Stardust on his shoulders
By Jennie Watters
“Mr. Como,” the elevator boy stammered nervously, “Mr. Como, my mother and dad think I can sing. I’m taking singing lessons. And we can’t afford it. I’d love it if I could sing to you, and you could tell me whether the lessons are worth it or not.”
“Sure kid,” Perry Como replied, “Sure, let me hear you sing.”
“You mean here in the elevator?”
“Yeah, in the elevator. Why not?” The teenager stopped the elevator between floors and sang the first line of one of Perry Como’s greatest hits. “Why are you stopping?” the star asked.
“Well, I don’t know. I don’t want to bother you too much.”
“No, sing it. Go ahead and sing it.” The elevator boy sang another line and stopped again. “Will you please finish the song!” Perry insisted. So, the teenage boy began again and sang “There Must Be A Way” all the way through. “Oh no, kid” the singing star said once he was done, “you gotta sing, you’ve got something. You got a beautiful voice. You keep right at it. Don’t you give up.”
Vito Farinola had been singing since age three when he learned a little Italian ditty to cheer his mother up when she was in the hospital. After that she insisted that he practice every day, even interrupting his neighborhood baseball games to make him practice his scales. “Vito! Time to vocalize!” she would yell and everyone knew it was useless to argue. There were times he enjoyed singing, like in the evening when the family gathered together, Ma at the piano, his father strumming the guitar and his sisters joining in. The Farinolas were not well off financially but there was a lot of love to go around. Vito began contributing to the family income as soon as he could. He was fourteen when he applied to the Paramount Theater. “You had to be sixteen to usher at the Paramount…so I lied about my age. And I got the job!” Singing for Perry Como took guts he didn’t know he had, but it helped that Como was always so kind and approachable.
When he turned seventeen, Vito auditioned to sing on the radio during rain delays for the Brooklyn Dodgers. They liked him but said, “You know, the name Vito Farinola just isn’t going to work. You’ll have to change it.”
“I was a pugnacious little street kid, and anyway, it was my name we were changing, so I said, ‘I’ll tell you what the new name will be…Vito…Vito…how about Vic?’
‘Yeah, I like it,’ he said.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I like it. About the second name, something American like…Drake? Vic Drake?’
‘No, I don’t like it.’
‘Good. Neither do I. My mom’s maiden name was Damone. How about Damone? Vic Damone?’
‘Terrific! I like it!’
‘Me too,’ I said, ‘My father won’t be happy, but my mom with love it.'”
Soon after his name change, Vic got an unexpected call from a big name in the business. This time it was his idol, Frank Sinatra. All through High School, Vic had tried his best to imitate Frank’s distinctive singing style. He had incorporated a lot of Sinatra’s songs into his repertoire. That day, Frank heard him on the radio and wanted to congratulate this newcomer on his impressive set of pipes. The only problem was Vic couldn’t believe it was Sinatra personally calling him so when the voice on the line said “This is Frank Sinatra,” Vic figured one of his buddies was pranking him. “And I’m the Pope!” he snapped and hung up! Frank tried calling a second time, “Listen, I want to talk to Vic Damone. This is Frank Sinatra and-“
“Yeah, and I’m still the pope,” Vic shouted, hanging up for a second time.
When Vic met Sinatra eight months later at the Madison Square Garden, Sinatra tried to tell him off. It dawned on Vic that he had hung up on the real Frank Sinatra. He scrambled to apologize, explaining that it had been a misunderstanding. Sinatra forgave him right away and even insisted on introducing him. “Folks, I’m going to bring a kid out here. And this kid can sing. He’s got a hit record and he’s doing great. This kid has stardust on his shoulders. Vic Damone!”
Hollywood soon became interested in grooming Vic for movie stardom. His first leading role was in an MGM picture starring Jane Powell called “Rich, Young and Pretty.” It was profitable but received a lukewarm reception. The New York Times called the film “pretty as a picture postcard and just about as exciting.” The movie may not have been exciting but his newfound movie star status sure was! He went on dates with some of the most glamorous young women in the business, including Elizabeth Taylor and Ava Gardner. Between dates, filming and live
concerts, Vic had to fulfill his commitment to the National Guard. The Korean War was raging and in 1951, he was drafted into the army. His agent booked him in as many events as possible before his departure, and he recorded songs that would be released during his time in the service. After basic training he was transferred to special forces, so part of his service was spent entertaining the troops. In Berlin, at a USO performance, he ran into an Italian actress he recognized from his days at MGM. Her name was Pier Angeli. He resolved to get to know her better as soon as his two years in the army were up.
