Angela the best in such enterprises, as well as in her search for the ideal male. "I don't really believe there is such a person, but I'm looking for him anyway," she declares--an affirmation that we're sure will give heart to our readers.
The woman was enthusiastic over psychoanalysis and confided to a friend that she had undergone therapy. "You never knew this," she said, "but for years I was under the delusion that I was a fox terrier."
To most adults who read about it, the analogy must have seemed preposterous. Here was John Lindsay, the mayor of New York, actually telling a group of Princeton undergraduates last November that they were like black youngsters in a ghetto. "The distance between these groups--educationally, economically, socially--has certain psychological bridges," he said. "The frustration of the sophomore alienated from his university by its size and impersonality is not very much different from the resentment of the ghetto youth who is alienated from his city because its opportunities and rewards are foreclosed to him. Both suffer the malady of powerlessness--powerlessness in the face of huge, authoritarian institutions that routinely cause fundamental dislocations in the lives of the people they affect each day."
Once again, collegians from coast to coast are confronted with a pleasantly weighty decision: what clothes should be purchased and what ones should be parted with prior to convening at the campus of their choice. For even though most schools spawn a spate of stylish fads and foibles that are as locally acceptable as they are unpredictable, fashion-conscious students still give national and regional clothing norms the nod when filling the sartorial holes in their wardrobe collections.
After the unsuccessful rebellion of 1863, many Polish noblemen were hanged; others--Count Wladislaw Jampolski among them--were banished to Siberia. The czar's soldiers led the count in chains through the streets of Jampol, the town that bore his name.
In every Gourmet's Almanac, September is an interim month. Charcoal fires have done their summer stint and the long season of pheasant, mallard duck and mountainous rib roasts is still in the planning stage. At this special interval, nothing will hold a roomful of people as spellbound as the aroma of a huge soufflé baking in the oven. And a hearty salad as a supplement will make the culinary coup well-nigh perfect.
Blonde, green-eyed Mara Sykes is from all outward appearances, a typical California coed. But typical she is not. Mara's unique combination of physical and philosophical attributes was brought to the attention of Playboy's West Coast photographer by a Sexual Freedom Leaguer who had met Miss Sykes at a Berkeley-chapter party and was duly impressed. We interviewed Mara between her art and sociology courses at Berkeley and her cosmetics-counter duties at a local drugstore and discovered she was one of the most refreshingly open girls we had ever considered featuring--as her quotes here and elsewhere will attest. Says Mara candidly: "People should not be ashamed of their own bodies and fearful of their own natural desires, but should accept them and try to understand them. Most of my pleasures are sense oriented."
Of all the grandees at the court of King Alfonso of Aragon, Don Federico was, certainly, the most proud and honorable. His name was an ancient one, and he never forgot the fact that most of his forebears had died in battle for king or Christendom. Don Federico had two great sorrows in life--the death of his wife in childbirth and the thoroughly disappointing son she had given him.
First-rank restaurants and night spots, including the Playboy Clubs, have now opened their doors to gentlemen who have tastefully coupled a suit or sports coat with a turtleneck. Tableside and tieless in a posh dining room, these two chaps keep both beauty and bubbly close at hand while wearing (left to right): a wool twill two-button shaped suit, by J. Schoeneman, $100, over a wool mock turtleneck, by Catalina Martin, $19; and a corduroy double-breasted suit, with flap pockets and deep side vents, by Stanley Blacker, $70, topped off with a cable wool turtleneck, by Robert Bruce, $18.
Though his childhood wish to be a doctor never materialized, Neil Simon has cured innumerable cases of ennui and melancholy--all with laughter. The 40-year-old Bronx native--son of a garment salesman whose main desire for his sons was security--is securely ensconced as America's funniest playwright (Come Blow Your Horn, Little Me, Barefoot in the Park, The Odd Couple, Sweet Charity, The Star-Spangled Girl). Simon comedies aren't faddishly apocalyptic--they're gentle and familiar. A modest man who claims to be funny only at the typewriter ("I couldn't tell a joke if you put a gun to my head"), Simon works daily in a neat office on East 57th Street, where he laughs at his lines and rewards himself with cookies. He began writing in high school, continued in the Air Force and, after a year in Warner Bros.' mail room, got his start--with older brother Danny--as a gag-writer for Robert Q. Lewis. During a lucrative but tedious decade, "Doc" turned out material for Jerry Lester, Phil Silvers, Sid Caesar, Red Buttons, and revues at Tamiment, the Pennsylvania resort where he met his wife, Joan--but in the early-morning hours, he was busy moonlighting a play about the Simon brothers' efforts to escape their all-too-loving family. The result, Come Blow Your Horn, opened on Broadway in 1961. Today, Simon earns $20,000 a week in royalties (his life, he insists, remains "very ordinary"); he's been the first playwright since 1920 to author four simultaneous Broadway hits; the film of Barefoot in the Park has been released; and The Odd Couple--purchased by Paramount before the play was written, on the strength of Simon's taped synopsis--is now being shot. Currently working on Plaza Suite, a new play in which a middle-aged couple use their onetime honeymoon site to plot their divorce, Simon feels driven to make his creations "more and more human," not to strive for "great social importance." But when plays make people feel it's OK to be human and fallible--as his infallibly do--there's no question about their having social importance.
