Crusing Through 14 color pages inside this shipshape Novemesape from the wintertime vicissitudes of Stateside life. In Charter Yachting in the Caribbean, Playboy's Associate Publisher and Editorial Director. A. C. Spectorsky, details the ins and outs of charting and chartering a Caribbean cruise. "Having cruised on my own and chartered yachts in various parts of the world for more years than I care to remember," Spec says, "I consider my most memorable marine vacations those spent in the Caribbean, most specifically that part of the spice-isles chain that lies between Antigua and Grenada, where few American yachtsmen take their own boats (takes too long, costs too much) and the charter fleet is as salty as the sailing and scenery are superb." Once launched, the Playboy sailor will want to make the proper sybaritic use of his ship and its tropic setting, as lavishly illustrated in the color pictorial on Playboy's Charter Yacht Party.
Playboy. November, 1967. Vol. 14. No. 11, 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, $15 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 20 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, M; 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, Pinnie A Brown. 3108 Piedmont Rd., N. E., Atlanta Ga. 30305, 233-6729.
Amid the censorship furor about Ulysses, nobody seemed to notice that the modern vocabulary of profane, obscene and abusive expressions, as revealed by that movie, is actually rather tame, compared with the fire and brimstone that was unleashed when our ancestors lost their tempers. In Shakespeare's day, a gentleman was practically illiterate if he couldn't hurl curses and threats for three quarters of an hour without repeating himself. Today, on the other hand, we have only a few all-wool obscenities and even fewer truly livid profanities in common usage, and we repeat them endlessly. Where are the oaths of yesteryear? How has our language allowed itself to atrophy and abandon such stingingly apt insults as "admiral of the windward passage" (for a homosexual) and such stereophonic crescendos of blasphemy as "Jesus Christ and his brother Harry," "by the double-barreled jumping jiminetty" and "by the sacred chamber pot of the Virgin"? Alas, the great days of billingsgate are long gone; we no longer even possess such fine insults as "Captain Cork" (a gentleman who habitually dallies too long over the bottle and neglects to pass it on to his companions), "Domine Do-Little" (an impotent male) and "fire ship" (a girl with a social disease).
Books about the junior Senator from New York are becoming a subindustry of the publishing business. A virtue of both Dick Schaap's R. F. K. (New American Library) and William Shannon's The Heir Apparent (Macmillan) is that they add to neither the demonology nor the hagiology concerning their intriguing subject. The Schaap volume, which attempts to illuminate Bobby through pictures (250 of them) as well as text, is a crisp mixture of distilled biography and anecdotal reportage. There is little new in the book for a moderately assiduous newspaper reader, but Schaap does balance the Robert Kennedy accounts. That balance, he concludes, "leans perceptibly, but not completely, toward trust." The weakness of the book stems from Schaap's disinclination to analyze the Kennedy record. He is more a descriptive than a probing journalist. For example, although we are shown the textures and rhythms of a characteristic day with Kennedy--the day in March 1967 on which he delivered his ambitious speech on Vietnam--there is little indication of how ambiguous that speech actually was. Similarly, other Kennedy programs, both domestic and foreign, are enumerated but not examined. There are also errors. During Kennedy's term as Attorney General, the Justice Department. Schaap notwithstanding, did not reach new peaks of productivity in antitrust suits. Nor by any means is Bobby always "obviously eager to rock the political boat." But the restless, imperious yet fatalistic character of R. F. K. does come through with sharp clarity. In The Heir Apparent, William Shannon, a member of the editorial board of The New York Times, tries harder than most observers to get at the essence of the man. Though a less felicitous writer than Schaap, Shannon is a more dogged researcher and a more tough-minded hewer of conclusions. Accordingly, his book, subtitled "Robert Kennedy and the Struggle for Power," provides more than familiar biography. A searching survey of Kennedy's evolution. The Heir Apparent digs into the substance as well as the style of Kennedy, past and present. And Shannon finds that the essence of the man is elusive because "he is capable of calculation but not of conceptualization. Large ideas bore him. . . . Unlike his brother John, who became an inveterate reader in the course of his many illnesses. Robert Kennedy has never found a private world of the imagination. He is a doer who lives by events." Therefore, "he is overextended and overscheduled: he is advising on Bedford-Stuyvesant, advising on the New York State constitutional convention, jousting with the Rockefeller administration in state affairs, flying to Paris to confer with French officials, flying to Chicago to speak to a conference on China policy, issuing statements disagreeing with President Johnson on Vietnam, and by means of all these activities but also in addition to them, he is running for the Presidency." Like Schaap, Shannon makes the judgment that Kennedy continues to grow, but he, too, is unable to find and define the inner core of that growth. By 1972, the electorate ought to have a better idea of what makes Bobby run--that is, if it can keep up with all the books about him.
