Fathers and Sons

The elder Lomax was primarily a songhunter. His first collection,

_Cowboy Songs_, was published in 1910. It contained such gems as "John

Henry," "Shenandoah" and "Home on the Range," which he heard for the

first time in the back of a saloon in the Negro red light district of San

Antonio.

Alan was born in Texas in 1915. When he was 13 years old his father

gave him an old-fashioned cylinder recording machine, and the boy was

hooked. He became a full-time song scholar at 18. In that same year his

father was put in charge of the newly created Archives of American Folk

Song at the Library of Congress in Washington. When Alan was 20 he

took over as archives director. The father-son team eventually provided

more than half of the 20,000 songs in the collection.

The Lomaxes wrote many books together; they introduced American folk

music into the nation's public schools, and through their radio programs

in the U.S. and Europe, made celebrities out of such performers as Burl

Ives, Pete Seeger, Leadbelly and Woody Guthrie.

Whereas John Lomax was interested in the music for its own sake, Alan

began some time ago to look for the deeper meaning, or social

significance, of folk songs. In his many trips around the world he built up

a collection of recordings from every continent and virtually every major

culture. Along with a co-worker he developed his findings into the new

branch of anthropology known as cantometrics.

When the Voyager 2 spacecraft left Earth last August for a journey

beyond the solar system, it carried on its side a unique record player with

a specially made disk for alien beings to hear and enjoy. The disk

contained 27 musical selections, which have been named "Earth's Greatest

Hits"; 13 of them were chosen by Alan Lomax.

The following interview was conducted in various rooms of Alan's office

on a Friday evening in August, 1977. One room was filled with recording

equipment, tapes and records; another with music books; a third with

computer readouts; and a fourth with movie films. Lomax spoke rapidly

and found it difficult to sit still. He is not a neat housekeeper, a sharp

dresser or a master of the social graces. He is, however, a tireless worker

who gives the impression of being totally absorbed in his work. A large,

robust man, he will no doubt continue to be a major figure in the field of

international folk music for years to come.

Question: What exactly is cantometrics?

Answer: It means, literally, singing as a measure of culture. With it, a

song performance may be analyzed and related to a culture pattern. Each

aspect of music stands for a different social style. By using cantometrics

you get the story of mankind in musical terms. ... It's like the guy who

says, "I don't know anything about music but I know what I like." It

means that kind of music stands for his background and what he believes

in.

Q: How did you develop this new science?

A: I started this project in 1961. ... We analyzed 4,000 songs on a

computer. Out of that has come a map of world culture. There are 10 big

groups or styles of music. Stone age people have style 1. ... We found

there's a similarity of Patagonian music and Siberian, even though these

people live near the opposite poles. ... Along with studying song, we have

also studied dance and conversation in the same way, from film. I

probably have the biggest collection of dance film in the world -- 200,000

feet. Maybe the New York Public Library has more, but that's specialized

in fine art.

Q: What's the purpose of cantometrics? How can someone learn it?

A: I recently published a set of seven cassette tapes of folk songs from

all 10 cultural levels around the world. In the booklet that comes with it,

the songs are broken down and analyzed so that the student can learn the

cantometrics system on his own. When you learn the system, you can

understand any music, even if you don't know the language it's being

sung in. By the time you've heard two or three tapes, you get used to the

world standard of music. Cantometrics measures things like repetition,

ornamentation, rhythm, melody, orchestral arrangement. ... It analyzes

music in relation to social structure -- political organization, community

solidarity, severity of sexual sanctions. Cantometrics makes the world's

music into a geography.

Q: How does American music differ from that of the world in general?

A: In our culture, for example, we didn't have much repetition until rock

and roll came around. And that represents another influence. ... As you

know, we of European background don't sing very well together.

Everybody starts singing at a different tempo, like seven cats in a bag. But

if you take people who live and work together, it's like clouds rolling out

of the sea. ... It turns out that the people with the most repetition in their

songs have the most primitive cultures -- at least, in relation to their

economic development. Everybody knows the same thing about

everything. So being specific is boring, and repetition is what they like.

You don't impose your boring accuracy on everyone.

Q: What do you consider the real beginning of the folk music movement

in America?

A: It all began in Texas in 1885 when my father heard "Whoopee Ti Yi

Yo" on the Chisholm Trail. He was a country boy. He grew up in Texas,

and the cowboys drifted past. He wrote the songs down just for the hell

of it. Then he got a grant from Harvard and found out how important it

was. He was the first person in the country to use a recording device, in

1902.

Q: Did you know Woody Guthrie very well?

A: Know him? I made him famous. I had a coast-to-coast radio program

when Woody first came to New York. I introduced him when he first sang

on radio. He stayed at my house. ... They offered him a huge contract,

but he just walked off and went to Oklahoma. He was a deeply passionate

person, and tremendously gifted. First of all he was the funniest man that

ever talked. And Woody was so quick: talking to him was like playing jai

alai. He got up in the morning and wrote 25 pages before breakfast just

to warm up. And there was always a slightly strange thing about woody

-- an itchy feeling that he had. It might have been beginning of the disease

which later killed him.

Q: What's your connection with Pete Seeger?

A: Peter Seeger is my protege. I gave him his banjo. The banjo was a

dead issue, and he came to me and asked what he should do with his life.

He was a Harvard hippie. ... We got to be colleagues. We worked on the

whole revival of the American folk music. I taught him most of his early

songs.

Q: Were you ever a performer yourself?

A: Yes, I've made a few records. But I was always more of a funnel. I

regarded myself as a dredge, dredging up the rich subsoil of American

folk and putting it back on the developing music scene. We set out to

revive the American folk music in 1938, and by God we did it. By 1950

it was a national movement.

Q: What are some other things you've done?

A: I did the first oral history -- the Leadbelly book and the book on Jelly

Roll Morton. The Leadbelly movie (1976) was taken from that oral

history. For Jelly Roll Morton, I transcribed the tape and made it into a

piece of literature. The story has been bought for a movie by the same

people who made the Woody Guthrie movie, _Bound for Glory_.

Q: Have you done a lot of research outside the United States?

A: Yes, I spent 1950 to 1960 in Europe assembling all the best material

that had been collected into 14 albums, geographically arranged. Then I

started thinking about what I heard on albums -- not what musicians or

literary people heard, but what I heard. Then I met some people at the

National Institute of Mental Health who were interested in the norms of

healthy behavior. I indicated to them that I was that getting at the behavior

styles of the people of the world. They gave me some dough and I got a

staff together.

Q: How was the American folk music scene then?

A: I was very shocked when I came back to the United States in 1960.

The musical scene at Washington Square made me sick. They said, "Alan,

those people you talked to are all dead." I kind of withdrew from the

whole business. ... Later I set up a concert in Carnegie Hall and brought

in the first bluegrass group and the first gospel group to perform in New

York. People stormed the stage. There were fistfights and everything.

Well, that was the whole end of people saying New York was the center

of the folk scene.

Q: What do you think of Bob Dylan?

A: Dylan came along in the footsteps of Ramblin' Jack Elliott. He lived

with Woody for a while, and picked him as his model. He absorbed the

whole southwestern style from Woody. And the country for the first time

fell for a national American vocal style. Then Dylan left the scene and

went middle class after three years. He turned his back on folk music,

turned his back on people. I think he did a big disservice to the country

when he did that. ... The whole thing has been to make urban mobile

people have a folk music of their own. It's not a bad idea. Terribly boring

though.

Q: Do all your projects lead to one goal?

A: I make my living as a very hardworking scientist. I do that because

it was important finally to take this huge world that was coming out of

loudspeakers, and get down to the meat of it so that it can be used for the

betterment of our future ... so that we can keep all the treasures of the

past and use them. That's what I'm doing. I'm doing it in a scientific way

so that I can absolutely refute the idea of those who say that Oklahoma

doesn't matter, or that the Pygmies might as well be exterminated. Each

of these people, we have found, has something for the human future, and

for the human destiny.

********

EASTSIDER PETER MAAS

Author of _Serpico_ and _Made in America_

1-12-80

On the surface, his life could hardly be calmer. Peter Maas gets up every

morning to have breakfast with his 12-year-old son, then heads for his

midtown office, where he spends about five hours at the typewriter. He

rarely goes out in the evening, and his idea of fun is a weekend of fishing,

a set of tennis or a game of backgammon. "I don't have to live in New

York," he says. "When I'm working on a book, I might as well be living

in the wilds of Maine."

But in his mind, Peter Maas leads the life of James Bond and Al Capone

rolled into one. "I know an awful lot of people on both sides of the law,"

says the author of two nonfiction block-busters about crime, _The Valachi

Papers_ and _Serpico_. _The Valachi Papers_, the real-life saga of three

generations of a Mafia chieftain's family, was published in 1969 following

two years of court battles and rejections from 26 publishers who felt that

books on the Mafia had no commercial potential. It sold three million

copies in 14 languages and paved the way for an entire industry of Mafia

books and movies.

