Late Life Jazz: The Life and Career of Rosemary Clooney (32 page)

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s soon as Rosemary’s demi-centennial visit to Rainbow and Stars was over on March 4, 1995, she finally got around to the knee replacement that was by now long overdue. It was eight weeks before she was mobile enough to resume performing—“they never told me how tough this was going to be,” she told one journalist—but once done, it gave her a new line of patter on stage. “The whole joint is now made out of steel,” she said. “You know what’s funny? Every time I go through airports I send bells gonging like crazy.”
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The surgery disrupted her usual summer scheduling to such an extent that she made only a handful of live appearances before arriving in Florida in August to record her demi-centennial video concert. It was a happy anniversary event although there were other dates now appearing increasingly in Rosemary’s diary that bore stark reminders of the passing years. In 1994, she had sung at the funeral of her friend Dinah Shore and in December 1995, she found herself singing Dean Martin’s theme song, “Everybody Loves Somebody” at his wake in Los Angeles. It was Martin himself who had once said to her that he had reached the point where he had more friends “on the other side” than here, a thought that was in her mind as she performed.

Rosemary’s knee problems might have interrupted her live schedule but the disruption was more than compensated by an upsurge in recording work. It coincided with a change of ownership at Concord Records. Late in 1994, a dying Carl Jefferson had sold the label to the recently established media distribution group, Alliance Entertainment. Jefferson’s last act before the sale had been to secure the succession, appointing Glen Barros to lead the company. Alliance’s acquisition of Concord, along with its simultaneous purchase of the British label, Castle Communications, was its first step on
an ambitious diversification and growth plan. For a time, the deal gave Concord more muscle than ever before, and despite her affection for Jefferson, Rosemary saw it as a step forward. “I’ve found that the new owners of Concord Records (Alliance Entertainment Corporation of New York) really do care about their artists, and promote our new CDs,” she said in a 1996 interview that sounded more like a corporate press release. “You know, Jeff (Carl Jefferson, founder of Concord Jazz) was just wonderful to me. He encouraged me to make records again and appear at his jazz festivals; he was a close friend. But he had trouble distributing and promoting his records.”
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Rosemary’s first album under the new regime continued her series of personal retrospectives.
Dedicated to Nelson
took Rosemary’s television relationship with Nelson Riddle from the mid-’50s as its theme. It was arguably the most challenging assignment she would ever give to her musical Man Friday, John Oddo. Although tapes of Rosemary singing the songs from her TV shows survived, none of Riddle’s written scores were to be found. Oddo had the job of transcribing them by ear. There were other complications too. Riddle’s pieces were invariably short. With no orchestral break built into the TV versions, they ran to little over two minutes, too short for an album track. Oddo had to extend them into full versions, second-guessing the way Riddle might have broken up the song. Oddo also had to deal with the fact that Rosemary’s vocal range had changed in the 40-odd years since Riddle had created his originals. He found that he needed to take all of the keys down, most by a fourth and some by a minor third. The workload was so great that Oddo had to call in other arrangers to help with a handful of the tracks, although the album was undeniably Oddo’s magnum opus. It seemed only fitting that a chance remark of his should provide the album title. “About this album that’s dedicated to Nelson …” he said one day in a phone call to Allen Sviridoff.
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From that moment, the album had its title.

Oddo’s epic was completed in time for Rosemary to record the 16 chosen titles over four days at the end of September 1995. The result, said Gary Giddins in his sleeve note, was “miraculous—a 1996 [
sic
] album by Rosie and Nelson!” Backed by a full orchestra a la Riddle, the songs, by definition, were all a minimum of 40-plus years old. Indeed, “You’re in Kentucky,” written by fellow Kentuckian Haven Gillespie, dated back to 1923. Walter Donaldson’s “At Sundown” dated from 1927, but the best track once again came from close to home for Rosemary. “A Foggy Day” was the Gershwins’ masterpiece that had been finalized in the living room of 1019 North Roxbury. Rosemary had recorded the song twice before, in London (appropriately) in 1957 and again 20 years later on her debut album for Concord,
as well as singing the song countless times on stage. It had always been Rosemary’s practice to add a slight pause in the line “as I walked through the foggy streets … alone,” a clear statement that the song is about loneliness, not London. Her new rendition had her delivering the verse just to Oddo’s piano accompaniment, and when she came to the critical line, the pause now became a chasm. There are few, if any, examples of a singer generating more emotion from a five-letter word than Rosemary does on her delivery of the word “alone.”

