New York, New York: The Dale Roberts Story

            By Pat Wallace

   This all happened years ago, and I’ve got pictures to prove it. Long before The Big Chill, The Wonder Years, the Beatles singing for Nike and The Drifters singing for Citibank Whatever the Hell It Is, there was our band. We were reviving rock’n’roll from the early sixties before any of those guys. There was just the four of us, me, Gene, Chris, and Charlie, but together we created enough noise to do the job of much larger and sophisticated outfits. Anything from the Fab Four to a fully orchestrated Motown hit, we cut with no problems. Years of experience had taught us how to mix up guitar parts to generate a bigger sound, and we knew how to cover horns, keys, strings, whatever. Lots of vocals and harmonies helped. Still, we were best at knocking out one rocker after another, keeping them on the dance floor with the Stones, Kinks, Roy Orbison, lots of people. Did some current stuff, a couple of things, but we were known for that early British invasion rock, and everything we did led back to that. Even the lighter stuff, Stevie Wonder, even the Supremes, we rocked it. 

  And we were cool. We never took it seriously, weren’t afraid to lose it in front of the crowd. We’d forget the words here and there; they’d help us out. We never turned down a request, so the fans would try to come up with the most ridiculous things, and we’d do them. Never a dull moment. That’s how we got over. We kept the crowd in it with us. They understood that it was as much their responsibility to keep us entertained as it was ours to entertain them.

	Of all the places we’d play—and they followed us all over because nobody else was doing what we did—the most frequented was this little roadhouse on the highway running south of town all the way to Philly. It had been through one incarnation after another – biker bar, dimly lit grown–only rendezvous, family restaurant, biker bar again, family-style joint again, curtains, tablecloths, and a Kiddie Menu. It had even spent some time as so many had as The Dew Drop Inn. Long since renamed, we called it the Dew Drop anyway, although not to the owners’ faces. 

	We did so well there that the guy who booked entertainment there couldn’t get enough of us. He gave us steady Thursdays, then added one weekend a month on top of that. We were pulling like crazy, they were getting rich, and we actually made a living from playing in a band. It was quite a little scene. My old man was astonished. 

	It was on one of these three-day weekends that our story begins. You can imagine that, while not having to move our equipment every night was a plus, three nights in the same place was a little rough on everybody. That’s how we arrived at Stump the Band. And soon it was followed by the portion of the show called the Anyone Can Front This Band Portion of the Show. And anyone did. And that’s how we met Dale Roberts.

	It was a night of particularly fine talent, as I told the crowd. We had already seen a very corporate-looking woman who had asked that we accompany her on “Heat Wave” (“You know, the one by Linda Ronstadt?”). Yeah, right. So, we kick into it, and she’s singing it in this throaty, melodramatic Beverly Sills Does Martha Reeves kind of style. Afterwards, she says something about it not being fair since she’s a “trained vocalist.” Yeah, well, we’ll call you.

	Then there’s a guy who wants to do “Smoke on the Water,” heavy metal’s national anthem at the time. He walks up in front of the band, a guy who looks like the nerd from Central Casting. And he proceeds to throw down the most authoritative, passionate “Smoke” I’ve ever been near, full of swagger and muscle. And his devotion is contagious. We start out playing in an obligatory fashion and end up laying down this thundering groove, like Godzilla just hit town. I glance up from my guitar during the second verse to see him exhorting the crowd with his necktie around his head. His necktie around his head. Our man was chasing that dream, and we were giving him a lift. One of my most gratifying moments in the biz.

  Somebody slipped a note to me during the Metal fest to invite next her friend Dale to the microphone. “He’s too shy to ask,” the note read, “but he’s dying to sing ‘New York, New York,’ with you guys.” Okay, fine. We’ve hacked through that one at a wedding or two, so please, let’s welcome Dale Roberts, ladies and gents.

