Read My Lips (39 page)

These shows were all about getting free and finding myself in the music. Industry people—Val Garay, the Grammy-winning producer of Kim Carnes’s number-one hit “Bette Davis Eyes,” and performers like James Taylor, Linda Ronstadt, and Bonnie Raitt—started coming in to Genghis Cohen when I sang. I was also working with legends Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller. Mike and Jerry were there for the beginning of rock and roll, the songwriting team behind hits like “Hound Dog,” “Stand by Me,” “Jailhouse Rock,” and “Love Potion Number Nine.” Their contributions
to music were immortalized in the Broadway play
Smoky Joe’s Cafe.
I was a little intimidated, to say the least, but I felt so lucky to be able to work with them.

Over the years I’ve had the good fortune to work with great talents and legends in the business: Along with Jerry and Mike, there was Mike’s wife, the legendary pianist and harpist Corky Hale. They’ve always been so supportive and special to me. Not to go on endlessly, but music is so important to me that I just have to thank people who helped me get this far: Kenny Vance, still a big hit out on the road singing doo-wop, would take me into a studio in the middle of the night so I could work; and Richard Perry, who had to hear every note of every song I ever sang to give me his critique. So shoot me, but I have to say one more time: I would have never been a singer if it hadn’t been for Bob Esty.

Everyone has something to offer if you’re willing to listen. Take singing teacher George Griffin, who once told me to take a “surprise breath” while I was singing: “Like you’re saying ‘hi’ to someone,” he explained.

I gave it a shot. It worked.

I’m in the mood for
—GASP! Oh, hi!—
loooove . . .

I got an invaluable lesson in performance from Moon Unit Zappa, who is a talented director and also an author. In 2004 I appeared in a short film she directed called
Ugly.
I’d known Moon most of her life. At one point the Zappas lived down the street from us and went to school with Claire.

At one of my shows in Glendale, Moon heard me ad lib something along the lines of “I’d love to pay the band, but in lieu of that, could you just applaud . . .”

Later she told me, “This thing about paying the band . . . Would you rather be thought of as somebody who couldn’t pay the band, or would you rather be thought of as the Dalai Lama come to Glendale?”

Out of the mouths of babes.

Hal David, my dear darling friend, was another source of love and constant support in regard to my music. He showed insight
(not surprising) when he insisted I work with musician Chris Caswell. Chris wrote many good songs, and along with Bob Esty, helped me put together a selection of songs. Then I had the pleasure of having my CD,
Sally,
produced by the brilliant Val Garay, whom I adore.

After hearing my CD, Barry Manilow sent me the nicest letter, which I cherish to this day. Burt Bacharach called me to say he listened to the CD. I thanked him. And he said, “No, I wanted to listen to it because I know how important music has always been to you.”

I still remember when I heard the CD for the first time. Val played it for me.

“Is that who I am?” I asked, hearing myself really
sounding
like myself.

Singing is so much fun, such a rush, once you find your real voice. A little jazz, a little blues, a little rock and roll. Breaking free.

T
HINGS WERE GOING SO WELL WHEN THE MONEY
I
HAD
finally gotten used to started to disappear—and not because I was an alcoholic languishing on the floor of a Palm Beach mansion.

I’ve never known anyone as driven as my husband, Jonathan. He went to St. John’s College, reading all the classics in the languages they were originally written. He’s a genius, winning scholarships, fellowships, graduating from Yale Law School. Once he turned his hand to show business, he achieved tremendous success as a manager and producer. He had his own company—which went public—and produced over forty feature films. He won a Hollywood Visionary Award and a People’s Choice Award, just to name a few of his many achievements.

But after so many years of working nonstop producing and managing—oh, and teaching at UCLA too—he told me that he needed a change.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “I’m an intellectual. I have to let my mind wander and follow it.”

With that, he retreated. He holed up in his home office for almost three years. Not that he wasn’t busy. He wrote a textbook about the movie industry, he wrote scripts, and he mapped out his plan for the future. Still an achiever, he kept teaching movie production, and he set up a graduate film school in Florida. As always, he kept setting goals for himself and meeting them.

One day he said, “I have a new financing idea.” Then came the first-class trips to Europe, to Germany and Cannes, all in pursuit of financing. We were investing in my music, we were investing in Jonathan’s new venture, and the kids were still in school. But it took us a while to grasp that, though we were living the same lifestyle, we weren’t earning quite the same as we had in the past. To make matters worse, one day we turned around, and the entire American economy had bottomed out. And so did we.

When the money is gone, and you’re down to a song . . .

That’s a line from one of my favorite numbers, one that I perform in my show. And that’s where we were suddenly: down to a song.

We know we’re not victims. The whole world is hurting. What this period of our lives has given me is a compassion for those who have always struggled financially. Though I had been young and broke, I had no idea what being grown up and broke felt like—until now. But not to worry, nothing has ever stopped my husband. We’re already back on our feet.

From my friends I’ve learned about
real
giving, real thoughtfulness. People thinking beyond themselves. It quickly became clear how truly lucky we were when our friends lined up to help us. Our friends Laura and Larry Worchell really did save our lives. At one point we needed help, and when I called Laura to ask about a loan, she reacted as if I was calling to borrow a cup of
sugar. Because of her giving spirit, there was no embarrassment, no shame. My friend Esther Rydell—who still gets a call from me every day of the week—I relied on her for so much. How do you cook this? What do I put in that? “I have a brisket for you . . . I always have a twenty here if you need it,” she would say to me. So many little, thoughtful, wonderful gestures. We’ve been blessed with so much generosity. “What do you need? Here take this. Here, let us pick this up for you.” The kindness that’s been shown to us is beyond words.

