BOBBY RYDELL:

GENIUS OR CLOWN?

by Rose Perlberg

 

On the evening of April 29, 1942, Al Ridarelli burst into his wife's hospital room

"I tell you, Jennie," he cried excitedly, "that kid of ours is a born showman! He took one look at me through that glass thing and made such a funny face that I broke up. He's great!"

It did no good for Jennie to try to explain to the proud papa that three-day-old babies are not capable of recognizing anyone, let alone "mugging for the camera." Al, who had always secretly harbored the dream of being an entertainer himself, was positively convinced that his son -- Robert Louis Ridarelli -- was destined to become a giant star in the world of show business.

But the days, months, and years flew by, and little Bobby refused to be anything but a normal baby without a spark of genius showing. Then, one night when they couldn't get a baby-sitter, Al and Jennie bundled up their four-year-old son and took him to see the great drummer, Gene Krupa, at a neighborhood club. At first, Jennie was reluctant, but Al convinced her. "Come on. He won't be any trouble. He'll probably go to sleep, anyway."

But much to his parents' surprise, young Robert dug the whole show and rocked through the drumming sesion with almost manaiacal glee!

The next day after work, when Al opened the front door of his home in South Philadelphia, he was greeted with an ear-shattering explosion that made the machine room where he worked seem like a pillow-stuffing factory. Out of the kitchne flew his wife, he hand over her ears, shouting, "Al, do something! He thinks he's a drummer! The noise is driving me crazy!"

As Al struggled to regain his hearing, a huge roasting pan marched out from behind the easy chair on spindly legs. Each thin, wildly flailing arm tapered into silver spoons which were pounding raucously against the sides of the roaster. Al was bug-eyed. Jennie cried desperately, "Stop him, Al -- please!"

The roasting pan advanced and Al detected a familiar shock of blond hair above the handle. Swiftly, he "de-drummed" his enterprising son and swung him, still clutching the sppons, high on his shoulder.

"Well, Mr. Gne Krupa!" he roared with unconcealed delight, as he tried to pry the sppon from Bobby's tight grip. "A musical prodigy in the family! I should have known it!"

Jennie rolled her eyes back, clutched her temples, and moaned, "I knew it would come to this." She set off, looking for the aspirin bottle.

Later, in great seriousness, Al and Jennie decided it would be cheaper to get Bobby a toy set of drums than to keep replacing the pots and pans he laid waste to with his pounding.

"He goes wild for anything that makes a different kind of sound," Jennie explained. "He even drags me into the kitchen ot listen to the difference between the sound of spoons banging on metal and leather-upholstered chairs!"

Along about this time another of their young son's fabulous "gifts" was unveiled. Bobby hated to go to bed. One night, after watching The Red Skelton Show on TV, Jennie said, "Okay, Bobby, it's bed-time."

Without a word Boby arose and scurried upstairs. Jennie watched him warily. This meek obedience wasn' t like her son. Something was up.

Five minutes later, Jennie and Al, who had once more become absorbed in television, had their peace shattered by the voice of "Freddie the Free-Loader" coming from the dinign room. Then, suddenly, "Freddie" straggled into the living room! It was just like him -- it was perfect -- except that it was a pint-size version of Red Skelton, floundering in an over-size suit coat and half hidden by a battered hat that looked suspiciously like Al's Sunday fedora.

Al and Jennie didn't know whether they laughed more at Bobby's imitation or at his appearance" both were hysterica!

"Bobby," Al gasped weakly, "where did you learn to do that?"

"Watch TV," Bobby replied, suddenly becoming himself again. "You wanna see Jerry Lewis?"

It was astounding. It was uncanny. And Bobby also turned out to be great as Johnny Ray, James Cagney, etc. If he had seen the star, he could imitate him.

"I knew it," Al crowed triumphantly. "I told you the first day I saw that kid that he was a born entertainer!"

A few weeks later, shortly before Bobby's ninth birthday, Al arranged through a friend to have BObby do his imitations at a local Philly club.

"You're crazy," Jennie gasped when Al told her. "You'll ridicule Bobby in front of all those people!"

But when Al told her later, "Your son brought down the house. He was on for 45 minutes -- and they want him back tomorrow night," she never doubted or questioned again.

Shortly after this, the dulcet-voiced announcer on the Paul Whiteman TV Teen Club predicted, "This young man is going to be a big star." That announcer was Dick Clark.

Whenever Boby performed, the audience wept tears of laughter, howled uncontrollably, and had trouble catching its breath. Paul Whiteman changed Bobby's last name to Rydell because it was easier to say. It was inevitable that a talent scout would catch Bobby's act and offer to send him to Hollywood.

Hollywood! Al was proud as a peacock. Jennie caught her breath. Hollywood!

No, they decided. They wanted Bobby to grow up like any normal boy. Tht meant going to Epiphany Secondary and Bishop Neumann High Shcool. That meant struggling along in English, algebra and history, just like everybody else, and joining the band -- where he played the drums (what else?). And distinguishing himself as a speedy first baseman in sandlot baseball. And making the swimming team. It was a tough neighborhood, but he never got into trouble. He was glib and hip and flip with the guys. Everyone liked him. Bobby was o.k.