Since the splash made by the initial exhibit of his paintings last winter at New York's Knoedler Gallery, the 20-year-old son of renowned artist Andrew Wyeth has been patiently plying his art and "waiting for things to calm down." Says Jamie, a practitioner of poetic realism in the tradition of his father and of his grandfather, illustrator N. C. Wyeth, "I was pictured by the press as a white knight charging into the New York art world, and people came to the show with reviews in hand." Jamie's incisively assured style is the product of years of labor; since leaving school after the sixth grade to be privately tutored, he's worked steadily under the critical eye of his father to develop his craft at the family home in the tiny Pennsylvania hamlet of Chadds Ford, where he has his own studio. One of his weekends each month is currently pre-empted by the Air National Guard, for which he wields a paintbrush--illustrating the Guard's magazine; he is also involved in discussing sales prospects for his recently finished painting of John F. Kennedy: "Since the fuss about my uncle Peter Hurd's Presidential portrait, the press can't wait to see mine." Jamie's subjects usually must endure a month and a half of daylong posing, which is why the artist prefers to paint people he knows, and does few commissions: "A portrait has to be in tune with what the model is thinking. You have to remove yourself; the object is the important thing, and each person dictates a different style. My ideal would be to have an exhibit of portraits painted so that visitors to the gallery would think they were all the work of different artists." Jamie, though his idols are his father and the late Edward Hopper, values the work of some pop artists ("It shows a turn back to the representational, since there's more use of the object"), optimistically believes American painting is enjoying a renascence of popular interest: "It's been evident for about three years--the major museums are all so crowded." And Jamie--who paints daily, whether he's "inspired" or not--is doing his best to keep them that way.
Talking to the eternal drummerboy Bernard "Buddy" Rich--a man who has survived three heart attacks--limp and wet as a noodle in a night-club dressing room between sets, one wonders how he can charge into the fray night after night; but charge he does. Bandleader Rich is the explosive catalyst for an aggregation that is one of the most dynamic and exciting in the biz today ("Why? Because we're playing the 'now' sound. The music of 20 years ago is dead."). Buddy, at 50, spots most of the members of his youthful organization a good quarter century, but bows to no one in energy, outlook and appearance. He has been called a "freak" by an awed member of the drum fraternity, because he practices not at all; yet the consensus is that he still boasts the fastest hands in the business. Nongladhand ("If you like my playing, never mind me") Rich's adventures in the skin trade began when his vaudevillian parents toted their 18-month-old Wunderkind and his drums on stage as part of their act. Five years later, Buddy--billed as "Traps, the Drum Wonder"--was doing a high-priced single on the prestigious Keith circuit. And when Rich was barely old enough to drink the booze at New York's Hickory House, he was playing there with Joe Marsala's band. From Marsala, he moved on to Bunny Berigan, Artie Shaw, the first of his four stints with Tommy Dorsey, and Harry James. It was while with the latter in Las Vegas that Buddy cut the silver cord of being the top-salaried sideman in musicdom and took his current, astonishingly successful flier as a big-band leader. Since the band's debut a little over a year ago, Rich and Company--working a book that ranges from rock to West Side Story--have been S.R.O. in club dates all over this country and in Europe; they've been part of the summer replacement for the Jackie Gleason show and have done concert dates with Frank Sinatra. Not one to hide his talent under a bushel, the tell-it-like-it-is Rich, in pinpointing his current success, says, "I am the greatest!" All we can add is, "Hear! Hear!"
Welcome, Holy woman...Direct descendant of god on my father's side, Twice removed. Pull up my face and sit down on it so that I may gain shimmering insights into the molecular structure of your sacred sit-sack. Hallelujah! We will now join in silent responsive reading...Amen.Ralphie! Leapin' Lizards! Freaking again! You're on LSD!
"The New Wave Makers"--A sympathetic portrait of those far-out and fanciful west coast hippies, Diggers and new leftniks who spark today's youth scene--with text by Herbert Gold and photos by Gene Anthony