A generation sated by an overabundance of sensations, courtesy of the electronic age, is constantly searching for new avenues of titillation. The latest Gotham route is via The Electric Circus (23 St. Marks Place). Converted from an old Polish meeting hall in what was once one of the scruffier parts of the East Village, it now artfully and intelligently surrounds you with light and sound that moves, pounds, pulsates and assaults and then allows you, at your own pace, to withdraw from it in a quiet room called, fittingly, the Think Tank. There, fresh fruit is sold along with soft drinks and coffee. (Liquor is verboten, which seems to disturb the electronically uplifted clientele not at all.) After a suitable Think Tank pause to regain your equilibrium, you plunge back into the swirl of music and light patterns, pulsating simultaneously under and on a tent within the hall. The music, when it isn't good, new-fashioned rock, is especially designed for electronic performance by composer Morton Subotnick. It does such things as flow from speakers, one by one in programed sequence, around the room's periphery. Just outside the have-a-ballroom, in the dark entranceway, the mood is established by a wall on which is projected a flowing and exciting polarized-light mural. During our visit, the finishing touches were being put on a cubicle for a resident astrologist. Producers Jerry Brandt and Stanton J. Freeman have thought of everything from floor to ceiling. On the main dance floor are painted iridescent butterflies. Other parts of the Circus are floored with astroturf, the artificial grass that grows under nobody's feet. This is important, because, out of deference to the East Village hippie community, bare-foot folk are admitted at a 50-cent discount. And when their bare feet are not rhythmically caressing the butterflies, it's because the circus is on--real circus acts; a trapeze artist under rapidly changing lights; a juggler; a dancer who performs a Happening under stroboscopic lights that add a new and exciting dimension. It all works as it's supposed to. The Electric Circus vibrates seven nights a week, from 8:30 P.M. to 3 A.M. Admission Sunday through Thursday is $3.50; $4.50 on Friday and Saturday. With shoes. Be the first on your wave length to go.
Carmen McRae, a singer for all seasons, has abandoned the standards that fill her songbook for a go at some lesser-known entries as she debuts on Atlantic with For Once in My Life. It was a master stroke. Eminent English cleffer Johnny Keating handles the arranging and conducting for Carmen as she concentrates on such au courant attractions as Buffy St. Marie's Until It's Time for You to Go, Lennon and McCartney's Got to Get You into My Life and the Brian Wilson-Tony Asher gem I Just Wasn't Made for These Times. Everything's Carmen up roses.
The Birds, the Bees and the Italians is another savagely comic essay from director Pietro Germi, whose jibes at the mating habits of his countrymen (Divorce--Italian Style and Seduced and Abandoned) are one part hilarity, one part horror. Here, Germi zeroes in on a slew of adulterers in the town of Treviso, carefully separating those whose transgressions society will not tolerate from those whose hanky-panky is protected by law, church, Mother and a Mafia of bourgeois wives. A tandem tale of true love vanquished and lust triumphant, Birds . . . Bees first settles the fate of a goodhearted young bank clerk (brilliantly played by Gastone Moschin) whose only offense is his impossible honesty. While the prominent businessmen he knows move in a relentless chain of marital infidelities, the banker falls helplessly in love with the giggly, gorgeous cashier (Virna Lisi) at a café in the piazza. He leaves his gorgon mate, his unattractive children, his sham respectability, in order to Live a Little, only to have the entire sociolegal establishment descend upon him. As a police officer explains, "To a man with his pants off, the law is merciless." The picture might have ended right there, except that Germi wraps up his indictment with an episode in which six of the banker's acquaintances are brought to trial for their furtive enjoyment of a voluptuous peasant girl (Patrizia Valturri) who spends one very busy day in town. Before Treviso can return to normal, a cardinal phones Rome, newspaper stories are suppressed and the farm girl's father is rewarded with a handsome bribe, not to mention a tumble in the hay with one defendant's anxious wife. A tale so tinged with undertones of stag night at the zoo could become thoroughly unpleasant in the wrong hands. The measure of Germi's skill lies in his ability to wrest prickly truths from an altogether human comedy. He coaxes up the breath of life and chokes it off with laughter.
