Mel Torme
July 1999

By Dr. Bruce H Klauber with Joy Adams

I loved Mel Torme’. He was the absolute best, and if he was slightly eccentric, sometimes difficult and less than humble, he was entitled to be. It was his right. He could do it all. He literally stood alone for the cause of good music and would do anything in its behalf. His friendship with Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich--to say nothing of how he idolized them--meant as much to him as his own family.

Torme’ wrote the introduction to my book, “World of Gene Krupa” (Pathfinder Publishing of California, 1990), when the project was nothing but a concept, with no publisher, no contract and no money. My thought was that I needed “a name” to get the project off the ground, and after folks like Buddy Rich, Benny Goodman and Shelly Manne refused, Torme’ came through with no questions asked. He did it to honor Gene and because he believed, as he told me, “this project must be done.” When I was approached by DCI Music Video/Warner Bros. to write and co-produce a video retrospective on the life and music of Buddy Rich in conjunction with the Rich Estate, we all knew there was but one person who had to serve as host and narrator. After all, Torme’ was Buddy’s life-long friend and sometimes enemy, and he was Buddy’s biographer. The problem was that Mel had personal “differences” with one of the principals, and would likely have nothing to do with a project in which this person participated.

Joy Adams, great jazz singer and love of my life, and I, traveled to New York city, where Torme’ was appearing at Michael’s Pub, in an effort to try and convince him.

“What am I going to do, Mel?” I asked. “My company wants to do a documentary video on Buddy Rich and they want me to write and co-produce it. I’ll only do it if you narrate it and you won’t have anything to do with one of the key people. If this isn’t done now, it will never get done. And on top of it, there’s little money to pay anyone, especially a big name narrator. What the hell do I do?” Yes, I was pleading.

Torme’ replied with his famous, word-of-God urgency, “Kid...this has to be done and you have to do it. I’ll narrate it. And yes, a $500 token fee will be just fine. It’s not about the money.”

So there. Of course, later on, Mel wouldn’t commit one word to tape until he had the $500 check in his hand, and I had to wait on the phone while he rooted around his Beverly Hills estate to find the check we sent him. But the fact was, he did the project out of the sheer kindness of his heart, and because he loved and worshipped Buddy Rich. I believe that Buddy felt the same way about Mel Torme’.

Rob Wallis and Paul Siegel, founders of DCI Music Video and pioneers of the instructional music video format, have worked longer and harder and with more rock and jazz stars than anyone, and have virtually lived through every real or imagined production disaster. Now heading their own multi-media operation, Hudson Music, Rob and Paul continue to face every technical glitch and display of ego with grace and good humor. Along with video editor Phil Fallo, best known for his work on the Academy Award-nominated documentary, “A Great Day in Harlem,” Wallis and Siegel have been through it all. Still, they hadn’t yet experienced Mel Torme’.

Having agreed to narrate the two-part Buddy Rich video, “Buddy Rich: Jazz Legend,” the next orders of business were to write the dialogue and then get Mel to commit the words to tape. Since I was pretty familiar with Buddy Rich’s life and with Mel’s Sammy Davis-out-of-Gregory-Peck speech patterns, writing the script and getting approval was relatively simple. All I had to remember was to include the word “I” as often as possible, and to keep in mind that Mel believed no one knew Buddy Rich or more about Buddy Rich than Mel Torme’. Getting the dialogue recorded would be simple, I thought, even though Mel lived in Beverly Hills and we were producing the project in New York city. “I bet you have a world-class recording set-up right in your home,” Mel, I said to Torme’ one day over the phone.

“Are you kidding, Kid?” He replied. “I’ve got 12 state-of-the-art microphones that I bought in Japan, three brand-new tape recorders, a sound-proof booth, everything!”

“Great,” I said. “Then all you have to do is hit the switch, read the dialogue into the mike and send the cassette to us in New York as soon as you can. You can use our Federal Express number.”

