Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

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Then I developed a simple, painless, inexpensive method. It has helped thousands win beauty, love, happiness. My FREE book, “What I Did About Superfluous Hair” explains method. Mailed in plain envelope. Also trial offer. Write Mme. Annette Lanzette, P.O. Box 4040, Merchandise Mart, Dept. 501, Chicago 54, 111. just last year, and I was upset, busting inside from sadness and I kept hearing this song in my head, so I said, ‘Let it out, Jimmy, it’ll do you good’; and, you know it’s the best thing that could have happened to me. I love her still but the song, it makes the break-up all easier somehow — if you know what I mean. Maybe it’ll all be over when I go to L.S.U. to study geology.” The girls just stood there, as if waiting to catch Jimmy Clanton on the rebound. They were so quiet all you could hear was the sound of Debbie cracking her gum. Jimmy began to fidget under their stares, then he spotted relief. “Hey, here’s little Jo Ann Campbell!” It was Jo Ann all right, tiny doll-like Jo Ann, with her pale blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes decked out in a bulkyknit sweater and red toreador pants. Jo Ann was carrying her big guitar. “Say honest, Jimmy,” she laughed, “Who’s the harem?” Autographs first, introductions later. “How about a little Elvis music?” Jo Ann asked and before you had a chance to snap your fingers, she was slapping her guitar and singing a medley of “All Shook Up” and “Hound Dog” and “Jailhouse Rock.” For such a little girl, she can sure belt ’em. Kathy, Debbie and Sue tapped their toes to the rock-rhythm of Jo Ann’s music. Jo Ann and Jimmy sang a little harmony and swivel-hipped all through the singing. Suddenly, running down the stairs in a white jacket, black frontier pants and white buckskin loafers — flashing a smile big enough to see anyone through a long school day — was the “Ginger Bread” Kid himself. As if on cue, the three girls chorused breathlessly, “Frankie! Frankie Avalon!” “Hi, gals,” he said while he signed the blue program books. “Say, how’d you kids sneak in?” They pointed to me. “Wait’ll I tell the doorman.” Frankie laughed, “Hey, you want to see the upstairs? Come on,” Frankie motioned to us, “have a look!” No prodding needed. The three girls walked right behind Frankie, following him up the steel stairs to the second floor. “We don’t have any star dressing rooms,” Frankie told the girls as he showed them the cream-colored room he shared with Jimmy Clanton. Kathy, Debbie and Sue stared in fascination at the low-ceilinged dressing room with its mirrors bordered with naked light bulbs, the long wooden makeup shelf. In a corner was Frankie’s gleaming golden trumpet. “Play it for us,” Sue begged. “Please, Frankie, please.” Frankie obliged with sassy snatches of trumpet music, and all three girls sighed and leaned against each other for support. Through the open dressing-room window came loud cries and catcalls of “Frankie! Frankie!” from the gangs of guys and gals waiting on the street, all of them hoping for a peek at the stars of the Big Beat. Frankie walked over to the window and smiled. One wave from his hand was like lightning. A roar of teenage thunder followed. “I love ’em,” Frankie said to the three girls in the dressing room. “If it weren’t for all you fans liking my kind of jive, I’d be nowhere. I’d be back home in Philadelphia, practicing the trumpet and playing ‘Tenderly’ to the four walls in my bedroom. And that’s no fun. A musician likes to make people happy with his music. “You know,” Frankie went on, “I lived real close to St. Edmund’s Convent, and there was this Sister — her name was Sister Marita — who loved to hear me play, especially ‘Tenderly.’ The other Sisters used to compliment me, too, but Sister Marita always went out of her way to encourage me. We had a grouchy neighbor who used to say I practiced too much, and, lots of times, I’d feel guilty about bothering the people on the street with my trumpet-playing and so I’d knock off practicing for a day, and then, if Sister Marita saw me the next day, she’d say, ‘Frankie, you’re not practicing!’ in a kind of scolding tone of voice, and I’d go back to my trumpet that afternoon and practice an hour longer.” Frankie showed the girls his Big Beat costumes, all of them hanging on a long pipe across one wall of the dressing room. There were red flannel blazers with coin buttons, tiger-striped sweaters, buttondown pink shirts with yellow bow ties. Then, Frankie asked, “Hey, you gals, you met the Poni Tails yet?” Kathy, Debbie and Sue nodded their heads. “Come on,” he shouted. “You’ll love them!” Next thing we knew, we were all marching through the second floor corridor to the last dressing room. Who popped their heads out of a doorway? The Kalin Twins! “Hey, Frankie, who’s the company?” one of the Kalin twins asked. Frankie made proper introductions and then Kathy, Debbie and Sue asked for autographs. Herbie Kalin, the skinnier of the two, asked the girls if they’d like discs of their new record, “Forget-Me-Not.” “I’m Hal,” the other twin said after Herbie gave the girls their gifts. “He’s married but I’m not, so let’s leave Herbie out of this while we have a talk!” “No fair,” Herbie hollered. “Maybe you can talk later,” Frankie interrupted. “I want the Poni Tails to meet them.” “All right,” Hal said, “but don’t forget. We’re having a jamboree backstage. Why don’t you join us when it starts?” “Okay,” the girls answered. We continued down the hall and found the door of the last dressing room open. There they were, the Poni Tails, all three of them wearing their flowered-silk chemises from the show. The tallest, LaVerne Novak, was tidying up the makeup shelf. Patti McCabe sat on a stool studying some sheet music, and all-smiles Toni Cistone was painting her fingernails a pale coral color. Ballpoint pens and souvenir programs flourished in mid-air, “Oops, don’t spill the nail polish,” Toni cried out. Frankie excused himself to check on the backstage jam session, leaving the girls to get acquainted. , “Come on, girls,” LaVerne urged, “sit down. Sorry, all we have are folding chairs,” she said. “Gee, I’m so glad you stopped in. It’s a good excuse to take a break. I was straightening things up.” Toni, pointing the nail-polish brush toward LaVerne, said, “LaVerne, she’s crazy for housework!” “You are, too,” LaVerne smiled. Toni peered upward through her glitter | framed eyeglasses. “You know, every time we finish touring and we go back to Cleveland, guess what I get a kick out of? Doing the dishes! It’s crazy, I know, but I stand by that kitchen sink and wash away and daydream, and I just have a ball.” “Me,” Patti joined in, “I love to catch up on all my letter-writing. I do the dishes, sure, but I can’t wait to answer all the nice letters we get. It’s fun to write to fans and get to know them through the mail.” Sue piped up, “How’d you kids get started, all of you singing together?” LaVerne smiled a wide Doris Day-smile, “Well, nobody believes it but we were all