If an appetite-whetting perusal of this issue's Charter Yachting article (which starts on page 128) has whetted your desire for a vacation afloat or on seagirt isles, we can also recommend those still-idyllic lands that dot the South Pacific. Begin your search for an endless summer in Sydney, Australia's most modern metropolis and headquarters for the growing set of surfers down under. Almost all of the 30 beaches in and around the city are meccas for microbikinied college coeds--on vacation in January--who flock to the shore lines in wave-worshiping droves. Americans are still enough of a novelty in Sydney to be tendered hearty welcomes; when you meet up with a saucy Aussie, she'll be genuinely pleased to squire you around her town.
As the creator of such meticulously crafted and psychologically penetrating films as "L'Avventura," "Red Desert" and "Blow-Up," 55-year-old Michelangelo Antonioni has earned a lofty but controversial niche among cinematic chroniclers of the problems that beset modern man. With an intellectual's detachment and a prophet's conviction, he has explored the alienation of man in a depersonalized world, the fragility and ambivalence of his emotions and, above all, the impermanence of his love. Gaunt as a Giacometti sculpture, Antonioni himself presents a mask to the world. He claims to have little interest in material rewards, still less in critical acclaim or abuse; but he is no stranger to affluence--nor to the world of spiritually bankrupt overprivilege inhabited by his lonely characters.
My wife Adele says that if I had ever really made peace with myself, as I keep telling her I have, I would not refer to myself as "colored." Instead, I would say, "I'm black" or "I'm a Negro," but never "I'm colored." This reasoning stems from the fact that her father was a very light Jamaican who, when he came to this country, referred to himself constantly as "a person of color." Adele is very conscious of any such attempt at masquerade, though I have never heard her refer to herself as a "Negress," which term she finds derogatory. She also goes to the beauty parlor once a week to have her hair straightened, but she says this is only to make it more manageable, and disavows any suggestion that she does it to look more like a white woman. She, like her father, is very light.
History records few human quests as unremitting or as widespread as the search for a harmless, effective sex stimulant. Recent claims--such as those made by Timothy Leary--that LSD is the greatest aphrodisiac known to man have excited much interest in the sexual potential of psychedelic drugs. Sober discussion of psychedelic substances was difficult enough before sex entered the picture; now it is close to impossible. But bearing in mind that there is a great deal more to psychedelics than sex, it might clear the air to examine the effects of lysergic acid diethylamide--and several other psychedelic drugs--on human sexual behavior.
What does it take today to succeed in politics? Speaking ability, personality, a willingness to work long and hard, certainly. Leadership ability, a quick mind, television showmanship--these qualities still count, too. But as one who has been down that political road, I must sadly report that there is something rapidly becoming more important than all of them: The name of the game is money and the ability to raise it.
Although the ideal accompaniments for a hot-toddy party have long been a heavy snowfall and a hearth-warming open fireplace, these days, any cool evening in the fall or winter is reason enough for filling the punch cups to the brim with grogs and nogs. Thanks for this are due the Irish and, specifically, Irish coffee laced with whiskey and billowing with cream. But even more important in the modern renaissance of hot wassailry is the ski explosion with its attendant proliferation of slopes, lodges--and parties. And any fall or winter gathering of a picnicky nature--a tail-gate party outside a football or soccer field, a caravan to or from the ski country--is perfect for tapping the felicitous pleasures of the Thermos.
Insanely jealous over an article I read about the Jukes family and unable to reach my analyst, who had parlayed my fees into a round-the-world cruise, I recently found a need to research my own relatives' past in order to prove the natural superiority of the Aliens' degeneracy. I scurried to the nearest genealogist, who managed, with great effort, to trace my provenance back to a farmer named Ezekiel and a sheep (who shall remain nameless) and who then laid a bill on me that could finance the building of an aircraft carrier. Dejected, dissatisfied and considerably poorer, I went, home and brooded. Then, as luck would have it, I was rummaging through the attic of my palatial mansion in Secaueus, New Jersey, in an effort to find a spot to do it to the maid, when I came across a number of pictures--several of them in focus--of my progenitors and quickly assembled them in this album. While not complete, the album does provide rare glimpses of some of the more sensationally sere branches of the Allen tree and can also be used as a cretin's Who's Who, or as a smart-ass' Who's Whom.