_Serpico_ (1973) revealed the rampant corruption in the New York City

Police Department through the eyes of officer Frank Serpico. Then came

_King of the Gypsies_ (1975), Maas' third expose of the underbelly of

American society which, like the others, was made into a successful

movie.

Now the 50-year-old author has written his first novel, _Made in

America_. Published in September by Viking, it is a raw, violent, grimly

humorous story of an ex-football star for the New York Giants who gets

mixed up with organized crime while borrowing money for a shady

investment scheme. King Kong Karpstein, the terrifying loan shark who

dominates the book, is based on several people whom Maas had known

personally, and the novel's head Mafia character has much in common

with Frank Costello, the "prime minister of the underworld," who granted

Maas 11 interviews shortly before his death in 1975. The scenes of _Made

In America_ -- porn parlors, criminal hideaways, the FBI offices -- are all

described with the same intense realism as the characters. The movie

rights have been sold for $450,000.

"The reason I wrote it," explains Maas, sitting restlessly at his 11-room

Eastside apartment on a recent afternoon, "was that I didn't want to wake

up 10 years from now wondering what would have happened if I had

written a novel. ... I also think a writer has to challenge himself

constantly. I don't think he should play a pat hand."

As he talks on in his breezy New York accent, fidgeting with a gold

matchbox on the antique table beside him, Maas seems barely able to

restrain himself from getting up and pacing the room. Quite striking in

appearance, he is a tall, stocky man with a Brillo-pad thatch of silvery

hair and eyebrows like cotton batting. A native Manhattanite, he was one

of the country's top investigative reporters for many years before writing

his first book, _The Rescuer_, in 1967.

The reason for the title _Made In America_, says Maas is that "the events

in the novel could only happen in America. ... One of the themes is that

nobody in the book, including the football player and the federal

prosecutor, thinks that he's doing anything wrong. So that's a very

profound kind of corruption."

Like his previous books, _Made in America_ took two years to write.

"The biggest difference that I found," he points out, "was that in

nonfiction, all the discoveries and surprises are in the research, and in

fiction, they're all in the writing. When I write nonfiction, about two

thirds of the time is spent in research. I didn't do any research for this.

It was much harder. And it was the only time I had to rewrite the whole

book."

Although Maas claims that his own life has never been in imminent

danger, he was touched by deep personal tragedy in 1975 when his wife,

a highly talented writer/producer named Audrey Gellen, was killed in an

automobile accident. Their only child, John Michael, is a skilled pianist.

Puffing on an imported little cigar, Maas speaks with pride of some of his

most important stories in the past. An article he wrote in 1960 led to the

release of Edgar Labat, a black convict in Louisiana who had been on

death row for 11 years. An article about columnist Igor Cassini in 1963

resulted in Cassini's arrest and conviction as a secret agent for Dominican

strongman Trujillo. The biggest story Maas never wrote was a book about

the shah of Iran; several years ago he turned down an offer of $1 million

for the project in order to concentrate on his novel.

"I've always had trouble writing about women," he confesses when asked

about future books. "So the main character of my next work will be a

woman. It was going to be another novel, but now I've run across what

I think is a fantastic nonfiction project, which I'm mostly interested in

because the subject matter is a woman. So I think I'll do that first and the

novel afterward. At least I know what my next two will be, and that's

comforting."

died 8-23-01. born 6-27-29. Auth

or of _Serpico_ and _The Terrible Hours_.

WESTSIDER LEONARD MALTIN

Film historian and critic

9-2-78

Most people who opt for a writing career do not expect to accomplish

much before the age of 30. But Leonard Maltin, a 27-year-old Westsider,

breaks all the rules. His book _The Great Movie Comedians: From

Charlie Chaplin to Woody Allen_, published in June by Crown Press, is

the 30th volume to bear his name on the jacket. One of America's

foremost film historians, he has written nine books and edited 21 others,

while contributing articles to such publications as _TV Guide_, _Esquire_

and the _New York Times_.

_The Great Movie Comedians_ is one of his most ambitious projects to

date. In 240 pages of text and more than 200 photographs, the author

analyzes the careers of 22 comic stars from the days of silent film to the

1970s. Sales have been brisk so far. The book is already in its second

printing and has been picked up by the Nostalgia Book Club.

Leonard was born on the West Side, moved to New Jersey at the age of

4, and became hooked on old movies by the time he was 8. At 13, he

began to write for a magazine called _Film Fan Monthly_. Two years

later, he took over as editor and publisher -- a job he continued for nine

years. His work with the magazine led to his first book contract in 1968

-- a thick paperback titled _TV Movies_ with summaries of thousands of

films. The third edition is coming out this fall.

In 1975, when Leonard got married, he and his wife Alice moved to the

West Side. She, too, is a film buff; their favorite Westside movie theatre

is the Regency (Broadway at 67th).

Leonard's literary career has never been in better shape than now. Two

of his other books will appear in new editions this fall. And the 10th book

that he has authored, a comprehensive history of American animated

cartoons treated _Of Mice and Magic_, will be published next year by

Signet.

********

EASTSIDER JEAN MARSH

Creator and star of _Upstairs, Downstairs_

2-10-79

_Upstairs, Downstairs_, the saga of a wealthy London family and its staff

of servants in the early years of the 20th century, is one of the most

popular television series ever filmed. The first episode of the British-made

series was released in England in 1971, and since that time more than one

billion people in 40 countries have watched the exploits of the Bellamy

family. Introduced to American public television in 1974, _Upstairs,

Downstairs_ won seven Emmy Awards, including one for Best Series each

year it was shown.

If any single performer could be said to stand out over all the others, that

would be Jean marsh, who received an Emmy for Best Actress for her

portrayal of Rose, the head parlormaid. But what most of Marsh's

American fans fail to realize is that, with her, without would be no

_Upstairs, Downstairs_: she co-created the show with another British

actress. A New Yorker on and off for the past two decades, Jean Marsh

now lives in an apartment on Manhattan's Upper East Side. It is here that

I meet her to talk about _Upstairs, Downstairs_, which returned to

American television in January with 39 hour-long segments, eight of

which have never been seen before on this side of the Atlantic.

"Sometimes it drives me crazy that nobody ever speaks to me about

anything else," says Jean, a slender, pretty, soft-spoken woman who has

the knack of putting visitors immediately at their ease with her charm and

lack of pretension. "I start to drivel after a while, because I tell how I

devised _Upstairs, Downstairs_ and how the cast was chosen." There is

no irritation in her voice, only humor. With her lively eyes and childlike

appearance, she is reminiscent of Peter Pan.

_Upstairs, Downstairs_, says Jean, "didn't spring new-minted. My friend

Eileen Atkins and I had been talking about trying to devise a television

series. We thought we should write something we knew about -- about our

pasts. And it became servants more than anything else, because her father

had been a butler. She was showing me pictures of her family one day;

she had photographs of servants going to a pub in a horse-drawn bus. So

the first thing we wrote about was servants going on an outing. And later

we decided it wouldn't be nearly as interesting unless we included the

people upstairs."

Jean herself was born in a poor section of London, the daughter of a

laborer and a barmaid. From her earliest years she aimed for a show

business career as the surest route out of her social class. She began as a

dancer -- "I could teach classical ballet or tap if I wanted now" -- and

danced in stage productions and films from the age of 7 until she gave it

up at 20. As an actress, she became an instant success at 15 when she

played the role of a cat opposite one of England's leading comic actors.

"The play opened, and I stole the review," recalls Jean with a grin. "It

was a regional theatre, and they asked me to stay in their company. It was

a peak of happiness in my life. There was no time to think of money or

boys or clothes or anything -- just work."

Her Broadway debut took place more than two decades ago, and over the

years she has dazzled British and American audiences in an endless

number of plays and movies. Classical theatre is her specialty; Jean

recently completed a tour of American regional theatres with plays by

Shakespeare, Shaw and Oscar Wilde.

"Regional theatres are usually more professional than Broadway. I

couldn't do _Twelfth Night_ on Broadway, but I can do it on the road and

make money," she says of her favorite Shakespearean play. "At one

performance, I was playing in britches and split them, and I managed to

make up a rhymed couplet. Somebody came backstage and said, 'How can

you split your britches at exactly the same time every night?'"

Her current project is a film titled _The Changeling_ with George C.

Scott. "I leave for Canada next week to do the exteriors. I'm going to get

crushed to death in the snow. I play George's wife. My role is over very

quickly, but then I appear in flashback soon afterward. It's a ghost/murder

mystery. My death makes him susceptible to phenomena." Asked about

Scott, she says, "I've known him for about 20 years. I think he's a dear.

His image seems to be spiky and alarming. People say, 'How can you get

along with him?' But I think he's like a teddy bear. He's adorable. Rather

shy, too."

Married and divorced at an early age, Jean now lives alone and likes it.

