Screenland Plus TV-Land (Jul 1959 - May 1960)

My Brother, Frankie Avalon continued from page 41 been one of our real big treats. Mother would pack a lunch and we would stay all day. Times when we were particularly flush, we'd see a show at the Steel Pier. To us, that was the most glamourous ever, so naturally that's where Frankie decided he wanted to work during the summer that he was 11. He got the job, but unfortunately, there was no money attached. Our Aunt Angie — Mrs. Leo DiSteffano — came to the rescue by inviting Frankie to stay at her house. Our grandmother, Rose Avallone, went along. She said it was to keep an eye on Frankie. Since he's the apple of her eye, I think it was to have all that time with her much beloved grandson. They billed him as "The Boy Wizard With A Horn," and played five shows a day. Frankie, simultaneously, also wanted to be the boy wizard on the diving board. He'd be out of wind when he returned to the platform. My father fussed at him, saying, "Frankie, you can't do both." Frankie went right on winning swimming contests and playing trumpet. BACK home that fall, he made the rounds of radio and television shows. Paul Whiteman's "Teen Club" was then on the air from Philadelphia. We both tried out for it. I sang just well enough to get into the big chorus, but Frankie quickly became a big prize-winning star. We're still using the refrigerator and record player he brought home from that show. Neither of us will ever forget the day that Mr. and Mrs. Whiteman invited the crowd of kids to their home at Rosemount, New Jersey. We had never before seen a big estate with a swimming pool. Frankie spoke of that pool again, just the other day. He was talking to Mother about the kind of house he wants. We now live in one of the new row houses near the Navy Yard. Mother said, "This is a nice house. Why don't you plan to settle down right here?" Frankie looked out the back window at the small back yard. "There's no room for a swimming pool. I want one just like Paul Whiteman's." Frankie was a busy young star during those years. He cut a record, "Trumpet Sorento," for RCA-Victor's "X" label. It then sold just enough copies to pay for the recording session. Now it is a collector's item. He played the Jackie Gleason show, the Garry Moore show and many others. To keep a record of Frankie's performances, we got a disc recording machine, but I remember several times it was never put to use. My father got too excited to remember to turn it on. My mother was even worse. She'd be so nervous she actually couldn't see or hear. When friends came in or called up after a program, her first question always was, "How did he do?" 62 Frankie himself was so calm, so grown up, that it took a disappointment to make us realize he was still a very young boy. His prize for one show was supposed to be a year's supply of ice cream. He promised all his friends a share. Day after day, he ran in from school shouting, "Did the ice cream come yet?" When months passed, Frankie at last gave up. "A year's supply of ice cream!" he said indignantly. "They didn't send me so much as a Dixie cup." Then, suddenly, it was all over. Frankie, at 13, had worked himself out of business. He had guest-starred on most of the big programs and he was still too young to play night clubs. Then Frankie got his idea for a teenage night club. He said to Dad, "We'll serve soft drinks and sandwiches and have a big dance floor." Dad said, "I think you've got something there," and called Uncle Marty. Thinking back over it, I can wonder how an entire family could be willing to drop everything and venture out on a very risky enterprise focused on a 13-year-old. Actually, we never thought of it that way. Frankie wanted it and we all believed in Frankie. Bob Marcucci and Peter DeAngelis, who now head Chancellor Records, also joined in. The story of those dry night clubs could be a book in itself. The first, The Frat, grew too small; the second, The Embassy, burned down one winter night when the over-heated chimney exploded. The third, the Starlight Ballroom, was opened when there were just too many dance halls in South Philadephia and not enough dancers to go around. But they were fun while they lasted. Mother and Dad ran the commissary; I was a waitress. Bob, Pete and my Uncle Marty worked on management and entertainment. Frankie headed the band and dreamed up skits. Many of the top recording artists made guests appearances to plug their new records. We were all sorry when the end came, but it actually marked the beginning of one of the most pleasant periods in our family life. Frankie still had a band, but he had more free time than he had had in years. Often, we'd just stay home in the evenings and enjoy being together. We had a million family jokes — those little things that never seem humorous to an outsider — but we could laugh, steady, from the moment we sat down to dinner until it was time to go to bed. My brother thinks my father is the funniest man alive, and when Frankie starts clowning, my father thinks Frankie is pretty funny, too. Together, they keep my mother and me in stitches. And tease? All kid brothers tease, but Frankie is an expert. When I had a big date, like a prom, Frankie was under WHEN Frankie isn't on tour he spends as much time as possible home with his family. foot, mimicking the way I fixed my hair, I doing imitations of the boy who had I asked me. He also gave advice. My 1 mother and I had discussed late hours. She trusted me and let me set my own getting home time. But not Frankie. He'd shout out, "Now be sure you're home by 12 o'clock." Honestly, I could have clobbered him. Never in a million years could I get even with Frankie in teasing, but I had my innings when he went to his first prom. A neighborhood girl invited him. Frankie pretended to be oh, so cool, but he had to have a new suit, and I'm sure he combed his hair a hundred times before he left the house. On that night, I was the one who imitated Frankie. Frankie was still in South Philadelphia High School when our old friends, Bob and Pete, started Chancellor Records. About their only capital was their ambition and their talent for writing and arranging music. Bob often did his worrying and hoping at our house. His one refrain was, "Now if we could only find a real teenage idol ..." Eager to help, Frankie turned volunteer talent scout. If a boy could croak three notes and had less than three left feet, Frankie insisted that Bob and Pete audition him. Again and again, they had to shake their heads and say, "That isn't the guy, Frankie." FRANKIE was playing trumpet with Rocco And His Saints one night when Bob and Pete stopped in. When they finished a set, Frankie came down to talk to them. Both were excited. Pete said, "Frankie, can you sing?" "Sure," said my brother. "Why?" Bob said, "We've been searching so far, so hard that we couldn't see what was right in front of us. Frankie, you're our teenage idol." Frankie cut his first record, "Cupid," the week that he graduated. It created more interest than anyone expected. They released his second, "Teacher's Pet," on his birthday, September 18, and Bob and Frankie took off on a disc jockey tour. This was the first time that Frankie