But when it came to girls, Bobby was strictly from squaresville. He was painfully shy. Oh, he knew they were around, all right -- and some of them even "sent" him, but he could never get up the nerve to ask them out. There was one especially. Her name was Betty. She had long black hair, a pert turned-up nose, and bright blue eyes that sent a shiver up his spine and rendered him totally incapable of adding two plus two without getting "Betty."

The moment of reckoning finally came one night when they met face to face at two places during her 15th birthday party. Her best friend, Sally, was playing cupid-ess. She had noticed Bobby carefully scrawling Betty's name in his Chemistry notebook for the upteenth time one day, so she asked, "Why don'tcha ask her out?"

"Who?" Bobby demanded, quickly closing the book.

But Sally merely smiled that smug smile that girls can when they know you know they know.

So, a week later, there was Bobby staring into a blaze of blue eyes with his heart doing trampoline tumbles and his mouth getting dryer and dryer. It was suddenly unbearably warm in the room and Bobby found himself reaching out for Betty's hand. Without saying a word, they slipped outside and went for a walk.

After the first time around the block, Bobby managed a weak, "Beautiful night, isn't it?"

After the second, "Isn't the moon pretty?"

Afer the third, she said, "I'd love to go out with you."

On their first date (it was Bobby's very first), they went to a horror movie and Betty clutched his hand the whole time. Looking back, Bobby wonders whether fear or romance inspired this act of affection.

Having survived the initial plunge, Bobby found it much easier to ask other girls out. But pretty soon there wasn't much time for that, for three months after the"Conquest of Betty" many other exciting things began to happen in Bobby's young life.

It all started one sunny morning when that nice quiet kid, Frankie Avalon, who lived down the block and played a real cool trumpet -- came knocking at the Ridarelli door.

"Hey, Bobby," he called. "Some of us guys are startin' a band and we need a drummer. We have a booking in a club and you could do some of your impersonations--"

Before he could finish, drummer-comedian Bobby Rydell was standing in the doorway -- spic and span and ready to go. A short while after this, Bobby found a summer job in Wildwood, New Jersey, playing with another band. This was the turning point in Bobby's life. Here he met Frankie Day.

Bobby was performing at the Murray Inn with a combo called Rocco and the Saints (he was also singing by this tiem) when Frankie Day literally stepped out of a sudden summer storm and into his life. Day, who was a professional musciian himself, was looking for a promising vocalist to manage, and this kid -- Rydell -- looked like he might fit the ticket. Frankie had only planned to duck a drenching, but now he stuck around till after the show to talk to Bobby.

"How'd you like to become a singing star?" hs asked Bobby.

"You mean make records?" Bobby's blood pressure started rising.

"Yep, I like the way you move on stage and I like your voice. I think with some work you could become a star."

"I'll have to see what my father says," gulped Bobby.

What do you think his father would say?

The Rydell-Day merger had the magic combination. Day had ambition and persistence, and was shrewdly skillful. Bobby had talent and energy, and was eager to learn. After 18 lean months or rigorous preparation, they exploded their dynamite on the pop music field. Kissin' Time became Bobby's first big hit and, in an age of electronic gobbledy-gook, Cameo Records' bosses happily announced that the only "gimmick" their Bobby had was "talent." Soon Bobby was traveling from Coast to Coast (and eventually to Europe) proving just this fact.

When Boby came back from his first tour, his dad eagerly asked, "Didja wow 'em, Bobby?"

His mother only shook her head forlornly and said, "You lost weight. I'm gonn tell Nina."

Nina is Bobby's bright-eyed, bustling granny, who makes the best cheese and spinach ravioli and Italian pasta this side of Rome. Nina can also boast that the only time Bobby cleans his plate and comes back for more is after she's performed her magic in the kitchen.

This homecoming feast (and many others to follow) was a three-ring circus that would have warmed the heart of anyone.

Nina would order, "Eat. Eat. The girls will like you more if there's more of you to like."

Jennie, who had always wanted Bobby to have a little sister, suddenly found 99 girls sitting on her front stoop, begging to be "adopted." And the phone bleated, shrilly and continuously -- as word flashed through the neighborhood that "Bobby is back!"

Now the milestones of Bobby's career are flashing by as fast as telegraph poles from the window of a crack express train. There have been bigger and better records, with a gold record for Volare (his mother suggested that he record it). There have been TV appearances on all the top shows and now he has a seven-year contract with Columbia Pictures and is about to begin his first movie. Aside from all this, Bobby is stillmanaging to do rock and roll shows and club dates, including the fabulous Copacabana in New York City.

As Boby goes along his merry way, he still regrets that he doesn't have time for a real steady girl (in spite of rumors otherwise). But he insists that in five year's he's definitely going to "settle down." The future Mrs. Rydell? She'll be more wholesome than beautiful, more warm than witty -- a down-to-earth type, who can cook, keep house, and wants a big family.

And if the first Rydell heir is a boy, you don't have to worry about someone discovering his show-biz potential. Grandpa Al Ridarelli will undoubtedly beat Bobby, Jr.'s own dad in that race.

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