She acquired her Eastside apartment a year ago but has been unable to

spend more than six weeks in it so far, due to her extensive travel. "I go

out and get the bread and newspaper in my pajamas," she says.

Jean explains her amazingly youthful appearance by saying, "I'm very

young in my head. I'm quite daft; I'm sillier than most people I know. I

believe in God, and I believe you should lead a good life. ... One thing

I'm one hundred percent for is ecology. I'm so anxious that we don't

bequeath the next generation with an ugly world. I'd like them to go on

the walks I have had, and breathe the air I have breathed."

_Elliott_.

********

EASTSIDER JACKIE MASON

Co-starring with Steve Martin in _The Jerk_

12-8-79

Jackie Mason admits that the most famous thing he ever did was to be

caught with one of his fingers pointing upwards on the _Ed Sullivan

Show_. "The most famous and the least helpful," he says of the 1964

incident. "At that time there was a great wave of excitement about my

type of character, because I was new and fresh and different. In those

days, every comedian talked like an American; nobody talked like a Jew

or a Puerto Rican or an Italian. ... There was a lot of heat to give me my

own series, but all the offers were canceled after that incident."

Asked whether he actually did make an obscene gesture, the short, stocky

comedian with the broad New York Jewish accent shakes his curly head.

"The truth is that I didn't -- because I wouldn't be ashamed to tell you if

I did. There's nothing wrong with it today. But the truth is that I was

making with my fingers -- I have a very visual act, you know -- and

Sullivan got panicky because President Johnson had just cut into the

program, and when the camera came back on me, it looked like I was

giving him some kind of message. The next day, I became headlines all

over the world. ... I maintained enough success and enough imagery to be

able to do all the other shows as a guest, but the sponsors were afraid to

be associated with me as the star."

Jackie is telling me this in his dressing room at Dangerfield's (1118 First

Avenue), where he's performing six nights a week until December 17.

The affable Mason is quick to defend his caustic brand of ethnic humor.

"I don't see how it can be harmful. If people do feel any prejudice, it

provides an outlet for them to be able to laugh at it. The people who

decry ethnic humor are afraid of their own prejudice. You remind them

of the ridiculous nature of prejudice. ... Most of the things I say are

universal: they're about marriage, about minorities, about social problems

-- the issues of the day."

He also pokes fun at doctors, weathermen and every profession in

between. Then there are his highly exaggerated impressions of Menachem

Begin, Jimmy Carter and Ed Sullivan ("He always asked me to do an

impression of him on his show. He found out from me how to do

_him_."). Another of his ploys is to razz the audience members. "In 21

years," he said, "I only had one incident where a guy got mad and wanted

to punch me in the mouth. Thank God I move very fast. He wanted to kill

me. Obviously he didn't catch me. That's why I'm still here for the

interview."

Born in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, he was raised in New York's Lower East

Side from the age of 5. Following in the footsteps of three older brothers,

he studied to become a rabbi to please his father. "I knew it wasn't for

me. I have all license to be a rabbi, but I'm not a rabbi." A bachelor and

Eastside resident, he loves New York because "this is a melting pot that

doesn't really melt. There's a pot, but it's full of unmelted people."

Dangerfield's, he says, is the only club in New York where major

comedians still perform. "Seven, eight, nine years ago, there was about

12 clubs that played comedians. There was the Copacabana, the Waldorf

Astoria, the Latin Quarter, the Plaza: all those rooms were wiped out."

Consequently, Jackie does a lot of performing in such clubs as the Riviera

in Las Vegas and the Fontainebleau in Miami. Nowadays, however, he's

more interested in making movies. His first one, directed by John Avelson

of _Rocky_ fame, was "a big success without anybody seeing it." His

second film, _The Jerk_, is now being heavily promoted for its December

14 opening. Also starring Steve Martin, Bernadette Peters and Catlin

Adams, it is about a poor black sharecropper's adopted son (Martin) who

leaves home and begins wandering on the road until he ends up at the gas

station of Harry Hartounian, played by Mason.

"He's an uneducated kid who doesn't know anything," explains Jackie.

"He doesn't know how to handle himself, how to talk, how to act. I give

him a part-time job at my place, and I give him a room. He doesn't know

what a job is, and he doesn't understand that you get paid. He never saw

money. He thinks you're supposed to eat it. He's a crazy lost kid and I

play the father figure."

On December 20, Jackie will appear on the _Merv Griffin Show_ with

Steve Martin and Carl Reiner, the movie's director.

Jackie loves being a comedian because "I'm my own boss and I do what

I like ... When young comics say it's a hard business to enter, it's because

they have no talent. If a young comic has talent, he's more likely to make

a big living than in any business you can think of, with comparatively less

effort, and more opportunity, and greater longevity. I never saw a good

comedian in this business who hasn't made a comfortable living at it."

********

WESTSIDER MALACHY McCOURT

Actor and social critic

9-22-79

"I never take anything seriously -- least of all myself," says Malachy

McCourt, one of the wittiest, most outrageous Irish personalities in New

York. "I find my life is cyclical, and so I move every five or six years

from one interest to another. Now that I'm doing acting sort of full-time,

I thoroughly enjoy the uncertainty of it. But I do appear almost also every

Wednesday at the unemployment office at 90th Street. I do a matinee from

2:15 to 2:45."

He concludes the remarks with his customary gust of laughter. As

opinionated as he is entertaining, Malachy McCourt is one of those larger

than-life characters who has mastered the art of conversation to such a

degree that no matter what people think of him, they cannot help being

magnetically attracted by his words.

In 1968 he had his own talk show in WOR-TV that was canceled because

of the controversy it raised. From 1970 to 1976 he had a weekend show

on WMCA radio, and lost that as well -- for publicly condemning the

station's treatment of an employee whose job was abolished. "They called

him in on a Friday at five minutes to five, and told him to clear his desk.

He had been there for 28 years."

The airwaves' loss has been the theatre's gain, because in the past three

years, Malachy has developed an ever-increasing reputation as a character

actor. Well-known for his roles in Irish plays -- especially those by John

Millington Synge -- he has also been seen recently in movies and

television. His films include _Two for the Seesaw_ and _The Brink's

Job_, while on television, he appeared in last season's _The Dain Curse_

with James Coburn and in Thomas Wolfe's _You Can't Go Home Again_.

His current vehicle is _The Shadow of a Gunman_ by Sean O'Casey, the

great Irish playwright. In the role of Seamus Shields, whom Malachy

describes as "a snivelling, sycophantic swine of a braggart," he is co

starring with Stephen Lang at the Off-Off Broadway Symphony Space for

the Performing Arts, 95th Street and Broadway.

The action takes place in Dublin in 1920. "It was during the time of what

they euphemistically call 'the Troubles,'" explains Malachy in his broad,

breezy irish accent. We're sitting in his Westside living room. The walls

are so loaded down with books that they seem ready to collapse. "The

English brought in a bunch of gangsters from their prisons, called the

Black and Tans. They were paid an extraordinary amount of money to go

over and pacify the country. They could do anything they pleased. You

could be tortured, raped and robbed."

Born in Limerick in 1931, Malachy quit school at the age of 12. "It was

an equal struggle. They couldn't teach me and I couldn't learn." He joined

the Irish Army at 14, was kicked out at 15, then went to England, where

he worked as a laborer prior to emigrating to the U.S. at the age of 20.

His conversational brilliance soon made him famous as a saloon keeper.

At one time he ran a Malachy's and a Malachy's II on the Upper East

Side. "I gave it up," he quips, "for the sake of the wife and the kidneys."

Now the only bartending he does is on the ABC soap opera _Ryan's

Hope_, where he is a regular. "I much prefer that. It's a fake bar, and

everybody else cleans it up."

He has few happy memories of his native country. "There should not be

a united Ireland," he asserts. "In the South, the government is subject to

enormous pressures by the church all the time, in the areas of birth

control, contraception, abortion. People should have the rights to their

own bodies and their own lives. ... Consequently, those of us who escape

get very savage about it. Very savage.

"Someone I was talking to the other day said, 'I can't understand how you

can be an atheist and have of fear of death.' I said, 'I have no fear of

death because I grew up with it.' It was all around. I woke up one

morning when I was 5 and a half to find my brother dead beside me.

Another brother had died six months before. My sister died in her crib.

So therefore, what can you fear, when you know it so well? I'm alive

today. I'll probably get up tomorrow. There's great comfort in the fact

that we're all going to die eventually."

Asked about Daniel P. Moynihan, whom he somewhat resembles

physically, Malachy describes the senator as "the Nureyev of politics. He

can leap from conservative crag to liberal crag with gay abandon. A man

who could serve Kennedy and compare Nixon to Disraeli must be either

insane or insanely clever. I look at him and I cannot believe that this

twinkly-eyed, overweight leprechaun can be so cunning."