	He’s a short but thick fellow, wiry blond hair starting to disappear in the corners. Thick, rectangular wire-rims sit halfway down his nose. His features are what a real writer might describe as “porcine,” wide, upturned nose, eyes like little slits. I start the little piano-intro thin on guitar, dink, dink, dink-a-dink, as Dale takes stage in a faded yellow polyester, short-sleeve leisure-suit style with complementing navy flares. He’s got a real thick belt, too. The rest of the band falls in as he removes the mike from its stand and does this nervous side to side rocking thing like a kid who has to pee. We play the intro once, coming to a dramatic stop right at the top of the vocal once, but he misses the opportunity. And we start up again up again. Everyone laughs. Next time, he’s ready and we’re off, Dale delivering his version of a big Vegas Showroom tone, not quite operatic, but sort of grandiose. Robert Goulet? Sammy? Certainly not Old Blue Eyes. Meanwhile, I’m mouthing numerical equivalents of the chord changes to Gene, while Chris follows my hands on the fretboard to discern the minors from the majors. I said one thing; Dale knows the words and he knows what he wants to do with them. He’s actually selling it. We progress through two verses, bridge and the payoff with remarkable aplomb, and then build to a spectacular finish, Dale holding onto the last note for all he can get out of it, New-ew Yooooorrrrrrrrrk – and we blow the ending, everyone playing a different note in a different place. This brings down the house, the crowd howling their approval, and Dale blushing as he bows and says thank you into the mike, shakes the hand of every band member, bows again, and returns to his friend’s table. I exchange looks with Gene. He's amused, I’m agog. Heady stuff, this room full of people screaming for a little man who has never opened his mouth in front of a crowd. We decide not to try to follow that, knock out two rockers, and take a break.

  Making my way to the bar, I heard my name shouted by several people. It was Mr. Roberts' entourage, smiling broadly and asking if I could come over. Everybody shook my hand, the last being Dale himself, basking in the aftermath of excitement. 

  “Dale, you were a monster up there. Talk about charisma.”

   “Pat, that was the greatest moment of my life, I can never thank you enough.”

	“You don’t have to thank me. Just come back and do it again sometime. They loved you.”

	He was still engaging me in a handshake. He put his other hand on top to add extra meaning to what he was about to say.

	“You know, Pat, my dream has always been to sing like Sinatra. And my other dream has always been to sing in front of the best band there is. And you guys are it, no question.”

	“Geez, Dale, I appreciate that, but we’re just some raggedy-ass fuckin’ rock band. It’s not like you’re at Caesar’s or something.”

	“Bullshit. Bullshit. That’s bullshit. You guys are the best band that ever played here. Or anywhere.”

	“Well, thanks, buddy. Really, the pleasure is ours. I meant it. You can’t imagine how much fun it is to give somebody who never gets to do this a good banc to sing in front of. Plus, you can’t imagine how boring this place gets when you have to play three nights in a row.”

	“Pat, you’d never know it, as professional as you guys are. See youse next week.”

	I caught up to Gene at the bar. He had observed the whole thing.

	“I see you had a word with The Chairman of the Board.”

	“Yeah, you were witness to the live performance. I just appeared on his talk show.”

	He laughed. “What was he, a little sentimental?”

	“You might say that. How’s about we’re the best band there is? And it’s always been his dream to sing with us?”

	Gene almost spit out his drink. “You’ve got to be shittin’ me. The best band there is?”

	“Well, then he amended it to the best band that ever played here. And all the while he’s holdin’ my hand with both his hands; you know, the extra sincere handshake?”

	“That is an honor. It’s always been my dream to be the best band to ever play this shithole.”

	“I got more news for you. His last words were ‘see youse next week.’”

	“Hey, whatever whenever. Let’s go talk to Big Jim.”

	Big Jim worked the door. He could have been the door. More like Round Jim, but man, we loved him. Everybody did. He had survived the last change in ownership by moving from part of the problem to part of the solution. He was an ex-Marine and the victim of some wife or lover or someone who had really taken him for a ride. He had to sell everything he had to stay out of jail, and he had to quit drinking to stay alive. He must have been through more than his share of desperate moments, and now here he was, Harley-Davidson shirt but no Harley, no teeth, no money, standing at the door, making sure everyone was of age and dressed according to the code and pretending it mattered to him. But, man, we loved him. He used to say “just let me know” when we talked about taking him on the road with us as a trouble-shooter. Just let me know. Bib Boy size blue jeans, Harley t-shirt, red suspenders. Red-blond hair. Red-red beard. Soft eyes. Just let me know.