The tape arrived at our studio in New York. The envelope looked a little funny, torn and frayed at the edges, with a number of names crossed out or partially erased. Upon closer inspection, I could clearly make out the name of Jimmy Stewart, which had been crossed out with a running-out-of-ink magic marker. We guessed that Mel liked to recycle envelopes. The tape cassette itself was far from world class. It was one of those Mexican things that you used to be able to buy at Woolworth’s at a price of 20 for a dollar. Siegel, Wallis and Fallo were already laughing. I was chuckling nervously. Then we put the tape on.

After we all heard the first few seconds of Mel’s voice on the tape, all of us in the room exploded into gales of laughter. The sound quality on the tape was slightly worse than could be heard from a 50-cent recording booth at a penny arcade, circa 1957. Phil Fallo, still laughing uncontrollably, spun every dial in the studio in an attempt to get a modicum of decent sound out of the nickel casssette. There was nothing anyone could do. It sounded as it it were recorded in a cardboard box. Rob and Paul were collapsing with insane laughter, and they could only repeat my nickname over and over again: “Doctor-man, doctor-man, doctor-man...”

How do you tell one of the biggest stars in show business that the quality of the work he’s done for next to nothing is not acceptable? The solution was left to yours truly, The Doctor-Man, and as usual, I could only do what I had to do in private. Adjourning to a private room at NVI Studios in new York, I dialed Mel’s phone number in Beverly Hills. Even I wasn’t sure exactly how this could be approached.

“Mel, I’ve got to tell you,” I said with a slight tremble in my voice, “the job that you did on this narration is just unbelievable. It’s worthy of an Oscar. All of us in the studio back here were almost in tears from the emotion we felt while you were speaking. You made Orson Welles look like a piker.”

“Really, kid?” he said.

“I’m telling you, Mel, “I continued, “I have never felt such pure love and sincerity coming from anyone. But I’ve got to tell you, this just doesn’t do justice to Mel Torme’. This thing needs to be recorded at Philharmonic Hall or on an MGM sound stage. We want to capture every nuance and every breath you take. We have to get the true essence of Mel Torme’ on tape. This is history. I’m starting to tear up just telling you this. We must get you into a recording studio out there.”

He was hooked, and in hindsight, I must say that I did believe every word I was saying. “You’re right, kid,” Mel said.

Through some friends, I found a great recording studio in Beverly Hills, about six blocks from Mel’s home. They were used to working with the stars. I called Mel back and asked him what time would be convenient for him. “Oh, as early as possible, kid,” he said. “I can’t do it Monday. I can’t do it Tuesday. What day is today? I can do it Thursday at 10 a.m. But you’ll have to wake me up.”

“I’d be happy to, Mel,” I said without batting an eye at this odd request. “What time should I call you?”

“Call me at eight in the morning, my time,” he said.

The appointed day came, and I called to arouse Mel Torme’ from his sleep. He was already awake, but then told me that this day and this time were no good, and that we’d have to schedule it for tomorrow. I rescheduled with the recording studio. The “waking up Mel and being told the time and day were no good” procedure went on three more times before the thing was finally done.

This time, the tape arrived in an envelope provided by the recording studio, with a top-of-the-line audio cassette in it, and a Mel Torme’ narration within that was, in truth, worthy of an Academy Award. No one could have narrated “Buddy Rich: Jazz Legend” better than Torme’, and I believe that his name is responsible, at least in part, for the continued brisk sales of these videos long after their release.

Profuse thank-you’s were in order, and a box of tapes were sent to Mel in Beverly Hills the moment they came off the presses.

Some weeks later, I got a call from my life-long friend and colleague, Louis Bernstein. Louis is a percussion historian, drum collector and the Buddy Rich expert in the universe, having recently been the subject of profiles in both the Philadelphia Inquirer and by National Public Radio. None of these videos could have been done without Louis Bernstein. He knows everyone, Mel Torme’ included, and everyone knows Louis. Indeed, Bernstein supplied his own vintage set of Rogers drums for Mel’s long-time drummer, Donny Osborne, during every one of Mel’s annual appearances at Michael’s Pub in New York.