Malachy's wife Diana -- "she's the only Smith graduate I know that

became a carpenter" -- does custom carpentry work out of a shop called

Space Constructs on 85th Street. Westsiders for two decades, the

McCourts have two children, Conor and Cormic. One of their favorite

local restaurants is Los Panchos at 71st and Columbus; it is owned by

Malachy's brother Alfie.

Although Malachy has no desire to return to Ireland to live, he

recommends it for tourists because "it's the last outpost of civilized

conversation. The Irish have an attitude that when God made time, he

made plenty of it. So for God's sake, don't be rushing around. Stand there

and talk to me."

********

WESTSIDER MEAT LOAF

Hottest rock act in town

10-21-78

For several years, up until last fall, Meat loaf lived in peaceful obscurity

in an apartment at 25 West 74th Street. Few people outside of his own

circle knew that the name applied to a gargantuan 29-year-old singer from

Texas and the rock band he headed.

A couple of months ago, Meat returned to his old neighborhood after a

long absence. This time he caused a mob scene in the local supermarket,

and, on escaping to his apartment, found people climbing on the window

ledges trying to catch a glimpse of him. The reason? His group's first

album, _Bat Out Of Hell_, which has sold three million copies since its

release a year ago.

"I don't like to be rude to fans," says the calm, gentlemanly Meat Loaf

(his legal name) during an interview at his new apartment in another part

of the West Side. "I'd lie down on the floor for hours so they couldn't see

me. ... _People_ magazine printed my real name and told more or less

where I lived: that's why I had to move."

Bare feet perched on the coffee table, he spreads his 275-pound, 6-foot

frame evenly on the living room sofa. Although Meat's onstage image

makes him out to be one of rock's meanest and toughest characters, in

person he is totally devoid of arrogance, and in fact seems almost shy.

Sam Ellis, Meat Loaf's glib road manager who arranged the group's

recent trips to England, Germany, Canada and Australia, helps the

interview along by adding his comments whenever Meat begins to reach

for words.

All the songs on _Bat Out Of Hell_ -- raucous, earthy, and intense -- were

written by fellow Westsider Jim Steinman, who plays keyboard with the

group. After he and Meat Loaf met in 1973, they performed together

frequently, but their music met with limited success.

"People were afraid of it," says Meat. "The songs were long. The voices

were loud. People in rock said it was too theatre. People in theatre said

it was too rock and roll." When Meat and Jim were finally offered a

contract to do an album, Steinman went to work on some new material,

and wrote nearly the entire contents of _Bat Out Of Hell_ in four months,

including the gold singles _Two Out of Three Ain't Bad_ and _Paradise

by the Dashboard Light_ -- a duet celebrating teen sexuality that has been

choreographed into an 8-minute show stopper by Meat and lead female

vocalist Karla DeVito. "Jim doesn't just write the songs and hand them to

me. I do most of the vocal arrangements. It's really a team. It's like

Sonny and Cher," says the gargantuan singer.

Brought up in Dallas under the name Marvin Lee Aday, he tipped the

scales at 185 while in the fifth grade. "I was an only child and my parents

always wanted two kids," he jokes. "So they set two places at the dinner

table, and I ate both meals. ... I was always on the baseball team, because

if they needed a base runner, they'd say, 'Go in there and get hit by the

ball.' I'd back up just enough so that I wouldn't get hurt."

He joined the high school choir in order to avoid study hall, and from

then on, singing became his main passion. After completing high school

at 15, he travelled around with a number of bands. By the time he settled

down in New York, live rock music was no longer in so much demand as

before. "That's one reason I went into theatre," he remarks. "Another

reason was because someone hired me and I didn't have a job." As an

singer and actor, Meat performed in some 10 Broadway and Off

Broadway productions, including _Hair_ and _The Rocky Horror Picture

Show_, in which he also appeared in the 1975 film.

When _Bat Out Of Hell_ was first released, it did not catch on

immediately. But soon a couple of influential radio stations in New York

City fell in love with it. Then Cleveland and Boston began to give it a lot

of air time. From there, its reputation gathered momentum across the

country. As a result of the slow start, _Bat Out Of Hell_ was still

climbing on the national charts nearly a year after it came out. In

Australia, it was the number one album for 10 straight weeks.

This past summer the Meat Loaf band did four sellout concerts in the New

York area in the space of a month. Now the band is taking it easy for a

little while before returning to the studio for their second album. They

plan to launch another world tour after the album is completed in March.

Meat shares his apartment with 23-year-old Candy Darling, a slender,

pretty dancer/singer who will be performing in an upcoming Broadway

musical, _Whoopee!_ What does Meat Loaf like about the West Side? "I

have absolutely no idea," he replies matter-of-factly. "I can't stand it

anywhere else." Among his preferred Westside hangouts: O'Neal's,

Gleason's, La Cantina, and Anita's Chili Parlor, all on Columbus Avenue

between 71st and 73rd streets.

In spite of his meteoric rise to fame, Meat Loaf sees his overall career in

a different light then his fans. "For me," he says thoughtfully, "rock and

roll is not an end. I'd like to make movies someday. I want to direct. I

want to produce. It's great to sell records, but this is not what I always

want to do. It's just another step on the mountain."

********

WESTSIDER ANN MILLER

Co-star of _Sugar Babies_

1-12-80

_Sugar Babies_, the rollicking burlesque musical that rolled into Broadway

last fall, was one of the most-awaited shows of the year because it

signalled Mickey Rooney's return to Broadway after umpteen years. Less

attention was initially given to Mickey's co-star, dazzling Ann Miller, who

last appeared on Broadway in 1970 as a star of _Mame_. Ann, it turns

out, is not only a wonderful singer and comedienne, but, in her mid-50s,

is still one of the best tap dancers in America. Her fancy footwork has

become a prime attraction of this box-office smash.

"I was also in _George White's Scandals_ for a year when I was 15,"

recalls Ann in her dressing room after a performance. "This is my third

show only." For most of her career, she has lived in Beverly Hills,

California. The veteran of dozens of movies, including _On The Town_

with Frank Sinatra, Miss Miller is a larger-than-life entertainer who

believes that her career comes first and foremost, ahead of personal

happiness and family. Married and divorced three times, she has no

children, but is an ardent animal lover.

"I have two beautiful dogs, Cinderella and Jasmine," she says in a light

Southern accent. "They look exactly alike, only one is Hungarian and the

other is French. My secretary walks them. ... I'm very much interested

in the protection of animals. I think people treat animals very cruelly, and

to me, when you adopt a dog, it's like adopting a child. My little

Cinderella: she was thrown out of a car by somebody wanting to get rid

of her. I found her in Cincinnati in a blizzard. She almost died and I

saved her life."

By looking beyond the heavy rouge, bright red lipstick, large rhinestone

earrings and fluttering false eyelashes that are part of her act, one can see

that Ann appears considerably younger then her years. _Sugar Babies_,

she points out, is not burlesque in the normal sense. "Burlesque got sleazy

in the 1940s with bumps and grinds and tassel-twirlers, but that's not what

we're selling. We sell, in a sense, glorified, old-fashioned, 1920s-style

vaudeville, with good production numbers. And that's what burlesque was

originally. ... A college professor got this together. The jokes are

authentic. ... Our show is for everybody. It's not dirty at all -- not by

today's standards."

There is a crowd of people waiting to see Ann after nearly every show.

Rooney escapes the fans by dashing out the stage door within minutes of

the final curtain. "He lives way out in New Jersey," explains Ann, who

rents a hotel suite on the Upper West Side. "Mickey is married and he has

10 children. He loves them all very much. ... Mickey and I went to

school together. He's a very nice person and he's a great pro. He may be

a small man, but he's a giant in his own way."

Miss Miller, who likes to dine at the 21 Club, Sardi's and the

Conservatory, believes that _Sugar Babies_ is a hit "because it's timely.

People are desperate to laugh. They're tired of hearing about war and the

food crunch and the oil crunch. They want to be entertained."

She has written her autobiography, _Miller's High Life_, which is

available "only in rate bookstores and in every library in the country. It

isn't out in paperback yet, but there's some talk of it." Asked about a

projected second volume, _Miller on Tap_, she says: "It will be my life;

it will carry on from where the other one left off."

She has no secret for looking so young, except that she is a nonsmoker,

drinks nothing stronger than wine, watches her diet, and avoids anything

strenuous in the daytime, to save her energy for the show.

With her jet-black hair, pearl-white teeth, and exaggerated makeup, Ann

looks more than a little exotic. This may help to explain her belief in

reincarnation. "I really do have memories of Egypt. They're not in a form

that I can describe. You sometimes just know things. You're born with

knowing. I have been to Egypt three times, and I'm planning to go back

again and again, I want to go mainly to Luxor. I'm very entranced with

it. I like all the antiquities of Egypt. The present-day Egypt I have no

interest in to speak of."