	In the weeks that followed, we kept at it, and the talent pool grew and so did the number of spectators. It was becoming a rather popular phenomenon with people we never saw before dropping in to sing with the band. One guy was a theatre student at the nearby college, and he had Elvis Presley down, I mean down, hips and all. He was tall, handsome, brown-haired, and built like a linebacker. His acting teacher had said a man like him was destined to play nothing but stevedores, so from then on, he was introduced as Steve Adore, the King of Rock and Roll. The crowd loved this, and he became a regular attraction. Sometimes we’d just kick into the opening chords of “Jailhouse Rock” and the loyal would go nuts in anticipation of Mr. Adore, clapping and whistling as he approached the stage. Those partial to Elvis would scramble to the dance floor, so much so that we’d keep Steve up for another, then another. By the time winter came, our Elvis repertoire had reached about ten songs. We could do a whole set with this guy if it weren’t for the other participants. 

	Then there was Dave Wrigley. Here was another strapping young man, this time an amateur hockey player. How anyone could play a game like hockey for nothing was a mystery to me, but he loved the game and he loved to sing. I just couldn’t believe what came out when he opened his mouth. His number was “Under the Boardwalk,” and he sang it in a key that no tenor could hit. It was like listening to someone sing with a lungful of helium. We graciously provided back-up vocals to the experience, and a good time was had by all. He, too, became a regular. 

	But it was only a matter of time until the crowd could no longer wait. They wanted Dale Roberts. We pulled various stunts to heighten the anticipation, like saving Dale until last or at least until the first real lull. I started out calling him by name, but eventually I would just ask the crowd, “Is it time? Is it time?” They would go nuts, shouting, “Dale! Dale! Dale!” After a few weeks of this, we finally arrived at the decision to just start the piano intro played on guitar, dink, dink, dink-a-dink, dink, dink, dink-a-dink, dink, dink, dink-a-dink, stop. A second or two would pass before the din would rise. Then we’d do it again, dink-a-dink, stop. More bedlam. Finally, we’d kick into the opening groove for real, and I would announce in my cheesiest, public -address voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, won’t you please welcome to the stage, appearing with us for the umpteenth week in a row, back by popular demand, The Voice, The Chairman of the Board, Old Brown Eyes himself; ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for the One, the Only, DALE ROBERTS!!!!!”

	Total, utter madness. Unbelievable. You couldn’t hear yourself think, we couldn’t even hear our amplifiers, and we were standing right in front of them. People on their feet, on the tables, and on the couches of that special casual living-room style get-acquainted area that made this place different from all the other joints with special casual living-room style get-acquainted areas of their own. People clapping, whistling, screaming, stamping their feet and pounding on the tables. This was probably not what the management had in mind.

	For his part, Dale wouldn’t let this adulation go completely to his head, although sometimes he’d nudge me about the band playing too fast or slow. Like it was his reputation on the line, which we thought was a riot. Or he’d make some good-natured crack into the mike about us, which the people loved. But mostly he was humble and appreciative for the attention. He was happy to sit patiently through all the other acts, knowing his moment was approaching.

	One could track a noticeable change in Dale over this period. After several weeks of stardom, he appeared one night in contact lenses. Maybe he had planned to get them all along, one suggestion during the band’s speculation on the ride home that night. He changed his mode of dress too, wearing more elegant polyester, herding those wandering collars a little closer to home, changing his hairstyle. Not quite a metamorphosis, but he showed some effort and provided band-ride-home fodder for some time.