1954 was the year of his next Technicolor musical “Athena,” which also featured Jane Powell but had newcomer Debbie Reynolds as his love interest. Debbie lit up the screen, and was “spontaneous, vivacious and free spirited!” Being in the movies with was fun, although in his memoir, “Singing Was the Easy Part,” Vic admits that he was definitely not a natural born actor. The movies were just another avenue for his singing, and on screen Damone was not a dynamic presence. Besides that, the plot of “Athena” is downright weird, it flopped at the box office. His next big movie, “Hit the Deck,” was a bit better. Vic Damone stars as one of three singing sailors on leave in San Francisco. By that time, this was a tired Hollywood trope (used to better advantage in bigger budget musicals “On the Town” and “Anchors Aweigh.”) In his later years, Vic himself had trouble recollecting “which sailor was stuck on which girl,” but remembered that he was “head over heels with Janie Powell…but I really began to fall head over heels for another MGM actress, the beautiful [Pier Angeli].”
In Vic’s mind, Angeli was the perfect woman, both fun to be around and sweet natured. The two lovebirds had a lavish Hollywood style wedding. After their Honeymoon he was right back to work, cast in a new movie. The Broadway hit “Kismet” was being adapted for the screen, directed by the esteemed Vincent Minelli, and also starring Ann Blyth and Howard Keel. Usually known for his painstaking attention to detail, Minelli viewed this project negatively and rushed through the filming process. Worse, whenever something would go wrong on set, even if it had nothing to do with Vic he was the scapegoat. The verbal abuse was so bad that after “Kismet” wrapped, Vic did not appear in the movies for a while. Reviewers complained that this movie lacked the drama, romance and tension of the stage play. Still, they couldn’t help but gush when it came to the “luscious and silvery tunes” – originally composed by Alexander Borodin – some of the most beautiful music ever written. The movie is still worthwhile viewing even if just for that aspect alone.
Nine months after his wedding, little Perry Damone was born (named of course after Perry Como.) Pier and Vic were delighted to have a son, and aside from some mother-in-law trouble, everything was going well. He sang the title song for the hit movie “Affair to Remember,” which in turn became a hit record. Damone was gaining an international following and when Perry was three, he left for a European tour. When he came home, he was shocked to discover Pier wanted a divorce. Vic started to wonder if she had been seeing someone else. She hadn’t given a reason for ending their marriage, there hadn’t even been much conflict between them. He hired a private investigator to see if she had been seeing someone else. Sadly, his instincts were correct. His wife had been cheating on him with a mutual friend of theirs. At first Vic was so furious he wanted to shoot the guy, but his pal Frank Sinatra talked some sense into him. Once the rage was gone, loneliness set in. Even though she had been unfaithful, part of him wanted more than anything to reconcile.
One day, Vic was on a flight with one of his musicians, a drummer named Sidney Bulkin. Sid had an alcohol problem, but today he ordered a Coke. In a complete role reversal, Vic, who ordinarily didn’t drink at all, ordered scotch on the rocks – twice. This became a conversation starter. Vic talked about his pain and Sidney revealing he had found new peace in the Baha’i faith. “Talk to God Vic,” Sid said, “Tell Him what you’re thinking, how you’re feeling.” Vic had been raised Italian Catholic, but he felt alienated by the church when he realized they would no longer serve him communion now that he was divorced.
A priest had offered to annul his marriage for a hefty price, which would have enabled him to partake of communion. He had declined because it didn’t seem right to have to buy acceptance. The Baha’i church was a welcome alternative, and he learned to pour his heart out to God in a way he had never felt free to before. When he married a second time in 1963, it was in a Baha’i ceremony.
His wife’s name was Judy Rawlins. She had been an actress but also worked as an animator for Walt Disney. They wanted to have children and eventually were blessed with three girls. Although each new child brought them joy, the pregnancies were very hard on Judy because of her scoliosis (curvature of the spine.) She started to rely more and more heavily on pain medications. Vic worried about her health, he knew she was taking more pills than she ought to but he didn’t know what to do. He was busy making frequent TV appearances on variety shows and sitcoms. Vic dreamed of starting his own entertainment company so that he could produce his own TV shows and records. This way, he and his friends could exercise more creative control and wouldn’t have to rely on studios that overworked and exploited them. For this to work, he needed financial backing.
In 1971 he took out a $250,000 loan. He had a business partner that he had met through a friend. Two weeks after the loan went through, Vic got a call from the bank president telling him “There is no money in your account.” His heart sank as he explained he had not authorized for his business partner to withdraw any money, and it sank even more when he called the man’s number and heard “this number is no longer in service.” His partner had moved – fled to Lebanon with his entire family. Vic would have to declare bankruptcy. He wondered how he would tell his wife. He did not expect her to take it well, but he wasn’t prepared for what she ended up saying. “If that’s true, we can’t be married. I need a divorce. I can’t be married to a bankrupt.”