Ann says she doesn't like the name of her current show. "People think it's

candy, because there is Sugar Babies candy," she explains, "but in the old

days, babies meant beautiful show girls. The girls had sugar daddies, so

they were called sugar babies."

A Texas native who began dancing professionally in New York at the age

of 11, Ann says yes, she feels good about her career, but that "it's been

a long struggle. The sad part is, I have wanted so much to be happy, but

I have never found happiness."

Her father, who was a lawyer, left her mother when Ann was 10. Since

Mrs. Miller was almost totally deaf, Ann supported them by tap dancing

at Rotary Club luncheons. She retains a fear of poverty to this day. "I

save all my clothes because some day I might be poor again," she says.

"I have a room with nothing in it but racks of clothes. I cover them

nicely, and once a year I air them out, in case they come back in style."

********

WESTSIDER SHERRILL MILNES

Opera superstar

2-24-79

"In a career of my size," says baritone Sherrill Milnes, "there is no off

season. I try to hold myself to 60 performances a year -- not including

recordings or dress rehearsals or private studies. ... In fact, I think I'm

the most-recorded American opera singer ever, in any voice category."

We're talking in his spacious Westside apartment facing the Hudson

River. I cannot help observing that Milnes, a handsome man who stands

6 foot 2 and weighs 220 pounds, with his dark hair combed straight back

and wearing a blue flowered shirt, looks very much like a country and

western singer. It is his chest that gives him away -- a massive, powerful

chest that hints at the huge voice it supports. To deliver notes that are

clearly audible throughout the largest opera houses in the world, over the

sound of a full orchestra, and without amplification, is one of the most

physically demanding tasks in all the performing arts. And one of the best

paying. Only a handful of singers take home, like Milnes, approximately

$7,000 for each night's work.

At 44, he is in the peak of his career, and has been since he made his

Metropolitan Opera debut in December, 1965. He has sung in virtually all

of the world's leading opera houses, including the Paris Opera, the

Hamburg State Opera, and La Scala in Milan. Asked what more he can

accomplish, Milnes replies that "one hopes to become a better artist all the

time. But you can only go so fast. If you make family a priority position

-- which is certainly true in this case -- there are only so many hours in

the day. I could be more famous, were I on television more. But it takes

time. ... I don't want to sound like: he's satisfied with his career, where

he is, and he doesn't want to do any more. But I have to realize that my

career can no longer continue at the same rate of ascendancy."

His current show with the Met, Verdi's _Don Carlo_, will continue until

mid-March. "This is the first time New York has heard the five-act

original version," notes Milnes. "We'll be doing it in Italian. People said,

'Why don't you do _Don Carlo_ like the real original, in French?' The

problem is, five years later, where do you find people who know it in

French? There's a practical set of problems when, worldwide, everybody

know it in Italian. I don't know if it would have been worth it for one

season." Long-range planning is an important aspect of any opera singer's

life. Milnes already has his schedule set up until 1984.

The main reason why Italy has declined in importance as a center for

opera, says Milnes, is that the country's economic problems make it

impossible for the companies to book singers years in advance. "I think

America is now producing more singers than Italy, and Spain is very high

on the list of producing singers."

It is to Italy that Milnes owes much of his success. "We have that phrase

'Verdi baritone' -- sometimes more generically, 'Italian baritone.' There's

no question that Verdi treated the baritone as a special voice category,

differently really than composers before him. He did a lot of title roles for

the baritone voice, and really split the bass and baritone roles very much."

Widely known as an unselfish performer who gives his time freely to

others, Milnes is chairman of the board of Affiliated Artists, a non-profit

organization that arranges concerts across America for young, up-and

coming singers.

Born on an Illinois farm, he studied piano and violin from early

childhood. In high school, he won the state music contest in five separate

categories, including vocal soloist. Deciding that his voice was the

instrument that showed most promise, he began his professional career as

a member of a chorus attached to the Chicago Symphony. In 1960 he

turned to opera. Boris Goldovsky, the opera maestro, signed him

immediately, taught his willing pupil the fine points of acting in opera,

and took him on five cross-country tours. Since 1962, Milnes has had

practically no time for anything but singing.

A dedicated family man, he is married to soprano Nancy Stokes. The

couple has a 6-year-old son, Shawn, and Milnes has two other children

from a previous marriage. He has been a Westsider for almost 10 years.

Not at all snobbish about his own musical gifts, Milnes believes that

singing is excellent recreation for anyone, regardless of voice quality. "I

encourage people to sing in the shower. It's a great emotional outlet. Even

if you're lousy, it makes you sound fantastic. When I'm on the stage, I

always have that feeling that I'm never going to sound as good as I do in

the shower. You can't get the same _ring_ when you're singing to 5,000

people."

********

WESTSIDER CARLOS MONTOYA

Master of the flamenco guitar

10-28-78

Carlos Montoya speaks two languages. The first is music; the other is

Spanish. At 74, he is the world's most famous master of flamenco -- the

ancient folk music of the Spanish gypsies, which Montoya performs with

dazzling speed and dexterity. On October 29 he will give a major concert

at Avery Fisher Hall.

With more than 30 albums to his credit, Montoya is the most recorded

flamenco guitarist in history. He is thoroughly committed to his

instrument. It is not merely his living, but his life. He is a pure gypsy --

"on all four sides," as the Spanish say. Maybe that explains why he likes

to tour from January to May and from October to December every year,

almost nonstop, across the U.S. and Canada, to South America, Europe

and the Far East. He has been a Westsider since the 1940s and has rented

the same Westside apartment since 1957. Yet when people ask Montoya

where he lives, he is likely to reply, "On airplanes."

An American citizen for more than 30 years, he is perhaps the first

persons ever to acquire citizenship after answering "no" to the question,

"Do you like the American form of government?" Because of his poor

English, he had misunderstood the query. He corrected himself, and that

night played for President Harry Truman.

Montoya's wife, Sally, is his steady helpmate. Since their marriage in

1940, she has been his manager, interpreter and best friend. He still

speaks little English, so interviews with him are often ponderous three

way affairs. When I arrived at the Montoyas' residence late one morning,

he was very polite, but eager to get the interview over with. "Vamos," he

said. His demeanor changed when he discovered that I was able to

understand his crisp, precise Spanish when spoken slowly. We quickly

dispensed with the interpreter.

Does he consider flamenco to be the highest art attainable on the guitar?

Sitting upright in an overstuffed chair, he smiled benignly and said, "Not

all the flamenco guitarists are artists. There are many guitarists, but in the

world there are only two or three artists on the flamenco guitar. ... Most

musicians are technicians. I think that to play flamenco as it should be

played, you have to be an artist. The music is either very bad or very

good. People who hear the performance may applaud both the technician

and the artist. But afterward, if the performer was not an artist, they

forget what they have heard."

The smile remained on his face, and he began to use his hands with much

expression as he continued. "I carry the music inside me. I want to touch

inside the heart of the public. That's what I always aim for. My music is

sincere. It is very human. I believe it should be listened to closely. That

is why I play concerts."

He was, in fact, the first prominent flamenco guitarist to go solo. Until

Montoya started giving one-man concerts in 1948, flamenco was strictly

a music to accompany singers or dancers, who added to the rhythm with

castanets, snapping fingers and feverishly clicking heels. When faced with

Montoya's guitar alone, the audiences did not catch on immediately. But

as soon as they learned to appreciate the full range of his artistry, his

career was assured.

Many of the sound effects produced by a whole flamenco group can be

duplicated by Montoya alone. His left hand can play a melody and tap out

a rhythm independent of what the right hand is going. To add to the

excitement, Montoya never plays a piece the same way twice. One reason

is that improvisation is the essence of flamenco. Another is that he has

never learned to read music.

"Flamenco guitar is more popular than ever right now," said Montoya.

"Young people like it; I perform at a lot of colleges. I also perform with

many symphony orchestras to play my _Flamenco Suite_.

That composition, which Montoya co-wrote and premiered in 1996, is the

first flamenco piece ever to be written for a full orchestra. The guitar

sections, appropriately, allow for some improvising. Other works by

Montoya, mainly his arrangements of age-old gypsy themes, have been

transcribed and published for the benefit of fellow guitarists. However, as

Montoya pointed out, "the style you can write. But all the notes -- it is

impossible. So, my written works are simplified."

Born in Madrid, he took his first guitar lesson at the age of 8, and by his

early teens was performing regularly in cafes. He toured extensively until

World War II broke out, when he more or less "settled" in New York. In

truth, he has never been content to settle anywhere. He spends several

months each year in Spain. And when he's on tour, said his wife, "he gets

restless staying around the hotel, and likes to visit all the sights in the

area."

Sally Montoya, a slender, graceful native New Yorker who met Carlos

while her father was working for the Foreign Service, was once a

Spanish-style dancer herself, but gave it up because "I obviously didn't

dance as well as Carlos plays. I'm a casualty of his success." The couple

has two sons.

