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Bobby Rydell is many things to many people. To his millions of fans,
he's that "adorable boy" with the blond pompadour and crooked grin who can give
a girl goose pimples merely by opening up his mouth to sing. To the executives at the
Cameo Record Company, he's a solid gold property whose staggering success has turned what
was once a small Philadelphia concern into one of the most important recording companies
in the business today. To his manager, Frank Day, Bobby is that wonderful kid who had his
eye on a star and refused to give up until, after years of struggle, he finally reached
it. Yes, at the age of 21, the kid from South Philadelphia is a big celebrity with a
string of hit records behind him and a fantastic future ahead. But, though he's rich and
famous and in constant demand, to a couple named Jennie and Ario Ridarelli, Bobby Rydell
is simply "sour son."
"It was a joy when he was born and he has been a joy ever since." says Mrs.
Ridarelli, wistfully recalling that April 26, 1942 when Bobby (christened Robert) made his
very first personal appearance. Right from the beginning, the little boy had an adoring
audience in the many aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents that made up the huge
Italian-American Ridarelli family. He was the pride and joy of the whole clan and, though
he was constantly being "fussed over," he never became spoiled or
"brattish." He just grew happier and sunnier every day and hoped that everyone
else was enjoying life as much as he was. His happiest memories are of the Saturday
afternoons in Philadelphia, when his father, Ario Ridarelli, a foreman in a machine shop,
would take him down to the Earle Theater to hear the greats in the music business, and he
would thrill to the sounds of Dorsey, Goodman, and Ellington. "My love for music was
the biggest thing in my life as far back as I can remember," he says, reflecting on
those happy childhood days.
Gene Krupa was his first show business idol, and little Bobby loved to
imitate the great drummer, using his mother's pots and pans in the absence of real drums
and cymbals. As he grew older, he began to mimic singers and comedians as well as drummers
and before long he had put a whole act together. He could impersonate Red Skelton, Louis
Prima and Dean Martin, among others, and would willingly perform for anyone who would
watch. People who had seen him began to ask him to perform at parties and dances and by
the time he was seven years old, he was an established entertainer in his own little
community. When he was nine, his father -- who admits to being a "frustrated
entertainer" himself -- decided the little boy was ready for the "big time"
and took him to an audition for Paul Whiteman's Teen Club, a local television
talent show. Whiteman changed his name from "Ridarelli" to "Rydell"
and put him on the show as a regular member of the cast. And so Robert Ridarelli, the
"kid from South Philly," became Bobby Rydell, professional entertainer.
At first it was smooth sailing; or so he thought. He went from Teen
Club to Ted Mack's afternoon show, and at 14, he joined a rock 'n roll group called Rocco
and the Saints. Bobby played the drums, did a little comedy and sang a couple of
songs. Frankie Avalon played the trumpet. "As a general rule, we could only get to
play at weddings or small dances," Bobby remembers with a grin. "We considered
it a real event when someone gave us an opportunity to play in an 'adult' nightclub."
Well, someone finally let them do it, for it was in a little club just outside of Atlantic
City that Bobby met the man who made him famous. Frank Day was a bass player with a group
playing on the same bill as Rocco and the Saints.At first he didn't pay too much
attention to the youngsters, but then he began to notice the little drummer. Suddenly, it
occurred to Day that Bobby had real star potential. "I knew I was looking at a talent
in the raw, a boy with a natural gift for show business," he said later. "I was
fascinated and frightened." He introduced himself to the boy and told him he would
like to manage his career. Bobby was willing, but his parents were a little harder to
convince. Other men claiming to be agents and managers had approached the Ridarellis and
had promised to make their son famous. But their promises had always faded into thin air.
"This boy has enormous potential," Frank told them earnestly. "let me try.
I'll do it slowly." Eventually, the Ridarellis gave in and Frank Day began his
star-making process.
It was a year before he tried to "sell" Bobby to anyone. In the meantime, he
saw to it that his young protege had drum lessons, dancing lessons, guitar lessons, and
singing lessons. He taught him how to do interviews with disc jockeys and coached him in
the little things that make the difference between an amateur and a professional
performance. The year of hard work and grooming proved well worth while. Bobby was signed
to a recording contract with Cameo Records. This was the real beginning of his career --
but it was also the beginning of a long, hard struggle to the top. Bobby's first three
records were flops, but each time one came out the boy and his manager would go on a
promotion tour to see deejays around the country. Due to lack of funds, they had to sleep
in Frank's car, clean up in restrooms and skimp on meals. Frank was up to his ears in debt
and Bobby began to doubt that he would make it after all. But they kept going and
eventually their perseverance paid off. Dick Clark signed Bobby for his daytime show, and
with a song called Kissin' Time.the kid was off and running. His next record, We
Got Love, made him a star. Appearances on the Perry Como Show, The Red Skelton Show
and The Ed Sullivan Show clenched his success and he went on to wow audiences
at New York's smart Copacabana. After that, the only thing left was movies, so he hit
Hollywood and walked away with one of the plum roles of 1963 -- that of Hugo,
Ann-Margaret's boyfriend in Columbia's Bye Bye Birdie. Needless to say, he's made
it big!
Although he doesn't get back to Philadelphia very much these days,
Bobby's heart is still in the place where he spent his childhood -- that pleasant
two-story house on Eleventh Street. There must be something magical about his old
neighborhood for it was also the home of such other stars as Eddie Fisher, Fabian, Frankie
Avalon and Mario Lanza. "I was the fourth kid within about five blocks to make it
with records," Bobby says proudly. When he does go back, he likes to be with his old
gang and date the neighborhood girls. He's looking forward to having a wife and family of
his own but thinks he'll wait 'till he's "about 24 or so." In the meantime, he
just enjoys taking girls to parties or horror movies and, though he's been linked with
starlets like Dodie Stevens and Sherry Jackson, he insists that the girl he'll marry won't
have anything to do with show business. "She won't have to be beautiful, just cute,
but she will have to know how to cook Italian food, just like my Mom."
Yes, Bobby Rydell has come a long way in the last few years, but while
his life has changed tremendously, the boy himself remains the same. Still unspoiled,
unselfish and blissfully happy, Bobby remains his parents' "little boy."
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