Bart Greenberg spent four of his most satisfying professional years running special events at the Lincoln Triangle Barnes & Noble. Preceding that he had spent several years at Tower Records where he first learned how to be in charge of signings and performances. Throughout this time, he met a very wide range of celebrities (writers, actors, singers, broadcasters, etc.). In the coming months he will share memories of some of the amazing—and notorious—people he encountered.
By Bart Greenberg***Do I really need to explain who Julie Wilson, the Empress of Cabaret, was to anyone reading my column? Her first career was as a sexy babe in some classic Broadway and London musicals (Pajama Game–where her character actually was Babe, Kiss Me Kate and Kismet, among others). After a series of flop musicals (anyone 
remember Park?) and personal turmoil, she retreated to her hometown in Omaha. Returning to New York a few years later, she begin her second career as a sexy chanteuse in cabaret, specializing in witty and dramatic songs from the Great American Songbook, often from the view point of the older women. Here she established herself as a star, often in collaboration with the brilliant William (“Billy”) Roy. Now, when I first discovered the diva, I didn’t know any of this. I was just a stage struck (and closeted) kid growing up in Lancaster, PA, desperately in need of some big city glamour.
Getting to Know You
At that time, whenever I got downtown, one of the places I would head for was the local Woolworths (does anyone remember Woolworths?) and their bargain bin of cut out records (does anyone remember records? Yeah, I associate with the Man in the Chair). Cut outs were albums that hadn’t sold well, so the corner would either be clipped or have a small circle punched marking it as a clearance item. Generally, they were either 50 or 99 cents, which fitted my budget very well. I discovered all sorts of flop shows—gems as A Time for Singing and She Loves Me. And some flops that deserved to be flops like the soundtrack for a grisly television musical called Olympus 7-0000 that even the delightful Phyllis Newman couldn’t save.
And then there was Jimmy, the musical bio of colorful New York City Mayor James J. 
Walker. I recognized the leading man, Frank Gorshin—after all, he was the Riddler—and the charming Anita Gillette from her regular appearances on a variety of game shows. The third lead was a woman I had never heard of before, Julie Wilson, playing the Mayor’s estranged wife. But the moment I started listening to the album, I knew I was encountering someone special. She had two solos in the show: a bizarre Irish jig called “That Charming Son of a Bitch” (yes, I was titillated by the naughty word, but even then I knew this was a mistake) and an incredible torch number, “I Only Wanna Laugh,” which I’m still mystified that it hasn’t become a nightlife standard. Julie built it and built it; not only investing it with emotion but also turning it into showstopper as she upped the theatrical impact with each stanza.
Pre-internet, it wasn’t so easy to research a performer’s credits. And the less than deluxe cast recording offered nothing more than a plot summary. I did track down the earlier semi-musical film biography starring a subdued Bob Hope giving one of his best performances as 
Jimmy, Vera Miles as his mistress and Alexis Smith as his wife. (Ironically, my first husband, who was also a Jimmy, was totally obsessed with the gorgeous Alexis thanks to her appearance in Follies.) But I discovered that my own obsession had made a movie that was on the late show. With much begging and bargaining, I was allowed to stay up (on a non-school night) to watch it. Now, This Could Be the Night is one strange movie, a Runyon-esque tale of nightclub life with an innocent bookkeeper (Jean Simmons) involved with the two owners of the establishment (fatherly Paul Douglas and hunky Anthony Franciosa), a cocktail waitress who wants to be a chef (Neile Adams, the former first Mrs. Steve McQueen) and her stage mother mom (Joan Blondell) and assorted employees. And then there is the star singer of the club, the experienced dame who has seen it all and retains a heart of gold… no one else but Julie. Every so often she got to sidle up to the stage to deliver a song, including “I’ve Got It Bad (And That Ain’t Good)” and “Sadie Green (The Vamp of New Orleans)”—exactly the type of songs she would later build her cabaret career on. The movie wasn’t very good; she was spectacular.
New York! New York!