Except for travel, Carlos Montoya has few interests outside his work.

"Music and family -- that's all," he said quietly. "To be an artist, you

must be a slave to the instrument and to the public. To play the guitar is

a serious thing -- not a game. To me, it is a complete life."

********

WESTSIDER MELBA MOORE

Broadway star releases ninth album

10-14-78

When Melba Moore recently dropped out of her co-starring role in the

Broadway hit musical _Timbuktu_, there was a lot of speculation as to the

reason why. Some observers suggested that Eartha Kitt, the biggest box

office draw, did not like to share the billing with a performer of Melba's

caliber.

Melba herself has a simpler explanation: seven months of one show is

enough, and she had too many other things to do -- promoting her new

album, preparing for another Broadway musical, doing her first lead role

in a movie, going on a concert tour, making guest appearances on

television, and taking care of her 16-month-old daughter Charli.

"Honey, I could join the Olympics with all I do," says Melba one

afternoon at the comfortable midtown office that is used as the nerve

center for her multiple activities. She is dressed in a striped hat, a white

shirt and a bright red necktie. Easing her slender form onto the couch, she

looks smaller, younger, and more beautiful in person than her photographs

indicate. I remark on her flashy necktie, and Melba, using her hands

expressively while she speaks, tells with amusement how she saw it on the

collar of a salesman at Fiorucci's and said to him, "I want that tie."

Melba's first professional stage role was in _Hair_; from 1968 to 1970 she

rose up through the chorus to win the female lead. "I have no hard-luck

stories," she says, in her clear, nearly accentless voice. "From _Hair_, I

went right into _Purlie_." That was the role that earned her the 1970 Tony

Award for Best Supporting Actress and the New York Drama Critics' and

Drama Desk Awards.

Melba was born 32 years ago on West 108th Street. Both her parents were

entertainers, and Melba began singing at the age of 4. At college she

majored in music, and upon graduation, taking the advice of her parents

to "get some security," she taught school for a year. But soon a burning

desire to get into show business took hold of her, and she quit teaching.

"Ever since that day," she recalls, "even before I got my first singing job,

the whole world looked better to me."

It was while working as a studio singer that she was given an audition for

_Hair_, and since then her story has been a virtually unbroken success.

Melba has starred in numerous television shows, including her own

summer series for CBS and an ABC special on the life of abolitionist

Harriet Tubman. Better known for her singing than her acting, Melba has

recorded nine albums and has received a Grammy nomination. Her most

remarkable vocal feat, however, was probably her one-woman concert at

the Metropolitan Opera House in December 1976, which won her rave

notices from every music critic in town. In the concert, she performed

everything from ballads to rock to opera.

"Singing opera actually rests my voice," says Melba. "It's like doing

vocal exercises." Equally at home in a nightclub or a concert hall, she has

demonstrated her four-octave range with many of America's leading

orchestras.

Her new album, released late in September by Epic Records and titled

simply _Melba Moore_, contains both disco songs and straight ballads.

One of the cuts, "You Stepped Into My Life," is out as a single. Another

cut is "The Greatest," from a film about Muhammad Ali. "No, I didn't

sing it in the movie, but I am an Ali fan. I'm a fight fan. I turn on the

cable and watch everyone -- flyweights, everybody. People I've never

hard of."

Her new movie, _Purlie_, in which Melba will recreate her Broadway

smash success, is scheduled to begin filming this November in the

countryside of Georgia. Melba plays the orphan Lutibelle Gussiemae

Jenkins. After the movie, she will devote most of her time to a new

musical, _Harlem Renaissance_, which is planned to reach Broadway next

spring.

The day after she quit _Timbuktu_, Melba headed for Acapulco to be one

of the judges in the Miss Universe Pageant. "They said there were going

to be 600 million people watching, so I made sure my nose was

powdered. ... They worked us from sunup to sunup, but I did manage to

get a little suntan," she says teasingly, showing me a patch of light brown

skin directly under her top shirt button.

Married for the past five years to restaurateur Charles Huggins, Melba is

overjoyed to have a child at last -- "we have been waiting for her" -- and

spends as much time as she can with her daughter. A Westsider off and

on for most of her life, Melba is fond of shopping at Vim and Vigor

Health Foods (57th Street near the Carnegie Recital Hall), then going next

door to the Merit Farm Store, where she buys her favorite junk food.

Of all her accomplishments in the last 10 years, Melba is perhaps proudest

of her involvement with an international television series for children,

_Big Blue Marble_, which is currently being shown in 78 countries.

"I'm very much into international things," says Melba, "I have appeared

in some of the segments, but basically my role is to let people know about

it. ... In some way, we hope that the program can help promote peace and

understanding to these children -- while they're still at a vulnerable age."

********

WESTSIDER MICHAEL MORIARTY

Star of _Holocaust_ returns to Broadway in _G.R. Point_

5-5-79

When Michael Moriarty rose to national stardom last year with his chilling

portrayal of SS Officer Dorf in the NBC miniseries _Holocaust_, his

performance was witnessed by some 120 million Americans. His current

vehicle, _G.R. Point_ at the Playhouse Theatre on West 48th Street plays

to a maximum audience of 500. Yet, in the lead role of Micah Bradstreet,

a wet-behind-the-ears soldier from rural Maine, Moriarty delivers what

Clive Barnes of the _New York Post_ has said is "the best performance,

so far, of his career."

_G.R. Point_ is a play about the Vietnam War and its effects on those

who are forced to partake in it. Set on a strikingly designed stage built to

resemble a devastated hillside, the play demonstrates how each of the

eight characters manages to cope with his predicament in his own way. Its

message is summed up in the final words of the drama, spoken to Micah

as he departs for the U.S.: he is told to "count the living, not the dead."

"One of the main reasons I wanted to do this play is that it affirms life,"

says Moriarty, in a dressing room interview just before a performance. "It

doesn't take any specific political stance, but it doesn't avoid any of the

horrors of war. Its only stance is: in the end, what overcomes the situation

is love. And love sometimes shows itself in the strangest, most bizarre

ways."

He is tall and solidly built, looking somewhat younger than his 38 years,

and though his demeanor has an edge of shyness to it, Moriarty's

penetrating eyes reveal that much is going on beneath the surface. Asked

about his personal views on Vietnam, the actor replies, "I'm not an

intellectual, so I have no specific feelings about it." But his conversation

soon reveals him to be a deep thinker and a wit besides, whose remarks

are tempered as much by humility as by professional instinct.

"Whatever I could say about the war has been better stated by David

Berry, the playwright. I'm able to show my emotional response to the war

through Micah Bradstreet. ... I'm not trying to influence anyone in any

way in particular. I do think the play tells the truth about Vietnam. So the

more information people have, the better decisions they can make."

Moriarty's decision to become a dramatic actor can be traced to his

undergraduate days at Dartmouth College, when he was overwhelmed by

Paul Scofield's performance in _Love's Labor Lost_. Following

graduation, he won a Fulbright Scholarship to attend the London Academy

of Music and Dramatic Art. In 1974, after years of perfecting his craft in

theatres across America, he picked up the first of his two Tony Awards

for his performances in _Find Your Way Home_. Equally skilled at

television acting, he is the recipient of two Emmys, including one for

_Holocaust_.

A Detroit native of Scandinavian and Irish ancestry, Moriarty attends

Catholic mass regularly, and finds much inspiration in the Bible, both

spiritual and literary. His chief hobby is music: he is a polished

singer/pianist/songwriter who frequently performs in the city's leading

nightclubs between acting assignments. Asked whether he would consider

teaming up with octogenarian blues singer Alberta Hunter at the Cookery

in Greenwich Village, he replies with a laugh, "That's very heavy

company. I'll cook and she'll sing." He usually practices in the morning.

"I'll ramble over the piano and play some easy music. It's purely

according to my libido. You might call it ad libido. Hey, not bad! How's

that for an album title?"

Another of his talents is writing plays. Although hesitant to discuss this

up-and-coming aspect of his career, Moriarty finally admits that one of his

plays was recently read dramatically at the McCarter Theatre in Princeton,

New Jersey, under the direction of Ben Levit. "It was none of my doing.

I sat back, and it all happened before my very eyes. I was astonished, and

pleased, and proud, and in no great hurry to see it produced except by this

director -- if he wants to."

Long a devotee of Shakespeare, Moriarty founded his own non-profit

Shakespearean company, Potter's Field, in 1977. He and his group

perform free each Sunday in Central Park near the statue of Sir Walter

Scott, weather permitting.

In response to a question about the West Side, where he has lived for the

past five years, Moriarty says that "you can walk one block and encounter

everything the world should either be proud of or ashamed of." His

favorite local restaurants include Coq du Vin on 8th Avenue and O'Neal's

Balloon at 6th Avenue and 57th Street. "Pat O'Neal and I crack jokes

about my career as a waiter. I worked at O'Neal's off and on for about

four years. I was terrible! They kept me on out of sheer compassion. I

guess I became an endearing lunkhead."