He was carried in Burke's and Who's Who as Colonel Sir Albert Charles Lancehugh, Bart., C. B. E., D. S. O., D. F. C., and he preferred that close friends call him Charlie. There were not many of the old crowd in his circle now; indeed, only one or two of those who would sometimes put a "Cheerful" before the Charlie, usually at Boodle's or some such place, and late at night. It was a reference to an old R. A. F. joke. Charles Lancehugh had been a bomber pilot in Lancasters in the Hitler War. Indeed, his name had been on the roster of 617 Squadron, he had been of the select company that had breached the Möhne and the Eder dams. He had known Hughie Edwards and Mickey Martin and he had more than once seen Guy Gibson plain; (continued on page 112)Long Way Up(continued from page 107) indeed, he had eaten and drunk and flown with him.
Some years ago, a company in which I held a substantial interest was about to embark on an extensive plant-modernization and expansion program. A key portion of the program called for a very large investment in a particular type of production machinery.
Revolving through the Playboy Building's portals, our well-dressed man with an eye for beauty goes around in the best of fashion circles elegantly garbed in two of Pierre Cardin's latest offerings: a wool cavalry-twill coat with deep inverted center pleat, action back and coachman's collar, $200, and a rakishly shaped velour-finish felt chapeau, $35, both by Cardin for Bonwit Teller.
It was a day of fantastic good luck. Such marvelous fortune as I could hardly remember in all my 38 years. I almost got a kind of religious feeling about it, as if you could see the Hand of God. I remember when I heard the news I just sat there in my desk chair like I was in a trance, just as if I could see the clouds roll by, the black waters recede, the sun break through and the trees and meadows turn green with hope. That was the way it struck me, sort of like a vision.
A Champion swimmer and diver at the age of 11, Kaya Christian no longer competes in organized aqua-sports. But when she's not laboring in the catacombish darkness of one of the West Coast's largest photo-processing labs, this 21-year-old native Californian heads for the nearest beach or pool. Already accomplished in water ballet, Kaya became a licensed scuba diver shortly before we went to press, thereby fulfilling a lifelong ambition: "When I'm submerged, I let myself go--no cares, no anxieties; the Pacific is like a second home to me." When she's not in the darkroom or in the water, Miss Christian likes to unwind--at her bachelorette pad in Beverly Hills--to contemporary pop sounds ("Lou Rawls, Ramsey Lewis, The 5th Dimension and a local group that hasn't made the big time yet--Phase Three--can really flip me out") or with paintbrush in hand ("I'm really just a dabbler"). Kaya's conception of a gratifying date is engagingly unconventional: "Dinner at Scandia, a night cruise to Catalina, then a return trip in time to greet the milkman in the morning." She wasted no time accepting Playboy's invitation to grace our November gatefold, and thereby answered the question about what a gentleman should or shouldn't offer a lady.
Ladies and gentlemen, our first number is based on the traditional nineteen--nineteen beats to the bar. The subdivision goes like this: three, three, two, two, two, one, two, two, two. Actually, that's just the area code." (Laughter) "And that's the name of the piece." This is Don Ellis, trumpet in hand, addressing the crowd at the 1966 Monterey Jazz Festival.
Roughly 1000 miles southeast of Miami lie the Leeward and Windward islands, a chain of some dozen mountainous ones and literally hundreds of smaller ones, ranging in a crescent that divides the Caribbean from the Atlantic and running some 500 miles from south of the Virgin Islands virtually to Venezuela. There is a uniqueness to each of these islands. Although they have a bloody history and have been fought over by various tribes of Indians, slaves and escaped slaves, Spaniards, Englishmen, Frenchmen and the Dutch, the result has not been amalgamation or homogeneity but a kind of fierce and proud individuality. Thus, although you can cruise the entire chain, from island to island, without ever being out of sight of land, your point of departure may be as Dutch in language and customs and currency as Holland itself, the next island not as French as France itself but actually part of France--as is Martinique--politically and culturally, and your port of arrival as British as Bristol.