	He became more comfortable on stage, too. He liked to speak to the crowd over the band intro a bit, using the classic Blue-eyes isms about this being a beautiful melody and a marvelous lyric, and it goes a little something like this, timing his remarks to coincide with the next stop so he could sing “Start spreadin’ the news,” without any accompaniment. And off we’d go. He was much more comfortable with his singing as well, but he couldn’t seem to lose that side-to-side may-I-be-excused thing. Whatever. They loved him. The whole thing, the musical tease, the crowd response, my intro to Dale, the crowd response to that, Dale’s voiceover, and the song—it was beginning to add up to a lot of time. We may have been able to do a whole set with Steve Adore, but with Dale we were practically filling the same amount of time with one song. Hardly seemed like work for us. One night, Dale said as an aside to the band but so everyone could hear, “You think it takes Sinatra this long to get started?” Everybody died.

	The members of the band had a big argument over where to play on New Year’s Eve. It was probably the most lucrative night of the year for musicians, and we were not without our share of offers. The disagreement was over which engagement would provide the best party and the proper dollars. We had been burned in the past by good- money bad room, good-money-good-room bad crowd, and good-money good-room good-crowd bad food. Around and around we went, until Gene dropped the following bomb.

	“Well, Bill at the Dew Drop wants us. He’ll give us the money we want, and he says he’s gonna really put on a party.”

	Me. “What? Not the fuckin’ Dew Drop. Why don’t we just play there three hundred and sixty-fuckin’-five fuckin’ days a year?”

	“Look, last year he had a disaster down there, nobody showed up, and he lost a lot of money. Now, he’s been pretty good to us and he needs somebody who’s guaranteed to pull some people. He wanted us last year and I said no, maybe next year. Now it’s next year and I don’t want to screw the guy. He happens to represent a lot of work for us the whole year round.”

	“Ahhhhh fuck,” I muttered. “I’m so sick of that fuckin’ place we gig there in my fuckin’ sleep. All right, all right, okay, I’m in.”

	“Thanks, man,” Gene said. 

	“Nuts. I was pretty decisive there for just a second, wasn’t I?”

	“You were a tiger.”

	“Nuts. 

	So, we did it. We wore what we thought would be the appropriate bastardization of New Year’s attire, and we hung stuff all over our equipment, and we did it. Just as we were starting, maybe just a couple of songs into the first set, in walked one of those balloon delivery people in a gorilla suit. Its fur was augmented by a Victoria’s Secret get-up, push-up bra, garter belt, stockings, even gloves up the elbows. I signaled to the guys to wait a second before starting the next son so whoever the lucky recipient was could enjoy whatever the gorilla had to say.

	The lucky recipient was me. Ms. Kong came up on stage and read some dirty poem into the microphone, then set up a cassette player with the help of Charlie, that jerk. She turned it on and did a striptease to the thudding sex-beat on the tape. I was professionally bound to pretend I was enjoying the show, no sense coming off like a spoilsport on New Year’s Eve. All the time I had on a strained, wooden smile, I was trying to figure out which of my band buddies pulled this gag. Gene? Too cheap. Charlie? Maybe. His tastes certainly ran to the juvenile. How about Chris? Yeah, Chris. Never said much. Always in the background. Yup, Chris. Quiet. Shifty. Conspiratorial.

	No such luck. After her sexy dance, in which among other things she slowly removed a glove and laid it around my neck, Gorilla Goddess handed me an envelope, the contents of which read, “Sorry I couldn’t be there, I’m sure it will be a blast, all the best to you and the guys, Happy New Year from the Man, the Myth, the Legend, Dale Roberts.”

	I wanted to kill him.

	Next Thursday came and there was Dale, freshly recovered from whatever New Year’s he’d had, ready to step up to the mike. He had on a sport coat and tie by now, the latter of which he was fond of loosening during his introductory remarks. Men at work in Nightclub America.

	“Pat, did you get my little New Year’s gift?”

	“Oh, yeah. Very stimulating.”

	“I thought you might enjoy that,” he said chortling. “I told him to go right for you. Did you know that it was really a guy? We always used him at the office when it’s somebody’s birthday or anniversary, you know, like that.”

	“Incredible. A Female gorilla Impersonator.”

	“I knew you’d like it.”

	“Oh, Dale, I just loved it. Don’t ever do that again.”

	“Oh, come on, Patty.” He laughed and laughed.