Other goals? "None that I'd care to mention," says Moriarty, smiling

softly. "All the other ones are neurotic, and I don't want to expose them.

I've done it too often. In my neuroses, I think, 'Gee, I'd like to do that

or this.' But in my higher self, I have no unfulfilled needs."

********

WESTSIDER LeROY NEIMAN

America's greatest popular artist

1-27-79

Like Norman Rockwell before him, LeRoy Neiman has the distinction of

being one of the very few American artists whose work is familiar to

practically everybody in the country -- rich and poor, black and white,

urban and rural, educated and illiterate.

This is as far as their similarity goes, however. Rockwell, who died in

November, 1978 at the age of 84, was known for his meticulously

detailed, placid portraits of American family life, while Neiman has built

his reputation on action-filled scenes composed of bold splashes of color.

Rockwell's career started and ended at the _Saturday Evening Post_;

Neiman's began at _Playboy_ and has reached its zenith in an entirely new

medium -- television. His televised mural of the 1976 Olympic Games was

seen by an estimated 170 million people.

One of the most commercially successful artists in the world, LeRoy

Neiman has spent the last 18 years living and working in a huge

apartment/studio just off Central Park West. His original paintings

command up to $50,000 each, but the larger portion of his work comes

out in the form of limited-edition serigraphs (silkscreen prints). A single

piece of silkscreen art generally yields some 300 prints, each of which

sells for about $1,500.

Neiman's eye-catching style is admired everywhere. His posters and

calendars are best-sellers in Japan; several of his painting are on

permanent display at the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad. He was the

official United States artist-in-residence for the last two Olympics and will

be for the 1980 Games as well. Although best known for his sports

pictures, Neiman is also a renowned portraitist who specializes in famous

faces. He is attracted by drama and excitement of any kind, whether found

in a tavern inhabited by the Beautiful People, in a heavyweight fight, in

a world chess championship, or, as television viewers witnessed last

January, in a Super Bowl. Neiman sat on the sidelines of that contest

drawing pictures of the game in progress, using a computer-controlled

electronic pen and palette. The pictures were then flashed onto the

television screen.

"It's painting with light," explains Neiman one morning in his studio,

taking a break from the half-dozen oils and acrylics he is working on. "It

gives you the same sense of creation as any other art medium. You're

building and creating an image of your own that wasn't there when you

started. The only limitation you ever have in doing a work of art is

yourself."

Starting this month, Neiman's work has become a regular feature of _CBS

Sports Spectacular_. At the beginning and end of each program, Neiman's

paintings are interspersed with photographs of athletes to form a moving

collage of colors and shapes. The artist has been contracted to make six

or seven personal appearances on the program over the next year, in

which he will demonstrate the art of drawing sports in action.

Neiman is a suave, sophisticated man who loves his work and loves to talk

about it. Dressed in a fancy denim-style suit, with a long, thin cigar

protruding from under his handlebar moustache, he expounds on a score

of subjects as if he had all the time in the world. In the adjacent room, the

telephone rings almost unceasingly. It is answered by his assistant, who

calls out the message to him. More likely than not, it is a request for

Neiman's artistic services.

"I sketch all the time," he says. "A sketch is not necessarily a study to

me. It's a record -- something to consult with. I sketch an awful lot in

public. Because when I go someplace and I get bored, I sketch.

Everybody forgives me for it. They think I have an uncontrollable desire

to draw."

His style, says Neiman, "came out of nowhere. It happened very

suddenly, about 1954, just before I started with _Playboy_." That

magazine recently honored him with an award for being one of the five

most important contributors in its 25-year history.

During his childhood in Minnesota, recalls Neiman, "I was always

drawing pictures and getting special treatment at school -- showing off,

copping out of other things. ... I lived a couple of years in England and

France." since moving to New York, he has been a constant Westsider.

Central Park, says Neiman, "is the West Side's front yard, but the East

Side's back yard."

Neiman's latest one-man show is an exhibit of approximately 50

serigraphs, etching, and drawings at Hammer Graphics on East 57th

Street. Part of the proceeds from sales will go to the U.S. Olympic

Committee.

"I turn most things down, because they're not stimulating and inspiring,"

says Neiman matter-of-factly. "Money isn't enough stimulus to do

something I don't like. ... I work very hard. I fool around a lot too, but

I don't go on vacations. I don't have hobbies. I put my vices within my

craft."

********

WESTSIDER ARNOLD NEWMAN

Great portrait photographer

12-1-79

When the _Sunday Times_ of London decided to hire someone to

photograph 50 leading British citizens for a show at England's National

Portrait Gallery, the venerable newspaper caused something of an uproar

by choosing an American for the job -- Arnold Newman, one of the

world's most important portrait photographers for the past 30 years.

The 50 portraits, whose subjects include Sir Lawrence Oliver, Sir John

Gielgud, Sir Alec Guinness, Henry Moore, Lord Mountbatten and Harold

Pinter, were exhibited last month at the Light Gallery on Fifth Avenue,

and have just opened in London. Meanwhile, the book version of the

prints, with extensive commentary, has been published this month as _The

Great British_ (New York Graphic Society, Boston, $14.95). The

photographs, like those found in Newman's three previous books and in

his hundreds of assignments for _Life_, _Look_, _Newsweek_ and other

publications, are far more than mere portraits. Rather, they are profound

artistic statements, in which the background of the picture often

symbolizes the person's achievement.

"I don't use props: I use reality," explains Newman, taking a break at the

West 57th Street studio he has occupied since 1948. On the wall are

pictures -- he prefers that word to "photographs" -- of Marc Chagall,

Pablo Picasso, Eugene O'Neill and four American presidents; Newman

has photographed every president since Truman.

Big, burly, mellow-voiced and casually dressed, Arnold Newman at 61

looks like an aging beatnik. His quick wit and ready laugh mask a

perfectionism that has characterized his work ever since he turned to

photography in 1938. His ability "to make the camera see what I saw"

showed itself almost at once. In 1941 he held his first exhibition and sold

his first print to the Museum of Modern Art.

"I could have made, over the years, a hell of a lot more money than I

have, simply by doing more commercial work and cashing in on my

reputation. But that doesn't interest me," he reflects, puffing on his ever

present cigar. "I mean, money interests me, but I'd just see my life being

wasted."

Specializing in portraits of artists, he studies the work of each subject

intensely beforehand so that the essence of the artist will be distilled into

the photograph, by subconscious as well as conscious effort. On the side,

he does enough commercial work to support his own artistic efforts. But

over the years, the two have somehow merged: "I'm forever being

commissioned for things I'd give my eye teeth to do, and paid very well

for it. Recently I went out to do a photograph strictly on my own of

somebody I admired, and I hate the picture. Yet the day before I did a

picture for money which I think is one of my best pictures in the last three

years."

In 1953, he went to Washington to photograph 15 U.S. senators for

_Holiday_ magazine, including John F. Kennedy -- then a political

unknown who was sometimes labeled the Playboy senator. "Years later,"

recalls Newman, "I was photographing President Kennedy on the White

House lawn. He turned to me and said, 'Arnold, whatever happened to

that first picture you took of me?'

"I said, 'Well, Mr. President, we did 15 senators, and they found out they

had one too many for the layout, so they dropped the one least likely to

succeed.'

"And you have to understand: we were surrounded by secret servicemen,

and Pierre Salinger, his press secretary, was there. Well I thought I'd get

a big yack, because Kennedy had a marvelous sense of humor. But

instead, his face went rigid. And I -- I absolutely turned ice cold. The

Secret Service men turned around and gave me a 'How stupid can you

be?' look.

"A bit later I managed to get into Pierre's office and started stammering

and apologizing. Suddenly Pierre started breaking out in laughter. I said,

'What the hell's so funny?' He said, 'He was pulling your leg! He's been

walking all around the White House for the last 30 minutes, telling that

story on himself.'"

After the assassination, Newman was called to the White House again to

photograph the official portrait of Lyndon Johnson. "He could give an

angel an ulcer. ... I didn't get paid for the picture, not even my expenses.

It cost me a fortune."

Arnold and his wife Augusta have been married for 31 years; she runs the

studio and works closely with him. Their two sons, Eric and David, are

professionals in neurology and architecture, respectively. The Newmans'

favorite neighborhood restaurants include Rikyu and Genghiz Khan's

Bicycle on Columbus Avenue, and the Cafe des Artistes on their own

block.

Asked whether he eventually plans to pursue other areas of photography

besides portraits, Newman shakes his head. "The whole history of painting

was changed by a man who used the same materials as everybody else did

-- the same brushes, paints, canvas, and subject matter," he explains. "So

why do we say that Cezanne revolutionized painting? It's his ideas. I deal

with ideas too."

