Hollywood Nocturnes Read Free Page B

the next month. I kept winning--every Sunday night--weeks running. I beat singers, comics, a Negro trombonist and a blind vibraphone virtuoso. I shook, twisted, stomped, gyrated, flailed, thrashed, genuflected, wiggled, strutted and banged my squeeze box like a dervish orbiting on Benzedrine, maryjane and glue. I pelvis-popped and pounded pianissimos; I cascaded cadenzas and humped harmonic hurricanes until the hogs hollered for Hell--straight through to Horace Heidt's grand finals. I became a national celebrity, toured the country as Heidt's headliner, and went solo BIG.
      I played BIG ROOMS. I cut records. I broke hearts. Screen tests, fan clubs, magazine spreads. Critics marvelled at how I hipsterized the accordion--I said all I did was make schmaltz look sexy. They said where'd you learn to move like that?--I lied and said I didn't know
      The truth was:
      I've always been afraid.
      I've always conjured terror out of thin air.
      Music and movement are incantations that help keep it formless.
      1949, 1950--flying high on fame and callow good fortune. Early '51: FORM arrives via draft notice.
      FORM: day sweats, night sweats, suffocation fears. Fear of mutilation, blindness, cancer, vivisection by rival accordionists. 24-hour heebie jeebies; nightclub audiences packing shrouds. Music inside my head: jackhammers, sirens, Mixmasters stripping gears.
      I went to the Mayo Clinic; three headshrinkers stamped me unfit for Army service. My draft board wanted a fourth opinion and sent me to their on-call shrink. He contradicted the Mayo guys-- my I-A classification stood firm.
      I was drafted and sent to Ford Ord. FORM: the Reception Station barracks compressed in on me. My heart raced and sent livewire jolts down my arms. My feet went numb; my legs fluttered and dripped sweat. I bolted, and caught a bus to Frisco.
      AWOL, Federal fugitive--my desertion made front page news. I trained down to L.A. and holed up at my parents' house. Reporters knocked--my dad sent them away. TV crews kept a vigil outside. I talked to a lawyer, worked up a load of show biz panache and turned myself in.
      My lawyer tried to cut a deal--the U.S. Attorney wasn't buying. I took a daily flailing from the Hearst rags: "Accordion Prima Donna Suffers Stage Fright at Fort Ord Opening," "Coward," "Traitor," "Yellow Belly," "Chicken-Hearted Heartthrob." "Coward," "Coward," "Coward."
      My BIG ROOM bookings were cancelled.
      I was bound over for trial in San Francisco.
      Fear:
      Bird chirps made me flinch. Rooms closed in coffin-tight the second I entered them.
      I went to trial. My lawyer proffered Mayo depositions; I detailed my fear on the witness stand. The press kept resentment fires stoked: I had it all, but wouldn't serve my country. My response went ignored: so take away my fucking accordion.
      The judge found me guilty and sentenced me: six months in the Federal pen at McNeil Island, Washington.
      I did the time. I put on a sadistic face to deter butt-fuckers. Accordion slinging gave me big muscles--I hulked and popped my biceps. Mickey Cohen, in for income tax evasion, befriended me. My daily routine: yard trusty work, squeeze-box impromptus. Ingratiating showman/psycho con--a schizophrenic performance that got me through my sentence unmolested.
      Released--January, '52. Slinking/creeping/crawling anxiety: _what happens next?_
      Winter '52--one big publicity watch. Big "Contino Out of Jail" coverage--most of it portrayed me as a coward case-hardened by prison.
      Residual fear: would I now be drafted?
      Winter '52--no gigs, BIG ROOM or otherwise. My draft notice arrived--this time I played the game.
      Basic training, communications school, Korea. Fear back-burner-boogied; I served in a Seoul-based outfit and rose from private to staff sergeant. Acceptance/taunts/shoving matches. Resentment oozing off guys who envied what they thought I'd come home to.
      I came home to tapped-out momentum and DRAFT DODGER in