Trying to recuperate some of his losses and support his children, Vic began to perform more often in Las Vegas. He couldn’t stand all the secondhand smoke he inhaled every time they took a breath in those nightclubs. In an effort to keep his lungs healthy, he developed a passion for golf, he believes golf may have saved his life. His other saving grace were his friends Dean Martin, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. They had his back and he had theirs. When he had the flu, Sammy Davis stood in for him. “Sammy could sing, dance, mimic, do comedy…he could do it all. I told him once, “Sammy, I see you onstage, I just cannot believe all the things you do.’ He said, ‘I do about ten different things. But you know what? I’d give eight of them back if I could sing like you…but I’d keep two.’ I don’t think anyone ever gave me a bigger compliment. I wondered which two he’d keep.”
March 28th, 1974, his youngest daughter Daniella (age six) found Judy dead in
her bedroom. It was a devastating loss. Though listed as probable suicide, Vic found it more likely that she had accidentally overdosed on pain pills. Now as the sole surviving parent, how was he supposed to work and raise three young daughters by himself? He was on the road half the time and still recovering from his financial crisis. His piano player’s wife had been friends with Judy, and she offered to have the girls live with her. Vic was incredibly relieved, he visited as often as he could. This continued for two and a half years. In the meantime, he remarried, this time a young woman named Becky. They got an apartment in Los Angeles and the girls moved back in with their dad. He finally felt like he was able to provide a stable family environment for his children. He still traveled for work of course, and after a trip to London Becky met him at the airport. It was after they exchanged a hug and a kiss that he learned she wanted a divorce.
“In retrospect,” Vic mused, “I don’t know what to say about all these Hollywood marriages. I wasn’t the Hollywood type who would go from one marriage to another to another as soon as someone more beautiful came along. I had been in love with [Pier]…I had a deep affection for Judy, too, and strong feelings for Becky. Judy and I had been married eleven years, Becky and I, ten. These hadn’t been thoughtless, temporary affairs. I loved women. I didn’t like being by myself. Singing was as unsettled a life as you can get, always out at night, always on the road. I wanted the affection and stability of a good marriage. But things just hadn’t worked out that way.” His fourth marriage was to another performer, a fantastic vocalist by the name of Diahann Carroll. It seemed like a match made in heaven, especially since they made for such an exciting pair onstage. Their relationship was “turbulent” according to Dihann; it lasted almost a decade.
In 1996, Vic was asked to sing for a charity gala, which was being organized by a philanthropist named Rena Rowan. She was raising money for the homeless in Philadelphia. When he met Rena in person she was with her partner Sidney Kimmel, who he assumed was her husband. He asked how long they had been together and Sidney said “almost thirty years.” Rena piped up, “We’re not married. July 13th we’ll have been together thirty years. If we’re not married by then, I told Sidney I’m out of here.” It turns out the two of them had been in business together for twenty-five of those years and had built quite a successful clothing company. Rena specialized in taking high fashion European designs and adapting them into clothes working women could wear. The company had transformed the way American women dressed and she had acquired some wealth. But her real passion was giving to others.
For all her current elegance, Rena had lived a very tough life. As a child, she had to endure a month-long trip in a boxcar from Poland to Siberia, where the Russians left her and her mother and sister to die during World War II. She knew what it was like to be homeless, to have nothing. She was forever grateful for people who took them in and saved their lives, so she dedicated her life to doing the same for others. This time, Vic knew that the love he felt for the woman in his life was based on far more than surface attraction or common interests. He was drawn to her because of her character. He wanted to take care of her the way she deserved, the way she was always cared for others. They were both seventy when they married and both felt that for the first time, they had found a love that would never leave them. He was by her bedside when she passed away in 2016, after eighteen happy years together.
Vic officially retired after suffering a stroke in 2001, but in 2011, he sang at the Kravis Center for the Performing Arts to a sold-out crowd. Damone admitted that this final performance was for his grandchildren. “My six grandkids have never seen me on stage. Before I die, I want them to have heard me perform at least once.” A fitting end to a career that spanned over five decades and included more than 2,000 songs. When Vic breathed his last on February 11th, 2018 at the age of 89, he was surrounded by his friends and family. A week later the funeral was held at St. Edward’s Catholic Church. Both his service and the bereavement meal at Vic’s favorite restaurant were overflowing with people who wanted to say goodbye. The Palm Beach Daily Mail wrote: “What a guy – even in death he plays to a packed house.”
He still has stardust on his shoulders.