Since the days of Cleopatra's barge, a proper yacht--the kind yachtsmen call a gold-plater--has signified the ultimate in excitement and luxury afloat. Although the cost of a modern gold-plater sail yacht in the 80-foot range can easily run into hundreds of thousands of dollars, the shared cost of a chartered cruise aboard, for a compatible group of fun-loving aquanauts, adds up to little more than they'd pay for a landlubberly vacation at a class-A resort. With this in mind, a party of four couples recently chartered the kingly ketch Sorrento--and looked forward to a salty, unique vacation sailing the bounding main. They were not disappointed. Flying to the Windwards in the eastern Caribbean, our partygoers assembled on tiny Young Island--just off St. Vincent island, where the Sorrento lay to her moorings (right). The intrepid voyagers that night initiated their eastern Caribbean idyl with an anchors-away boarding party. And early the next day, the expedition's four beauteous members--Elaine, Pat, Judy and Roxanna--got the trip off with a splash by taking a secluded natatorial plunge. Our shipmates--ably instructed by Captain Tim, his honey-of-a-blonde wife, Lisa, and three-man crew--soon received a taste of yacht racing: Weeks before, at their request, the Sorrento had been entered in a regatta. But even though their ship finished out of the money, the Sorrento's carefree clan was only too happy to hold a victory buffet party, all hands toasting the occasion with tots of rum. Next came a tour of the Tobago Cays and the Grenadines; and, somehow, in the midst of their action-packed days and starry nights, our charter-cruise members were also learning to sail and navigate. Their days filled with water-skiing, swimming, snorkeling, spearfishing, sun-bathing and island exploration, and nights with cocktail parties eagerly thrown at the drop of an anchor, the charter seemed to end all too soon. But when the Sorrento's vacationers finally boarded their homeward-bound jet at Castries airport on St. Lucia, a happy thought kept the journey home from becoming a sad one: Having savored the sweet life of charter yachting in the Caribbean, our eight adventurers were making plans for a return engagement.
The National Horse Show at Madison Square Garden made its debut October 22, 1883, the same night the Metropolitan Opera House opened its doors for the first time. Since then, it has been the ne plus ultra of equestrian events and the formal opening of New York's social season. Hundreds of the world's best-bred mounts are entered every year, for cups, cash and acclaim. Hunters demonstrate their courage and expertise at taking the hurdles; sleek saddle horses--"peacocks of the show world"--are judged, like women, by the way they walk. Since 1909, the highlight of the show has been the fierce jumping competition among teams of different countries; but special exhibitions--such as six-horse riding, Roman style--also provide thrills aplenty. Experienced junior riders, under 18, strive hard for awards in equitation. It's all coed, and the regulations make no concessions to sex: "It's the only sporting event I've seen," observes our well-traveled artist LeRoy Neiman, "where the men and the women take up the same challenges under the same rules." The spectacle, which runs day and night, is both grandiose and mannerly. "Richard the Third," says Neiman, "would have traded his kingdom for any one of the horses. The riders are richly attired in brown checks, Kelly greens, hunter's pinks or military togs; huge flags, hanging from the beams, add to the pageantry. As the riders turn the course, silence reigns--broken by gasps of delight or dismay at the most difficult jumps; only after the last obstacle has been cleared do the spectators applaud." The show has already outlasted three Madison Square Gardens; and this year's event--October 31 through November 7--will be the last in the present building, since the new Garden atop Pennsylvania Station is scheduled to open this December. "It's safe to assume," says confirmed horse fancier Neiman, "that the new location will only enhance the luster of the show."
Once there was a young Cossack named Gritzko, a strong and handsome boy but generally considered to be something of a fool. On a day when he was tending the sheep out on the steppes, his father said to his mother, "We ought to marry off Gritzko. He is of age now and he needs a good wife to look after him."
In The Bachelor Party, a Paddy Chayefsky film of the late Fifties, a group of young men celebrate the coming marriage of one of their number with a night on the town. After too much liquor and an unsuccessful search for female companionship, they repair to the apartment of a friend and light up cigars for a session of "home movies." Although the audience never saw what they were watching--as the director's camera concentrated on the faces of the actors--few adult members of the moviegoing public assumed for even a moment that these were the highlights of a summer vacation at Yellowstone National Park or footage of family and friends gathered around the Christmas tree. The audience understood, without being told, that what these reasonably typical, respectable, middle-class American males were viewing was a form of hardcore pornography variously referred to as blue movies, French films or, most often in the U. S., stag films.
