Aug 12
Aug 12
A rare interview with an excavated, partly imagined Rock-n-Roll Near-miss
I’m boring, I’m boring, boring
It’s a natural fact
I’m an opening act
—Doc Pomus
“Street girls bringing in sailors must pay for rooms in advance,” was the admonishment that greeted me as I walked through the double doors of the Biloxi Stay-Rite Sho-Tel Inn. Following a terse Dixie interchange with the night clerk, I was shown down a hallway to a room occupied by long-forgotten, singer/cast-about Bobby Darling—the Crying Boy. Listed in a scant discography or two, but moreover just a peripheral footnote, Darling’s sketchy career spanned some 20-odd years, from 1954 to the mid-‘70s. During that time he crossed paths with an array of rock, rhythm-n-blues, and pop music pioneers and performers, including Elvis Presley, Jimmy Clanton, Doc Pomus, Bobby Rydell, and Frankie Laine among others. Somewhere along the way he seemed to fade away, receding into the background, mismanaged, under loved—just another rock-n-roll near miss.
The room was threadbare, save a bed, two wooden-slat chairs, and a bottle of Lavoris. A small tape-deck sat next to the bed. Continuously playing the same four songs—Dick Curless’ trucker anthem “A Tombstone Every Mile,” a tinny Carlos Gardel tango, Link Wray’s “Rumble,” and “The Blue Skirt Waltz” by Frankie Yankovic—this set the tone for the five hours that followed. Slick-haired and gaunt, wearing a shiny pair of spectator oxfords, the vituperative 72-year old (self-described as somewhere between a “never-was and a used-to-be”) proceeded to tell me his story.
“I was sitting the Suzore No. 2 Theater (in Memphis), Elvis was a couple of rows up. . . must have been in ’53 or so. It was a Tony Curtis flick, I think. We was both scratching around at music. Couple of sad-ass hillbillies singing in R&B time. I’d been listening to some that shave-and-a-haircut jive. Some Moon Mullican (‘member him? He was the king of the Okie piano shufflers), things like ‘Speedo’ by the Cadillacs. Elvis and me, we wasn’t real friendly. He was up the block at Sun, I was in the shed behind the rendering plant. Me and my boys (Junior Bergeron and Grady Caldwell, they later played with Jimmy Clanton) were finishing up the first sides of ‘There’s the Door.’ Came out three days after Presley’s first—didn’t stick as far as I’d reckoned, but made me a little green. The ‘Cryin’ Boy’ single got some airtime, and some invites to tour and record. All of a sudden I was a midnight fella in a 5 o’clock town. After some more sides were done at Cosimo Matassa’s place I took off for New York. I thought maybe I could sell some tunes to some folks there.
I checked into the Jefferson Hotel on 57th Street, and since my bread was cool and I had plenty of shoes in the closet, I though I must be a damn success. . . you know like I’d made it, man. Sold my Olds, ‘cause like the song says, ‘Stars don’t need no wheels.’ I started to do solo shows at place like the Baby Grand and George’s Tavern in Greenwich Village. Met some guys who said they could give me a boost—like that Mort Shuman (Pomus’ partner), he stole a pair of wingtips, then split for Paris—but nothing seemed to pan out.
Aside from selling a coupla tunes, and taking in some royalties here and there, the late ‘50s-early ‘60s was a wash. I started hanging at Spindletop (a steak joint owned by that hood Joe Marsh) and going on these wild benders. I remember one time I was with Lee Marvin and Danny Rapp (of Danny and the Juniors—he was kind of big then, killed hisself a few back) and that soak, Andy Williams. We was fairly well-oiled and we started teasing that pansy Monty Clift about his ‘exquisite’ tie collection. Darn near made that sissy bawl.
All this time that I’m shucking about Elvis has hit big. Some PR fella—Sidney Falco, I think it was—thought I could boost my image and career if I aped Elvis’ army-hero routine. He was probably right, but at the last minute I bugged. The day of my induction and physical, I borrowed some ladies panties from Ike’s wife, she helped me paint my toe nails too. I’m sure you can guess what happened. It was some funny shit. As the bus full of Audie Murphy-wannabees pulled away for Fort Dix I hollered to the saps that I’d be ‘real sure to take good care’ of their wives and daughters. Damn heroic.
Lean times. A lot of here-and-there stuff. Made cash doing knockoff songs for that guido Tony Orlando to pitch to Bert Berns and the Brill Building boys. Hell, I even did one of those Kumbaya-We Shall Overcome-Banjo-type albums to sell to the college kids during the whole folk-revival thing. Money, shoes, and three squares a day. That’s why a lot of us did it—bet you don’t remember those anti-war records by ‘Bob Darin,’ do you? Otherwise we’d’ve been sitting at the lunch counter with the rest of the old folks and the fools, but let’s just leave that bill unpaid.
What made me ‘get out’ when I did? It was probably around 1976, disco and all that. Clanton had hid hisself away in Pennsylvania somewheres, singing small-time tent revivals in between a six-pack of Schaffers. Elvis was hellbent on rolling over, at that point I felt like we’d all been hung out to dry. I mean at this rate, we knew even Sinatra’d never last. We didn’t listen when Frankie Laine warned us, and we did ‘let the blues make us bad.’ I guess the kids couldn’t dance to saloon singers and hillbilly pianists. . .so where was I? So was doing a whistle-stop oldies tour with Bobby Rydell and some agent had hornswoggled him into copping an old tune for a disco remake. Bobby and me always were good drinking friends, and he got me on the session—that’s me there on ‘Sway ‘76’, playing the synclavier.
After that, I just needed to find a place to hang my hat. Except for some scribblers like you and some Cryin’ Boy Club in England somewheres, most people can’t remember or don’t care about a star-who-never-was. I ain’t blazed no trails. Didn’t set no trends. I’m too tired anymore to act like ‘The Wild One.’ So you tell me that these indie-music, alternative whaddayacallem, are rediscovering my music. That’s just fine. Day late and a dollar short, mister—but’s about damn time. When those kids make it big, tell them to look me up and send me, care of the Biloxi Drug Emporium, some new shoes. . .I’d be much obliged.”
This mythological interview originally appeared as the liner notes for a release by the Bobby Darling Show (1998)