Well, jumping ahead in time, I finally (and really too late) accomplished the inevitable and moved to New York City. (I had informed my parents at the innocent age of 6 or 7 that I belonged in Manhattan even though I hadn’t even visited it yet. I can’t explain why—must have been the 1930’s black and white movies I was addicted to.) The decision to move here was both terribly exciting and terribly terrifying. And then, in the first week while I had no job and no place to live except for my brother’s couch, I read that Julie Wilson was giving a free concert of Cole Porter and Stephen Sondheim songs in the outdoor plaza of Rockefeller Center. After I spent some time finding the location (yes, I was very new to the Big Apple), I saw my goddess for the first time. Although this was a free late afternoon event, she was gowned and coiffed as if she was performing at the Rainbow Room, complete, of course, with the expected feather boa (one of those boas would figure in my future) and the gardenia in her hair. I would learn in time how typical this was of her.
I was even interviewed by a New York Times reporter who was no older than me and appeared not to know who Porter, Sondheim nor Julie were. Didn’t stop me from checking the newspaper for several days to see if there was an article—there wasn’t. On that special afternoon, a small crowd had gathered to watch the diva perform. And perform she did, witty, warm, perfect enunciation, her personal mix of glamour and mid-western flat accent. And her audience adored her. She had only recently returned to the city from her self-imposed intermission so in a way we were both newbies and kindred spirits, even though we had not spoken a word. Yet. At least it seemed that way in my mind.
Unfortunately, the gods above often cited by Mr. Cole Porter had to have their little fun, and about two-thirds of the way through the planned concert, the skies darkened and rain began to fall. Julie gamely continued on as the wind began to kick up, transforming her boa into a flying serpent. And then the thunder and lightning began and someone realized that holding a hot mic during such weather was not a great idea and so my diva surrendered with many apologies.
The Cabaret Convention at The Town Hall
As I settled into my life in New York City, I did manage to see Julie on stage several times, though I had not yet met her. In the
early years of the Cabaret Convention it was a notorious multi-hour cavalcade of nightlife performers held each year at The Town Hall. In more recent years it has been tamed down and limited to a more reasonable time – but in those early days it was more fun. Tickets were dirt cheap and the house was packed every night. One evening I was seated in the large, sharply raked balcony in an aisle seat. About 15 minutes into the show, a woman came down the steep steps with an usher. It appeared that someone had been mis-seated and the spot for the woman who arrived wasn’t there. The usher offered to shift people, but the lady waved her away and sat down on the steps so as not to disrupt too many audience members. As the lights on the stage brightened I glanced over and realized the woman on the steps was Julie. I admired her even more for not pulling rank.
My Good Luck Charm
2006 was the worst year of my life. In the spring of that year, my partner of 13 years (Jimmy Rilley) had a massive stroke in the middle of the night and died the next afternoon without regaining consciousness. For complicated reasons, Jimmy and I didn’t live together; I had, and still have, a wonderful apartment-mate named Gene Reeder. We shared the top floor of a two-family house. In the middle of the summer our landlady announced she was putting the house up for sale and she couldn’t guarantee the new owners would allow us to stay. Then, at the end of the summer it was announced that Tower Records, where I worked, was shutting down. Somewhere in there I had a very well-deserved nervous breakdown though I kept working. I survived thanks to an incredibly generous and supportive boss, Bob Zimmerman, and many kind co-workers, dear friends—including some who I didn’t even know we
re friends, and a wonderful therapist named Jason Cassell, whom I fully credit for literally saving my life.
What also kept me going was the in-store series I had created entitled Any Wednesday. Every week (beginning with our patron saint Ann Hampton Callaway) we would feature a cabaret/jazz artist with a new recording in a live half-hour performance. Keeping this going gave me a goal in life and a certain amount of celebrity. And ultimately kept me working. As the store was shutting own around me, several friends, including Brian Gari, suggested I take the show across the street to Barnes & Noble. I even did a telephone interview sitting in the office of our store manager, which I guess required a good deal of chutzpah. And where does my good luck charm Julie enter into this story? Well, the evening before my interview with the manager of the B&N shop, when I was a nervous wreck, one of the mainstays of support for the series, Rob Lester, whisked me off to see a cabaret show and practice my interviewing technique preshow. And yes, the star of the evening was Miss Julie Wilson.
P.S., I got the job.
NEXT COLUMN: My Lucky Charm: Julie Wilson – Part 2, where we meet face to face and she becomes involved with my wedding.