My reservation was for a window seat, up front, because on this particular flight they serve from the front back; but on the seat next to mine. I saw a reservation tag for Gordie MacKenzie. I kept right on going until the hostess hailed me. "Why, Dr. Grew, nice to have you with us again-----"
In the course of his energetically oddball career, 40-year-old George Plimpton--bachelor, bon vivant, author and editor--has boxed Archie Moore, pitched to the American and National League All-Star teams, played tennis with Pancho Gonzales, golf with Sam Snead and football with the Detroit Lions. If Plimpton's performances have been less than second-string, his personalized prose about the pros has been first-rate. Paper Lion, Plimpton's account of his masquerade as an NFL quarterback, was a runaway best seller this year, and a team of Hollywood producers has already broken out of the huddle on a film version. "Paper Lion," Plimpton says, "has been successful because it talks about players as people rather than as uniformed, statistical ciphers." A social as well as literary lion, he has dated some of the world's most beautiful women-- Jacqueline Kennedy, Jane Fonda, Ava Gardner, Jean Seberg, Candice Bergen --and turned his East Side Manhattan apartment into a permanent open salon for fellow writers. As editor of the prestigious literary magazine Paris Review, Plimpton has also helped a number of authors achieve prominence--among them, Terry (Candy) Southern and Philip (Goodbye, Columbus) Roth. But sport remains Plimpton's abiding passion-- athletically as well as literarily. By his own estimate, he is one of the top 15 court-tennis players in the U.S. "Of course," he notes, "since not more than 60 people play the game here, all you have to do is pick up a racket to be nationally ranked." Plimpton's venturesome curiosity has spurred him to even more esoteric exploits: Recently, he played a gig on triangle with the New York Philharmonic, and next year he plans to tend goal for a National Hockey League club. If Plimpton maintains this peripatetic pace, female midget tag-team wrestling may soon be the only sport he hasn't chronicled autobiographically--but we don't doubt that he'd be game to try it.
U. S. Television, weaned for decades on profit-without-honor vidiocy, today can credit much of its modest maturity to 39-year-old Dave Wolper, whose documentaries have reaped virtually every major award the medium offers. Just a fraction of Wolper's output of more than 250 TV documentaries mirrors the man's itinerant interests and imagination: The Race for Space. Hollywood and the Stars, Trial at Nuremberg, The Making of the President, 1960, Pro Football: Mayhem on a Sunday Afternoon, Wall Street: Where the Money Is and China. Wolper (who'll be represented on TV this season with 26 network specials) is currently branching out into movie production. One of his four features, Of Good and Evil. currently in the works will realistically present an eventful day in the life of a metropolitan police department. Wolper says. "The film will be a dramatic show--with actors--shot in a documentary technique." Two years ago, Metromedia. Inc. (which, among its assets, owns four TV stations and six radio stations), acquired Wolper Productions. Now a Metromedia vice-president, Wolper continues in his role as pioneer programmer: "The next big television trend will be outdoor, color true-life adventure films," he says. "My National Geographic series surprised everyone but me when it landed in the top-ten ratings. People are getting tired of hoked-up adventure series. They want to see real scenes shot on location, not created on a Hollywood sound set." Wolper, an expert horseman and avid baseball buff. most favors water-oriented recreation: His 47-foot yacht is often seen cruising off Newport Beach and he flies to Nevada several times each year to water-ski on Lake Mead. But as Wolper's commitments mount, his opportunities for recreation evaporate. In contributing to the leisure hours of others, the energized aspirant to two communications kingdoms says he's lost much of his own.
"Soul--and this is my own conception, now--is fact, as opposed to fantasy," declares Lou Rawls, whose soulful singing and down-to-earth monologs have made him one of the kings of the pop-music empire. A product of Chicago's dead-end Negro ghetto, Rawls. 31, is blessed with a powerful but mellow voice, plus what a critic has termed "all-purpose phrasing" and a knack for telling it like it is. whether he's conjuring up the taste of "soul food" or the color and action of ghetto street life. Despite his formidable talents, early TV exposure and several quality recordings, Rawls didn't hit the jack pot until 1966, when he cut his funky LP Lou Rawls Live! in front of a turned-on studio audience; since then, he's been socking it to loving crowds from Carnegie Hall to Monterey (at last summer's first festival of pop). He attributes his appeal to the truth of his message: "Who do you think can identify with a song like Dead End Street? Well, anyone who's known hard times--you can live in a park and still be on a deadend street as far as life is concerned." Lou first sang at the age of seven with a church choir, later with a gospel group, the Pilgrim Travelers; after a two-year. 36-jump stint as a paratrooper, he turned to secular music and traveled the traditional rocky road: "People don't know about the times when I did five shows a night for ten dollars. But I'm not bitter--it prepared me so that I'm able to handle myself now that I've achieved the 'upper echelons.' " Rawls, whose memories of Chicago and its biting wind are not sweet and tender, has settled with his family on the west side of Los Angeles. Not content to have escaped his past, however, "Mr. Soul" sees his current popularity as a means toward an end: "I've been laying down a firm, solid foundation so that I can have my comforts and enjoy life as it is. I want to feel my mind opening up, to be free and flexible--because life, man, is a gas."