By Chip Deffaa***I was shaken by the passing on January 22nd—due to complications from a stroke he suffered in July 2023—of entertainer Floyd Vivino. To countless fans, he was “Uncle Floyd,” the comic who rose to fame as the host of a freewheeling spoof of a kiddie show that ran on TV in the Tri-State area for 24 years, from 1974-1998. (For a while his show aired nationally as well, on NBC-TV.) And many more
knew him from countless “live” appearances in clubs and theaters. Up until he was disabled by the stroke, he’d do as many as 300 “live” shows a year.
We were great friends since we were 13 years old, and seeing him—whether on stage or off stage—always made me smile. He was funny, kind, generous and brilliant at improvisation. He worked as hard at his craft as anyone I’ve ever known. There was much more to him than the obituaries I’ve been reading seem to capture. Let me tell you about the Floyd Vivino I knew.
His comedy earned him fans ranging from John Lennon to Iggy Pop to David Bowie–who paid tribute to Uncle Floyd (and his puppet sidekick, Oogie) in a song that Bowie wrote and recorded: “Slip Away.” The Ramones referenced Floyd in their song “It’s Not My Place,” and were proud to periodically wear “Uncle Floyd” shirts and buttons. (They shared his cheerfully anarchic spirit.)
And Stan Lee even saw fit to reference “Uncle Flord” in one “Spider-Man” comic book I have, in which Peter Parker—a/k/a Spider -Man—is seen watching his “favorite local kiddie show,” “The Uncle Floyd Show.” 
Many popular performers made guest appearances on Floyd’s show—including Tiny Tim (singing a memorable duet with cast member Michael Townsend Wright), Bon Jovi, Jan and Dean, Peter Tork, David Johansen, Blue Oyster Cult, Joe Jackson and Cyndi Lauper. Cast regulars included Scott Gordon, Artie Delmar (David Burd), Looney Skip Rooney, Muggsy, Netto, Jim Monaco…. and sometimes Clark, the Wonder Dog.
Floyd made countless live appearances, joined for some of the bigger shows (such as at New York’s famed The Bottom Line) by his brothers, saxophonist Jerry Vivino and guitarist Jimmy Vivino and their band. (Jerry and Jimmy would go on to play for 25 years on the Conan O’Brien Show, and have recorded as sidemen with some of the biggest names in the business, from Bruce Springsteen to Bette Midler among others.)
Floyd did other work in film and TV, and on radio, of course. Among his many TV and film credits: “Good Morning, Vietnam,” “Crazy People,” “Law and Order,” “Cosby,” “Falcone,” “Burn Runner,” “Mr. Wonderful,” “100 Centre Street,” “Loving,” Bill Boggs’ “Comedy Tonight,” Nickelodeon’s “Turkey TV, “ “Up All Night,” “The Dr. Demento S
how.”
He made the Guinness Book of Records for playing piano nonstop for 24 hours and 15 minutes at a benefit for a child who was seriously ill. He was glad to give of himself so completely for a sick child. And so, for 24 hours, he played (and sometimes sang) song after song after song from his repertoire. He seemed to know every popular song going back to the 1890s, and his memory was incredible: there was no sheet music on the piano during that marathon playing session—playing those songs, nonstop for 24 hours, entirely from memory. And he could not read music; he played entirely by ear.
Floyd often said he enjoyed performing “live” most of all. Over the years he played the Catskill and Pocono mountains resorts, working the stages at Caesar’s, The Fernwood, Friar Tuck, Roseland Ranch, Green Lake, The Nevelle, Pine Grove, Kelly’s, Villa Baglieri and Villa Roma. He also toured with or opened for performers including Jimmy Roselli, Lou Monte, Melba Moore, Jerry Vale, Pat Cooper, Al Martino, Pete Seeger, Toni Arden, Julius LaRosa, Tom Chapin, Eddie Rabbit and Jimmy Sturr.