We spend more time at home now instead of going out. When it is time to cut loose just a little, we say, “Let’s splurge! Let’s go to El Pollo Loco!” We have a full meal for $3.99 and feel like we’ve been to the palace. We are learning all over again how to have cheap fun.

Listen: money doesn’t make you happy. But there’s no denying it makes things easier. Throughout my life, however, I’ve learned more from the downs than I have from the ups. I’ve learned I have friends and even acquaintances willing to go above and beyond for me. My relationship with Jonathan has deepened. My children have rallied and grown up from this experience. Jack bought his own car, and Hanna’s finding her own way. They’re both discovering their own talents, facing their own challenges. They are learning, as we have, that you make your own happiness.

So far we’ve made it through. We have survived. Boy, surviving sure does put a spin on things.
If this experience doesn’t get me out of myself and my petty woes,
I think,
I’m doomed.
But all anyone has to do is go out into the world for a second to see that if you have a roof over your head and people who love you, you’re doing just fine.

H
AS
H
OLLYWOOD CHANGED?

When Jack and Hanna were little, around five or six, they’d ask me, “Mom, what was it like in the olden days?” I said, “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.” But that wasn’t quite true. I was there.

I think of the way they lit Greta Garbo, Ingrid Bergman, and Joan Crawford in the films I saw as a little girl. As a kid, I looked up to them in awe. I didn’t want to know what Garbo looked like when she was shopping for groceries. I didn’t want to see close-ups of any cellulite Crawford might have on the back of her legs. But today that’s all the supermarket magazines focus on. Magazines are always trumpeting stories like, “How I got my body back” instead of “How thrilled I am to have my baby.”

See what stars look like without their makeup
!

Look how hideous they look on the beach
!

“Celebrity,” whatever that means, has changed. So has society. Sometimes it seems as if audiences don’t want celebrities to be larger than life anymore. The paparazzi have created an atmosphere in which everyone is watching and waiting with bated breath for someone to fail. I certainly do feel grateful I grew up in a time before the tabloid madness and the Internet. We had the freedom to live with nobody looking.

I remember rolling down Fairfax Avenue in a shopping cart pushed by Bob Sampson, my friend from Jeff Corey’s acting class, both of us with television and film roles under our belts, and there wasn’t a camera in sight. You could go to work dressed like a bum and nobody was the wiser. So I was spared the twenty-four-hour entertainment news cycle and paparazzi at every corner, I’m lucky. I have good timing in life. If
M*A*S*H
had come out today, I probably couldn’t go to El Pollo Loco without pictures landing on the Internet of me and a burrito.

I honestly don’t know how people who work in this town have adjusted to this new level of intrusion—or whether they still manage to have private lives at all. I loved the little picket fence of my Cape Cod house, which was all I needed to keep me and my children safe from the world.

I’ve always gotten star struck—still do—so I understand the fascination with celebrity. I remember one night when Jonathan, John Travolta, and I were going to a party. John and I were so excited. Why?
There would be a lot of movie stars
! We were thrilled about seeing people we admired on screen. It didn’t matter that we were in the same business.

Another night, when I was having dinner with Jonathan and John, a crowd of fans gathered waiting for John to sign autographs. John was gracious and charming, and after signing for a while, he said, “Okay, I’ve got to go now. Thanks.”

Cut to the very next day on Venice Beach. Jonathan and I were walking along when two guys asked for my autograph. “All right,” I sighed, and signed half-heartedly. As we walked away, Jonathan turned to me and said, “Right, Sally. Be mean to your fans. You have two.”

I’ve grown up a lot since then, and I love my fans. I adore getting to meet them, signing autographs, and, now, interacting with them on Twitter and Facebook. It’s very touching, and it’s a responsibility. And without fans, you’ve got
bupkis,
kid. It’s that old giving-back thing that I’m still learning about.

Sometimes, it’s not just the bigness of Hollywood—sweeping
back lots, soft lenses, and stars up on pedestals—that I miss, but the smallness of Hollywood too. That neighborhood feeling. From the front porch of my Cape Cod house, I’d see Cass Elliot of the Mamas and Papas drive by, slow down in her big Cadillac convertible, top down, to say hi. After she died, Ringo Starr bought her house. Talk about a thrill. I remember watering the plants in the front yard when, lo and behold, Ringo himself pulled up in his convertible. He invited me to stop by sometime. (I never did—I was too chicken.)

That kind of neighborliness doesn’t really happen anymore. Now we all have tall, prickly hedges and gates around our properties. But when I open my gate, there’s still a neighborly face to be found.

It is still so hard for me to let go of saying, “MGM,” no matter how many times I catch myself. I used to love driving onto that lot, feeling welcomed into another world the minute I passed through the gates. There was a little parking area, simple and accessible, before any security, any barriers. Now it’s the Sony lot; you park three stories underground, and you’d better have a passport and your running shoes to get where you need to go.

I look back with such fondness at my television years at Universal, wandering past the bungalows, bumping into people I hoped to see. It felt like a real community, dedicated to doing the work we all loved.

Even events like the Cannes Film Festival used to be more intimate. When we went to Cannes for
M*A*S*H,
I wore a Levis skirt with a multicolored rope belt and a red bandanna around my head. When we won the Palme d’Or, I switched to a pretty yellow long-sleeved gown—but I still kept the red bandanna. The lobby of the Hotel Carlton had these big comfy couches. Lunch was mellow at the beach club, the patio serene. It was all warm, wonderful, and French. Now the lobby of the Carlton Hotel is a place of business. No couches—just signs and movie posters.