Dedicated to Nelson
was Rosemary’s biggest seller for Concord to date, reaching #8 in the
Billboard
Top Jazz Albums chart. By now, Concord’s portfolio of jazz-styled vocalists had extended to include Mel Tormé, Susannah McCorkle, and Keely Smith, but it was Rosemary who had developed into the label’s most successful artist, with 12 chart entries between 1985 and 2002. During the same period, Concord registered 65 album hits, with Rosemary accounting for almost one in five.
Dedicated to Nelson
also brought a Grammy nomination, although as with similar accolades in 1992, 1993, and 1994, Rosemary wound up as runner-up to Tony Bennett. When she shared a guest spot with him on
The Rosie O’Donnell Show
, Rosemary was characteristically direct. “I’m mad at you,” she told him. “If I’m nominated in the same category, I can’t win. One year, don’t make an album …”
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Rosemary used the
Nelson
album as the basis for her Rainbow and Stars month in February 1996, and for the first time saw the tangible benefit of the new muscle behind Concord Records. To repeat the Riddle orchestrations required the same 14-piece band that Rosemary had used on the disc, but the club owners were reluctant to finance the changes that would be needed to accommodate a big band. The new Concord came to the rescue, paying for the adaptations and setting up a sellout three-week run. “We sold a lot of CDs, too,” said Rosemary.

They sold even more of Rosemary’s next Concord product. New CEO Glen Barros was usually happy to leave the ideas for her albums to Rosemary and her management team, but a chance discussion in the winter of 1995 proved to be the exception to the rule. Artistically, her association with the Christmas season was now stronger than ever, and with Danny Kaye’s passing in 1987, Rosemary was the last surviving member of the quartet that had starred in the 1954 movie. All of which prompted Glen Barros to ask the question “When did you last do a Christmas album?” “Never,” came the reply.
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Barros was amazed. “Are you kidding me?” he asked. “No,” said Rosemary, characteristically turning the question around and putting Barros on the spot. “Are you suggesting one?” she asked. He was, and in April 1996, Rosemary arrived at the Capitol Studios in Hollywood for four days of recording that produced
Rosemary Clooney—White
Christmas
.
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The CD, complete with a simulated snow dome cover (“a disastrous idea—they leaked all over the place,” said Allen Sviridoff)
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was in the shops for the 1996 Christmas season. By then, Rosemary’s December scheduling was dominated by
Rosemary Clooney’s White Christmas Party
, a seasonal concert offering that had grown both in scale and popularity since she had first tested the water with it in the late 1980s. Often joined by daughter-in-law Debby Boone and assorted grandchildren, it was family entertainment at its best and remained an indelible part of Rosemary’s annual schedule until the end of her life. Locations varied, the Westbury and Valley Forge Music Fairs being regular stop-offs, but over the years, Rosemary and her supporting cast took the show to all parts of the country. “If Clooney’s performance had to be crystallized,” wrote one local reviewer in 2000, “it would all come down to two utterly transcendent numbers. One was Irving Berlin’s “Count Your Blessings,” Crosby’s favorite song from the picture and one that Clooney also obviously adores. It was sung with a nearly heavenly reverence, with Clooney allowing its starkly simple message of hope to shine. And to no one’s surprise, she closed the show with “White Christmas” itself, a flawless performance of the ultimate holiday song by a woman who is just as much of a classic herself.”
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It wasn’t just Rosemary’s public who shared in the Christmas celebrations. Allen Sviridoff had come up with the idea for a musical Christmas card, a cassette tape on which Rosemary would sing a Christmas favorite, interspersed with a personal spoken message to the recipient. The idea was inspired when Rosemary told Sviridoff about the little keepsakes that Bing Crosby used to send to friends and business associates every year. What started as a handful of musical cards had grown by the late ’90s to over 600, a mammoth task but one that Rosemary maintained to the end of her life.