	A guy was talking to Gene while Dale and I were at it. Something about it stayed with me. The guy was dressed collegiate, but he was more like our age. They finished with plenty of nodding, shook hands, and Gene caught up with me at the bar.

	“Who was that?”

	“Prepare yourself for a shock.”

	“What now?”

	“You better sit down.”

	“What? What? What?” What is this shit I wondered. A gig? Local newspaper? Television? Record people? 

	Gene leaned in close and spoke slowly and dramatically. “You know the broad who comes every week with her friends, and they all look like secretaries or businesswomen or something? And they always sit in the same booth on the far wall, and they never look like they’re having any fun?”

	“Yeah, yeah. The librarians.”

	“Right, the Librarians. So, the dude I’m just talking to is the fiancé of the one who’s like the Head Librarian, the one who always says hi when you or I walk by that way.”

	“Yeah, right, right, uh, Cindy, right?”

	“Right, Cindy. That’s them sitting over there on the couch.”

	“Oh, yeah, right. I didn’t recognize her since she relocated. Real nice couple. So what?”

	He leaned in closer. “So, they’re getting married.”

 	“Lovely. I’m all for that. I happen to have a great deal of regard for the institution. My parents were a married couple, you know. Presumably they’ll need a band.”

	“Yeah, they need a band,” Gene said, “but they’ve decided to settle for us.”

	I laughed, “Okay, so, so what? What is it you’re trying to tell me, ‘Lover’?”

	Gene straightened up to take a long hit on his scotch. He looked me in the eye, leaned back in and began again.

	“What they want, ‘precious,’ is to have us play their reception. But that’s not all. They also want Dale Roberts to sing ‘New York, New York.’ And they’re willing to pay some serious dinero to get him.”

	Picture a guy doing a double-take so ferocious that he almost falls off a barstool. “They want what? Are they nuts?”

	“How do I know? Maybe they’re bummed out the Gong Show go canceled. Listen, these guys come here every week, like clockwork. They think we’re the balls and they think Dale is the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. They just want the whole package. They realized it will mean an extra charge on top of our normally exorbitant fee, but that’s what they want.”

	“But, Gene, how much can we nail them for to have Dale come along to sing one fuckin’ song? And what are we gonna pay Dale to come along and sing one fuckin’ song?”

	“Fuck, man, Dale will do it for nothin’. Besides, maybe we can get him to sing some of that lame wedding shit that you can’t stand.”

	I thought it over. “Nah. Let’s just give him some dough, have him do his little thing. No sense courting disaster. Make the deal.”

	“Dad, I knew you’d see it my way.”

	Dale as might be expected, was thrilled. He went right over and thanked Mr. and Mrs. to-be Cindy Librarian, much to our chagrin. Can’t look too appreciative, Dale baby. Affects the bargaining position. No groveling please, we’re professionals. 


	The main event took place about six weeks later in the social hall attached to a firehouse not far from the club. It was the usual painted cinder-block affair, ribbons and balloons, two types of vegetables with the gray roast beef. We met Dale at the Dew Drop and left his car there so we could all ride out together. He had gotten, of all things, a perm and had stuffed himself into a three-piece suit. We sported the official “band wedding look,” white shirts, ties, no jacket, blue jeans, and sneakers. On the way over we joked about Dale not stealing the thunder from the newlyweds, and telling the paparazzi that “Mr. Roberts don’t like no cameras, y’ hear?”

	Naturally, we had to arrive an hour or so early to set up our stuff before the wedding party arrived from the church. Dale insisted on carrying his share of gear, running electrical cords and the like. “We’re in this together, gentlemen,” he said.

	“Dale, you ain’t nervous, are you?” Chris said, leading me to look at him. Dale had helped lug all this stuff in without taking off his jacket. He was seriously sweating around the brow and neck.

	“Well, you know,” he panted, “I know this is old hat to you guys, but it really is exciting for me. I mean, actually playing a paying job, not that I’m doing more than one song. But, you know, it’s really cool to see things from this side, setting up and all. Hell, I’m just a rookie, an amateur.”