* * *
Floyd was a great guy—a wonderfully talented friend with a big heart. We were classmates in Glen Rock, NJ, and enjoyed doing shows together at Glen Rock Junior and Senior High School: “Happening ’68,” “The Serendipity Festival,” “Night of Drama,” directed by Okey Chenoweth. (I remember us both as teens, eating spoonfuls of honey backstage in the belief that that would ensure our voices would be at their best.) I even got to understudy Floyd in one show. And we were also in one little film together, made by our friends Rich Valley and Mark Watkins. When I produced and hosted, in 1984, the television documentary “Glen Rock in its 90th Year” (available on YouTube), the best segment was my visit with Floyd, which we filmed at the house he grew up in, on Harding Road. He played piano, sang and bantered.
In more recent years, Floyd and his brothers were captured brilliantly by filmmaker Barry Rubinow in his documentary “Banded Together—the Boys from Glen Rock High….” Floyd was, I always felt, the most talented entertainer in our junior/senior high school. When his family moved to Glen Rock from Paterson, NJ, Floyd was 13—a seventh grader. He quickly gained a reputation as a “class clown”—a high-spirited, quick-witted kid who could respond to any teacher’s question with a remark that got a laugh. 
Now, there will always be some teachers and school administrators who will rigidly try to squelch a kid like that, who will try to punish him as severely as possible for “impertinence” and “being disrespectful.” Fortunately, we had some teachers and administrators at our school who were wise enough to recognize Floyd’s quick wit and good nature as qualities to be encouraged, not squelched. They gave him opportunities to perform in shows, where he excelled, and to host school assemblies where he was allowed to ad-lib to his heart’s content—perfect training for the career he would later have. He could banter, play piano, sing. He found an outlet. He was honing his skills as an entertainer. And he was building a fan base: he was very popular.
In high-school, Floyd was a leader of a huge food fight in the cafeteria. He was taken to the principal’s office for punishment. We feared he might be suspended. But our principal, Mr. Ax, handled it perfectly. He knew Floyd did not have a 
mean bone in his body; he sought to channel Floyd’s energy in more constructive ways, rather than harshly punish him. He said Floyd could choose one of two possible punishments: Floyd could either (a.) serve many, many hours of after-school detention, and have no free time for the foreseeable future; or (b.) Floyd could, instead, “serve his time” by joining the Glen Rock High School Marching Band, under the direction of Mr. Joe Sielski. Floyd chose to join the band, forming lasting friendships with both fellow band members and with Mr. Sielski, who was wonderfully encouraging. It was the most creative “punishment” I ever heard of in high school. And for Floyd, who really loved Glen Rock High School, that imaginative “punishment” felt like a gift, and he loved to re-tell that story. When I made my 1984 documentary on Glen Rock, Floyd proudly shared that story. And he told it again, just a few years ago, in Barry Rubinow’s documentary, “Banded Together….”
Growing up, I found Floyd fascinating. He didn’t necessarily get the greatest grades in school—at least in the subjects that didn’t interest him. But he knew so much about show business, past and present, it amazed me. He didn’t just watch reruns of “The Abbott and Costello
Show” on TV, as many of us did, he studied them. He could discuss with me exactly why he thought the first season of their show was stronger than the second season. He could not only tell you which comic routines they did in a given episodes, he could name the films in which they did the same or similar routines, and compare and contrast the performances.
I felt I’d found a kindred spirit. He was the only kid I knew who loved old-time music like I did. He collected old 78s, as I did. He could play for me a 78-rpm record of a song Al Jolson recorded in the 1920s, then play a remake Jolson later made, re-recording the same song in the 1940s, and tell me why he thought the original was better. He could get me to hear nuances I hadn’t noticed before. In recent years, I’ve produced Jolson albums that include recordings of Jolson doing the same songs in the 1920s and again in the 1940s. I’m doing exactly what Floyd taught me when we were teens.