The
White Christmas
CD turned out to be Rosemary’s best seller for Concord, even outstripping
Dedicated to Nelson
by reaching top spot in the
Billboard
jazz charts early in 1997. Musically, it was less satisfying. Reviewing the album,
New York Times
jazz critic Peter Watrous said, “If there’s a line between sentiment and sentimental, Rosemary Clooney, accompanied by a big orchestra and strings, along with the Earl Brown Singers, lands on the side of sentimentality. In many ways, the album is a throwback to big-budget pre-rock projects, where irony and wit don’t apply.”
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Rosemary’s brush with sentimentality extended into her next Concord project.
Mothers & Daughters
, recorded in October 1996, became her third album in less than a year, an indication of the greater commercial ambition of Concord’s new owners, albeit at the potential expense of Rosemary’s newly established jazz credentials.
Mothers & Daughters
was targeted at the 1997 Mother’s Day market, each song on the album dedicated to a woman in
Rosemary’s life—chiefly her sisters, daughters, and granddaughters. Without understanding the special significance that each song held only for her, however, the distant listener heard only an assortment of songs with little that obviously bound them together. It was a disappointing album, one that for a time threatened to end her Concord tenure on an unsatisfactory note as the label found itself heading for the rocks. By the end of 1997, the rosy picture of life under Alliance Entertainment had gone sour. The parent company, overstretched and suffering a drop in distribution revenue, filed for
Chapter 11
bankruptcy protection in November 1997. Concord was but a small part of the ailing empire, but technically, it meant that the record label was bankrupt too. The uncertainty lasted over 12 months. When Alliance finally emerged from shelter, Concord resided in the ownership of its secured creditors. It wasn’t until June 1999 that a new owner was found, this time with Glen Barros and the management also having a stake in the business. Through the uncertainty, Rosemary stood by the label that had offered her a second chance in the record business. “I never thought we would lose her,” said Barros, attributing Concord’s survival to the “trust and loyalty that Jefferson had created” with Rosemary and her fellow performers.
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By the time the Alliance group hit the skids, Rosemary’s mind was elsewhere. During the summer of 1997, Rosemary had surprised everyone by announcing that she and Dante were to be married in the fall. The news came not long after they, together with a group of family and friends, had visited Rome. Rosemary’s friend, Dolores Hope, used some of the goodwill she had built up from supporting the Catholic Church over the years to arrange an audience for Rosemary and her party with Pope John Paul. The event gave rise to one unforgettable exchange. As Rosemary and her party waited in line to receive their blessing, she and her group were struck by the appearance of the woman immediately in front of them. “She was dressed to the nines,” said Nick Clooney, “very stylish and very sexy. She had armloads of stuff to give to the Pope, flowers, presents, everything.” “Gee, I thought he had everything he needed,” Rosemary whispered to her brother. When the pollen in the flowers induced a sneeze from the pontiff, Rosemary instinctively said, “God bless you!” The remark brought a twinkle to the eyes of the frail-looking Pope. “No, no Miss Clooney, I bless you,” he said.
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There were unfounded suggestions that an adverse papal comment had brought about Rosemary and Dante’s wedding; however, any clerical pressure there was came from closer to home. “It was the Cardinal in Los Angeles,” explained brother Nick. “Every time they did something for the Church, he would always ask if they were married yet. ‘He’s never asked
me,’ was Rosemary’s standard response.”
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Publicly, Rosemary’s explanation for the marriage was that her grandchildren were forever asking when she and Dante had got married. They weren’t, she said, but by the time the grandchildren had become teenagers, the reply was prompting other questions. Rosemary’s standard reply to the “so how come you share a room?” question was that she and Dante were roommates. It no longer held water, she said. Whatever the motivation, the decision made for an expansive and joyous celebration, one that also attracted significant publicity nationwide. The wedding service took place in Maysville in St. Patrick Church where Rosemary had been baptized. Despite the encouragement that she and Dante had received from the priesthood, there was no relaxation of the due diligence required for a full-blown Catholic wedding. Dante had to go some lengths to produce the requisite nullification certificate from his previous marriage to a Las Vegas showgirl, while Rosemary, despite her divorce(s) from José Ferrer, was asked to show his death certificate. Not having one, she produced a copy of his obituary from the
New York Times
instead.
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When the day came, over 800 people filled the church, including Bob and Dolores Hope in one of their last public appearances together. An even bigger crowd turned up for the reception, hosted by Nick and Nina after Rosemary inadvertently issued an open invitation on local television days before. The service was an emotional event. Both Rosemary and Dante seemed close to tears when they exchanged vows and Rosemary cried again when a children’s chorus sang Mozart’s “Agnus Dei” to the couple. “It’s my gift to you,” the priest who celebrated the Mass, told them. “I know it takes a lot of nerve to sing in front of Rosemary Clooney, but we have plenty of nerve here,” he said.
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