“You’re not going to believe this, Bruce,” Louis told me over the phone. “Mel called and wants you to call him immediately!”

“Why did he call you and not me directly?” I asked. “That makes no sense.”

“Think about it,” Louis explained. “He called me because I have a toll-free 800 number.”

At this point, nothing could surprise me when it involved Mel Torme’ and, shall we say, recycling, be it envelopes or finding a way to call toll-free. I called Mel in Beverly Hills and was told by one of his children, I think, that Mel was in Connecticut somewhere and was expecting my call. I finally got him on the phone.

“How is everything, Mel? I asked. “Did you like the tapes? What can I do for you?”

“I’m out here on the road, kid,” he said. “We’re all on the band bus. The tapes are great. I need six copies of each volume sent to me here in Connecticut. We want to watch them on the road, and we want to watch them tomorrow, so please overnight them.”

Whatever Mel wants, I thought, and I called distributor Warner Bros.’ corporate offices in Miami and told them it was of the absolute essence that Mel Torme’ receive six copies of each volume of “Buddy Rich: Jazz Legend, Volumes One and Two,” and that they be overnighted to him in Connecticut. I was told this wouldn’t be a problem.

The next day, when picking up my telephone messages, I heard the urgent voice of Melvin Howard Torme’. He was livid.

“I only got five copies of these tapes,” he screamed. “I asked you for six! What the hell is this? I don’t know what’s going on here. I got some kind of box here from Miami, and there’s only five copies of the tapes in here. I explicitly asked for six. You’d better do something about this right now, ‘cause I want to tell you, kid, I am not happy! Now you get me these other tapes by tomorrow. I’m very, very disappointed in you, and I am not happy!”

The last thing I wanted to do was make Mel Torme’ unhappy, even if he did call Louis Bernstein’s toll-free number to reach me in order to get 12 free tapes that retail for $39.95 per tape, when he already had a box of them sent to him a month ago. We overnighted him the additional two volumes, and I included a long letter of apology in it, saying that I would never do anything to offend him, that this was a simple oversight on the part of Warner Bros., and that I owe my life and career to him. And I meant it.

We kept in touch until he suffered his debilitating stroke in 1996. I always thought he’d pull out of it, if only because the worst possible thing that could happen to him would be an inability to communicate. Sadly, he never did recover, and few of us knew just how severe the stroke was.

I guarantee that we will never, ever see or hear his likes again. A Mel Torme’ couldn’t be invented today, and even if he were, I doubt if he’d even end up with a record contract. He was the best at everything he did, and that everything included his talents as a drummer, writer of fiction and non-fiction, actor, singer, pianist, arranger, composer, film historian, aviator, lover and promoter of jazz and general literacy. He earned the right to be eccentric. He triumphed and he made it in an impossible, unforgiving business, youth-oriented business without compromising one iota of his musical integrity. He was mellowing in his later years, and was finally reaching the multitudes via his comedic turns on television’s Night Court and in the Mountain Dew commercials. I know for a fact that his wife and children loved him dearly and that he felt the same way about them. His friends in Philadelphia and in every large and small city around the world, were legion. I loved him, and yes, he is responsible in large measure for any kind of career I have today. He gave me credibility. And if Mel Torme’ called me today and asked for two hundred more free video tapes, I would, without question, make sure he had every single one of them in hand the next day.

Bruce H. Klauber, D., Mus., is a writer, video producer, drummer, recording artist and author of “World of Gene Krupa,” writer/co-producer of the DCI/Warner Bros. “Jazz Legends” video series, and producer of the new video, “Gene Krupa: Swing, Swing, Swing!” For details on how to order Krupa and Rich videos, books and rare CDs, check out his Web Site beginning in July at JazzLegends.com, E-Mail him at DrumAlive@aol.com, or write for free list to: Bruce Klauber, Box 496, Lafayette Hill, PA 19444.