business. They arranged the office with Herb and Ray stationed in the front room and Bert holding down the back room, all their names on the door. Herb talked his girlfriend, Joan Wile, into playing secretary, although she was more showgirl than typist, even if she had graduated from college. Berns knew the first thing he had to do with Feldman’s money—put out a record with Rita. He selected a piece of material from the hit second album by Harry Belafonte, “Troubles,” a cool, finger-snapping blues written by Belafonte himself.
The New York–born, Jamaica-raised vocalist Belafonte was a pop phenomenon at the time along the lines of Elvis himself. He abandoneda career as a conventional nightclub pop vocalist to sing folk and was drawn to the calypso songs he heard growing up in Kingston, Jamaica, where he spent eight years as a boy with his Jamaican mother. In 1951, he introduced his new act at the Village Vanguard and slowly began to build acceptance for his mixture of traditional American folk and Caribbean calypso. With the explosive success of “The Banana Boat Song” in 1957, Belafonte graduated to phenomenon status, as many pop prognosticators predicted calypso would wipe the upstart rock and roll off the map that first year after Elvis. Such was not to be the case, but Belafonte did hold down center stage in the pop panorama for a moment. The selection of his urbane blues for Rita’s record seemed calculated to bridge the gulf between her jazzy inclinations and the pop appetite of the public. They pressed up a few hundred copies on the Performance label, a big treble clef next to the name on the label.
This was a common routine for the hustlers of 1650, press up a handful of records under some insignia, send them around to radio stations, and see if something starts happening somewhere. If a record caught fire, say, in Pittsburgh, it was easy to cut a deal with another more legit record company a rung or two up the ladder. Deals like this took place every day. Of course, for every deal that happened, there were another ninety-nine that didn’t.
But Bert, flush with Feldman’s money, didn’t leave it there. He grabbed Rita and took her and a pile of records down to Florida to visit some radio stations where the sun was shining. Nice trip, but no soap. Rita’s record sank like a stone in a lake.
Bert had bigger plans for the next outing. He teamed with a big teddy bear of a singer who called himself Bill Giant, although his name was Ethan Goldstein. He was a hardworking family man with a sweet voice and designs as a songwriter. He sang some jingles and fronted a club band that did weddings, bar mitzvahs, what have you. With a friend of his who called herself Anna Shaw, an old Tin Pan Alley handwho specialized in Spanish songs, Giant fashioned a corny tribute to the disaffected youth of Greenwich Village. Bert saw a possible quick buck in the idea. Downstairs at the recording studio in the 1650 basement, Allegro Studio, Bert and Bill put their voices together on the choruses, while Bill handled the lead on the verses to the song “Beat Generation.” They called themselves the Beatniks.
The similarity with the jokey rhythm and blues records songwriters Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller were making with the Coasters was only enhanced by the presence of saxophonist King Curtis on the track (Herb Wasserman handled the drums). But the record fell considerably short of the sly parody and social commentary of the Leiber-Stoller songs for the Coasters. The Beatniks were patently a one-shot novelty offering and, even as such, not all that noteworthy. Even Edd (Kookie) Byrnes of TV’s 77 Sunset Strip sounded more authentic on his beatnik parody record. But Berns was savvy enough to keep the publishing for both “Beat Generation” and the flip side.
If that idea wasn’t goofy enough, Bill Giant’s next one was even better. He wanted to do a rock and roll version of the Gettysburg Address. Giant was sure this
The New York–born, Jamaica-raised vocalist Belafonte was a pop phenomenon at the time along the lines of Elvis himself. He abandoneda career as a conventional nightclub pop vocalist to sing folk and was drawn to the calypso songs he heard growing up in Kingston, Jamaica, where he spent eight years as a boy with his Jamaican mother. In 1951, he introduced his new act at the Village Vanguard and slowly began to build acceptance for his mixture of traditional American folk and Caribbean calypso. With the explosive success of “The Banana Boat Song” in 1957, Belafonte graduated to phenomenon status, as many pop prognosticators predicted calypso would wipe the upstart rock and roll off the map that first year after Elvis. Such was not to be the case, but Belafonte did hold down center stage in the pop panorama for a moment. The selection of his urbane blues for Rita’s record seemed calculated to bridge the gulf between her jazzy inclinations and the pop appetite of the public. They pressed up a few hundred copies on the Performance label, a big treble clef next to the name on the label.
This was a common routine for the hustlers of 1650, press up a handful of records under some insignia, send them around to radio stations, and see if something starts happening somewhere. If a record caught fire, say, in Pittsburgh, it was easy to cut a deal with another more legit record company a rung or two up the ladder. Deals like this took place every day. Of course, for every deal that happened, there were another ninety-nine that didn’t.
But Bert, flush with Feldman’s money, didn’t leave it there. He grabbed Rita and took her and a pile of records down to Florida to visit some radio stations where the sun was shining. Nice trip, but no soap. Rita’s record sank like a stone in a lake.
Bert had bigger plans for the next outing. He teamed with a big teddy bear of a singer who called himself Bill Giant, although his name was Ethan Goldstein. He was a hardworking family man with a sweet voice and designs as a songwriter. He sang some jingles and fronted a club band that did weddings, bar mitzvahs, what have you. With a friend of his who called herself Anna Shaw, an old Tin Pan Alley handwho specialized in Spanish songs, Giant fashioned a corny tribute to the disaffected youth of Greenwich Village. Bert saw a possible quick buck in the idea. Downstairs at the recording studio in the 1650 basement, Allegro Studio, Bert and Bill put their voices together on the choruses, while Bill handled the lead on the verses to the song “Beat Generation.” They called themselves the Beatniks.
The similarity with the jokey rhythm and blues records songwriters Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller were making with the Coasters was only enhanced by the presence of saxophonist King Curtis on the track (Herb Wasserman handled the drums). But the record fell considerably short of the sly parody and social commentary of the Leiber-Stoller songs for the Coasters. The Beatniks were patently a one-shot novelty offering and, even as such, not all that noteworthy. Even Edd (Kookie) Byrnes of TV’s 77 Sunset Strip sounded more authentic on his beatnik parody record. But Berns was savvy enough to keep the publishing for both “Beat Generation” and the flip side.
If that idea wasn’t goofy enough, Bill Giant’s next one was even better. He wanted to do a rock and roll version of the Gettysburg Address. Giant was sure this
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