********

EASTSIDER EDWIN NEWMAN

Journalist and first-time novelist

8-11-79

"When you achieve a certain prominence on television," says NBC's

Edwin Newman, "publishers come to you and ask you to write books.

Then you go round in circles for a while, and finally say, 'Gee, I'd like

to write a book, but I don't have the time.'"

Six years ago, the award-winning broadcast journalist decided to find out

if he was bluffing himself. He spent seven months of his spare time

writing a book called _Strictly Speaking: Will America be the Death of

English?_ Published in 1974 when Newman was 55 years old, it became

the nation's number one best-seller for non-fiction. His follow-up book,

_A Civil Tongue_ (1976), was another best-seller.

Now Edwin newman has written his first novel, _Sunday Punch_

(Houghton Mifflin, $9.95). Published in June, it has already gone through

two printings in hardcover, totaling 60,000 copies. The _Atlantic_ has

described the book as "a Wodehousian excursion that is lighter than air

and twice as much fun as laughing gas."

In a leisurely interview at his Rockefeller Plaza office, the author comes

across very much as he does on television. His leathery features expand

easily into a smile as he delivers, in his slow, concise, foghorn voice,

comments that are as thought-provoking as they are witty.

_Sunday Punch_, he says, "is the story of an extremely thin, tall, British

prizefighter named Aubrey Philpott-Grimes who comes to the U.S. to

fight because he can make more money here than in Britain. The more

money he makes, the higher taxes he can pay, and Aubrey is a great

believer in paying taxes. He is tremendously interested in economics, so

that if he is brought to the microphone after a fight, he'll probably start

talking about structural unemployment and floating exchange rates, rather

than talking about fighting. ... The book allows me to comment on the

United States from the view of an outsider."

His fascination with the cultural and linguistic differences of the U.S. and

England dates back to the late 1940s, when Newman left his job with the

Washington-based International News Service and moved to London.

There, he found work as a "stringer" for the NBC network, and when he

was invited to join the full-time staff in 1952, he remained at the British

capital for five more years. In 1961, after serving as NBC bureau chief

in both Paris and Rome, he returned to his native Manhattan and settled

into his present Eastside apartment with his English wife, Rigel. The

Newmans' daughter Nancy was educated entirely in England.

A harsh critic of the state of the language in America today, Newman is

the head of the Usage Panel for the American Heritage Dictionary. He is

always being sent examples of poor English. "Do you want to know what

accountability is?" he says, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he takes

a letter from his desk. "This is from a teachers' committee in Kalamazoo,

Michigan. 'Accountability is a concept that, when operationalized, finds

the interrelatedness and parameters of responsibility shaped by individuals

within the system.'

"It seems to me there are two movements going on that affect language in

the United States, and it's curious that they would be going on at the same

time, because in a way they conflict with each other. One is the increasing

use of jargon and pomposity, which can partly traced to the size of the

government. As the government grows, this kind of language grows. ...

The more technical they make the language sound, the more money

they're likely to earn.

"Then you have the influence of the social sciences, where exactly the

same thing goes on. People attempt to take familiar ideas, small ideas, and

in some cases no ideas, and make them sound large by wrapping them up

in grandiose language.

"The other movement that is going on is based on the notion that correct,

specific, concrete language doesn't matter very much. What matters is that

your heart be in the right place. ... This idea was thoroughly welcome to

many people in education. For one thing, it means that you have less

written work to correct. And also, of course, if you don't have to teach

correct English, you don't have to know it."

During his 28 years as an NBC news correspondent, Edwin Newman has

excelled in so many areas that he has become known as the network's

"Renaissance man." One of the most quick-thinking ad-libbers on the air,

he is frequently called upon to do live "instant specials" of breaking news.

He moderated the first Ford-Carter debate in 1976, has hosted the _Today

Show_ numerous times, has covered six national political conventions and

reported from 35 foreign countries. Each Monday through Friday, he is

heard on both radio and television across the U.S. in a series of news

briefs.

His biggest project at the moment is a two-hour, prime-time documentary

on U.S. foreign policy, which is scheduled to be aired early in September.

"I think in some way," concludes Newman, "I fell into the right

profession. Somebody said -- I think it was H.L. Mencken -- that you go

into the news business because it gives you a front-row seat. And he

might have added that not only does it give you a front row seat, but you

get the seat free."

born 1-15-19

********

EASTSIDER LARRY O'BRIEN

Commissioner of the National Basketball Association

2-16-80

Fame rests lightly on the shoulders of Larry O'Brien, who was raised on

politics in his hometown of Springfield, Massachusetts and never sought

elective office for himself, yet became one of the Democratic Party's most

influential spokesmen for nearly two decades.

As a campaign manager, he propelled John F. Kennedy into the Senate

and then into the White House. He served as postmaster general under

President Johnson from 1965 to 1968, and was twice named chairman of

the Democratic National Committee, a post traditionally given to the

party's foremost political strategist. His name loomed large in the

Watergate hearings, for it was O'Brien whose office was broken into by

the original Watergate burglars.

He was in the news again in 1974, when, having retired from politics, he

published his autobiography, _No Final Victories_. Expecting to be out

of the public eye after that, O'Brien was astonished to be offered the job

of commissioner of the National Basketball Association. Now midway

through his fifth season, he has not only resolved the major disputes that

threatened the future of professional basketball, but has brought a new

vitality to the sport.

The NBA's headquarters, a plush suite of office high above Fifth Avenue,

is silent and practically empty on the afternoon of my appointment with

the commissioner. A gregarious host, he talks about basketball and politics

for nearly two hours in his effusive manner, while chain-smoking low-tar

cigarettes. He is a hearty, husky man with a basso voice that rarely alters

in pitch, and is as casual as a bartender.

Brought up in the town where basketball was invented, the son of Irish

immigrants, he worked his way through law school by tending bar in his

father's cafe in the daytime and taking classes at night. One of the most

trusted of politicians, known for his uncommon organizational abilities and

his gift for compromise, O'Brien is a fascinatingly long-winded

conversationalist who speaks with many digressions.

"The sports commissioner is somewhat unique. First of all, you are paid

by the owners, and you are expected to be as responsive as you can to the

fans -- to do everything possible to ensure that the game is presented in

the best conceivable way to the fans, and the most exciting and interesting

manner, because after all, this is business."

During the Kennedy and Johnson White House years, he served as

presidential liaison to Congress and helped win passage of the Peace

Corps, Medicare, and the Civil Rights Act of 1964. As commissioner, his

authority is all-powerful. "It goes to supervision of every aspect of the

game, on and off the court," he explains. "It goes to determining even

what time games are played and who plays them."

Attendance in the NBA has risen considerably this year; O'Brien

cheerfully attributes it to the resurgence of the Boston Celtics and the

improvement of the New York Knicks.

Recently Dallas was granted a franchise to create a new NBA team, the

23rd in the U.S. "If there were further expansion beyond 24 teams,"

O'Brien predicts, "I think it would take on an international flavor. ...

There are a number of countries in Europe that are playing quality

basketball at the professional level. I envision that by the mid-80s, you

would find countries in Europe that could be competitive with us.

Probably the first step would be only exhibitions, but I can see it reaching

a point where you could give serious thought to establishing another

conference perhaps."

Larry and his wife Elva have been married since 1944; their son Laurence

III is a Washington-based lawyer. An Eastside resident during most of the

last seven years, O'Brien recalls the Watergate break-in with grim humor.

"We didn't have anything in the office anyway. We were practically

bankrupt. I thought, maybe there's a typewriter missing. ... I was a

disbeliever. It took a long time for it to penetrate that this was real. ...

My best recollection of that period is that I was very depressed, in the

sense of what effects it was having on our system of government.

"When I was on my book promotion tour, people would ask, 'How does

it feel to be a politician?' as if it was a dirty word. I have always been

proud of being a politician, and I've never felt otherwise. But I found that

all of us involved in politics were painted with the same brush."

His mood brightens when the subject returns to basketball. Speaking of the

recent backboard-shattering antics of "Chocolate Thunder" Darryl

Dawkins, O'Brien reports that the star "said that he certainly could adjust

his dunk shot to prevent further incidents."

The most difficult aspect of his job so far, says O'Brien, has been to

enforce the compensation agreement that players and owners signed four

years ago. "Compensation means that when a player has terminated his

contractual obligations to a club, the new club that acquires him must

make compensation to the other team, and work that out between them.

And then if the two teams fail to reach an agreement, the case comes to

me and I determine what compensation is appropriate. In making the

losing club whole, I can assign draft choices, players, money, or any

combination thereof. It's extremely difficult -- weighing players against

players, and deciding how much money is valid compensation. There's no

sure way of doing it, unless you were Solomon or you had a crystal ball

as to how it would turn out."

********

WESTSIDER MAUREEN O'SULLIVAN

Great lady of the movie screen

3-4-78

As recently as 10 years ago, most of the motion pictures filmed in this

country had a single run at the theatres, and then were seldom seen or

heard from again.