When graduation from high school approached, Floyd was voted the senior that the underclassmen would miss the most. (I still have that issue of the “Glen Echo” school newspaper, with Floyd’s picture on the front page. In our high school yearbook, he listed as his goal for the future: “To meet Gro
ucho Marx and Milton Berle.” That wasn’t a gag line. He revered the old-time comic legends; he studied them; he wanted to follow in their footsteps.
After high school, Floyd performed wherever he could in show business—the circus, nightclubs, amusement parks, and even as a comedian in the few remaining burlesque shows. He launched his own television show, “The Uncle Floyd Show,” in New Jersey on January 29,1974. When it ended its run 24 years later, it was the longest-running New Jersey-based TV show in history. And Floyd worked so hard, as the producer—not just star—of that show. He made it all look so easy. I remember attending a taping, enjoying seeing Floyd crack up the crew in the studio with his ad libs. He’d tape a week’s worth of TV shows in two weekdays, and perform “live” shows on weekends. And he and his cast mates improvised a lot. They did the TV show and the “live” shows without rehearsals.
And Floyd would make in-person cold-calls on area merchants, finding the sponsors he needed for his TV show. That alone took a lot of time and effort. I admired his tenacity. He had a tremendous work ethic. I don’t know where he found the time to do all that he did. He wrote newspaper columns too, and one book. And hosted radio shows featuring old recordings from his ever-growing collection. 
Eventually, he told me, he wound up with some 250,000 recordings. And he listened to those records; he knew what he had in his collection. One time I phoned Floyd, excited because I had finally been able to acquire some original sheet music I’d long been looking for—sheet music for an extremely rare early song by Irving Berlin; the Berlin estate and ASCAP said the song had never been recorded. But when I mentioned the song title to Floyd, he not only told me the name of the obscure vaudevillian who had recorded it back in 1912, he noted he actually had that 1912 record—and then proceeded to sing the song to me from memory! He was probably the only person in the world who could have done that. I got Michael Townsend Wright to make the first recording of that song since 1912, amazed that Floyd knew Irving Berlin’s recorded legacy better than ASCAP did.
And he was a great family man. No matter how busy he was with his career, he could always find time—and happily, so—to cook up some macaroni and meatballs for his family. Warm and open-hearted, Floyd was easy to like. I dedicated one of my CDs to Floyd and his gifted brothers, Jerry and Jimmy. (Floyd, I might add, is also the proud uncle of Broadway’s Donna Vivino.) And I thanked Floyd in the liner notes of many of the CDs I produced.
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A few years ago, I told Floyd I wanted to write a show about Jimmy Durante that Floyd could star in. (He knew Durante’s repertoire inside-out.) But then, about two-and-half years ago, Floyd suffered a stroke while doing his weekly radio broadcast. He was rushed to the hospital. We all hoped he would recover, but he eventually suffered a second and third stroke. Even from his sickbed, he still contributed spoken comments for the podcast that Scott Gordon produced, “This Was The Uncle Floyd Show.” But his health problems kept him confined to bed for the last two-and-a-half years.
I wanted Floyd to sing on my new album, Chip Deffaa—Down in Honky Tonk Town. That was not possible, but he was on my mind as we recorded some of the old songs he liked so much. (And it meant the world to me to have brother Jerry on the album.) I loved all the Vivinos.) I was very happy that Floyd got to listen to the finished album with Jerry, shortly before his passing. I still have all of the recordings that Floyd made, as 45 rpm singles. I was always so proud of his
successes. He was a great comic. He’d studied and learned from the best in the business. He knew seemingly every gag and routine from the days of vaudeville and burlesque to the present. And his rollicking piano playing was always filled with life. I particularly loved the way he played “Alabama Jubilee.” That was one of his showpieces.
After a private, family funeral, a public memorial celebration of his life will be held at a future date. In the meantime, I’ll stop by the nearby Hillery Street Cafe in Totowa, NJ—a local joint we both liked. I’ll have one of their hot dogs “all the way”—and toast to Floyd’s memory.