	Chris laughed, “Dale, anytime you want to experience the thrill of setting up the gear, just let me know. I’ll come pick you up.”

	“Listen, buddy,” I said, “you were a real help getting us ready for this, and what’s more, you had something to do with us getting this job. And I’ll tell you something else;” I turned to look right at him, “You ain’t no rookie.” He liked that.

	It was some party. The bride and groom told us to save Dale until the end of the first set, to make sure everyone arrived in time to catch him. We’d start out with the lighter stuff, a couple of Beatles songs, a few cornball standards for the older folk, lots of slow-dance jobs. We didn’t mind. We could wait until Ma and Pa got tired and sat one out. Our time would come later when everybody was a little loose. Then we’d tear it up.

	It didn’t work out that way. Every once in a while, you play a job where the crowd is ready to have a good time, that they’re workin’ the band, not the other way around. It’s the hardest you’ll ever work and it’s the most gratifying you’ll ever feel. By the third song, they were dancing in their crepe and chiffon, and their satin and silk, singing along from the dance floor, calling to the band to crank it up another notch, stripping away neckties and jackets, scarves and wraps and ladies please remove your shoes if you desire. By halfway through the set, we had three bridesmaids onstage singing backup to a Marvin Gaye tune, we had ushers wearing cummerbunds around their heads, parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles yelling “rock’n’roll!” I looked at Gene at one point, asking him with my eyes, “How are we gonna sustain four hours of this?”

	Finally, Dale’s moment had arrived. A gasp of recognition swept the room as Chris started into the dink-a-dink, people scrambling around to make sure nobody missed it, this is the guy we told you about. By the second time around, the floor was packed, everybody was swaying in time to the music, eyes locked on the stage. The few people left at the tables were standing to get a clear view. A couple of waitresses stopped what they were doing, setting down water pitchers and interrupting the loading of trays with used dishes and utensils. They could sense something different was about to happen. I began.

	“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announced, pausing early and often, as the band swung the intro lightly in the background, “we are so delighted to have been given the opportunity to be here tonight to celebrate with you the union of Jack and Cindy in Holy Matrimony. Let’s give ‘em a big hand.” 

	Wild applause. 

	“And I think it’s only fitting that two people as unique and special as Jack and Cindy have found each other. Just goes to show there’s someone somewhere for everyone.” Big laughs and whistling. 

	“And furthermore, I think that only to personalities as unique as these two would be inspired to include that which you are about to see as part of tonight’s entertainment.” 

	Now they were starting to drool. Three young men in white serving coats came out of the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about. 

	“What you’re about to see began as a dream, was nurtured and encouraged to blossom into a reality, over night became an institution, and is soon to pass into the realm of legend.”	

	They had hands raised above their heads now, and the noise level was unbelievable. I picked up the pace. 

	“It is a singular honor and gives me great pleasure to introduce to you now, direct from a six-month-and-counting engagement at the fabulous Dew Drop Inn; ladies and gentlemen, please give it all you got for the man, the myth the legend …

            “DALE . . . ROBERTS !!!!!”

		It’s been quite a few years now, and a lot has happened. That band ran its course, and we parted friends. Once everyone else hopped on the Sixties-revivalist bandwagon, we realized we no longer had anything that special. Chris and Charlie moved on to other bands, other lives. I think they’re still playing together somewhere. Gene went back to school and, within a year or so, he was a high-level computer-tech guy. He still blasts that ole guitar rock and R&B in his car on his way to work. Crazy driver.

	I left town. Been back a few times, but I’ve only made it down to the Dew Droop once. It was only a little different than we had left it; new tablecloths and what have you. Big Jim’s still there. I asked him if he’d seen Dale lately, and he said that Dale used to come in every once in a while, after our band stopped playing there, but he hadn’t seen him now in more than a year. Didn’t know what he was up to, but boy, would he be sorry he wasn’t here tonight. 

	Big Jim’s a good guy. And Dale, if you’re out there, remember baby, anytime, any night, any stage; if you wanna start spreadin’ the news, I’m ready. Just let me know.