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Overview
You Oughta Be Me: How to Be a Lounge Singer and Live Like One is the hilarious guide to becoming a lounge singer, by none other than Bud E. Luv—lounge singer extraordinaire. Learn how to properly croon into a microphone and how to deal with adoring fans ("don't ever let them touch your hair"). The New York Times raves, "The humor is on target."
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429953122 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 10/15/1993 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Bud E. Luv published his autobiography in 1993.
Read an Excerpt
You Oughta Be Me
How to be a Lounge Singer and Live Like
By Bud E. Luv
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 1993 Robert VickersAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-5312-2
CHAPTER 1
Talent with a Capital T
Thank you! Thank you very much.
Welcome to my book.
Where're you from?
Great.
Isn't it marvelous what St. Martin's Press has done with this book?
Feel the pages. The linen content is outrageous, isn't it? And what a cover — the weight, the sheen!
Ladies and gentlemen, I love this business we call show. It's my life. And as you know, I've achieved a spectacular number of milestones in a career that has spanned over three decades.
Yes, I've created some musical trends over the years — rock 'n' roll, folk music, disco, bossa nova.
And, of course, I've written hit songs for everyone from Elvis and Frank Sinatra right up to Michael Jackson.
I've been blessed. In fact, I am wearing over thirty-five thousand dollars' worth of clothing and jewelry at this very moment.
But what has made it all possible?
Is it luck or fate?
No.
Is it my agent?
No.
Is it you, my adoring fans?
Of course. But it's more.
Allow me to share with you the secret that's made this fabulous career such a fabulous reality.
It's a single word that begins with T.
The word is Talent.
WHAT THAT CAT UPSTAIRS GAVE ME
When did I know I had it? Immediately. I was born with it. I'll die with it. More than diamonds, Talent is forever.
But Talent, my friends, must be nurtured. And the real source of inspiration, light, and nourishment in my career has always been my beloved mother, Perithea.
She scrimped, she saved, and never for a second faltered in her faith in my Talent. She pressed my little school pants twice a day, instilling in me the importance of looking immaculate at all times. She bought me imitation gems. I can still remember staring into those gems nestled in my lunch box and seeing my mother's reflection. Later, she taught me how to do my hair. She even bathed me in virgin olive oil on holidays.
By the time I was six, my talent was so obvious that I was discovered by Milton Berle. By the time I was eight, I had made three albums. National tours. TV appearances. The whole enchilada. At the age of nine, I was hanging out with the Rat Pack — Sammy Davis, Jr., Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Peter Lawford, and Joey Bishop. I was guiding careers, writing hits, and choreographing shows for too many stars to mention.
Why? Because I had it. I had talent. It wasn't something I had to think about. I didn't have to send away for it. It came to me like jelly on toast. All I had to do was spread it around and give it back, like cream to coffee. (I should mention that I'm enjoying a large breakfast at my ranch as I'm writing this.)
What is Talent?
Talent is a playful mistress. A ray of morning sun frolicking on the windowsill. A butterfly. A brooding storm. A way to make a buck.
You can't buy it. You can't fake it. You either have Talent — or you pretend to have it.
WHO'S GOT IT, WHO DOESN'T
How can you spot those who have the Big T?
Look for the earmarks. There are telltale signs.
For example, there are very few people in this business we know and love called show who can work with one name. We know who they are. Elvis. Cher. Catinflas. Lassie. And a close personal friend — Charo. She has it.
Look in the tabloids. The tabloids always pick on the very gifted.
Follow the bankruptcies. The truly Talented are often preyed upon by armies of hangers-on who bleed them dry and leave them penniless in a ditch.
Who's singing the National Anthem at the Super Bowl? You can bet it's a Super Talent.
And believe me, pal, whoever the comics are imitating the most are the cats and kittens who have the most — Talent, that is.
Look for the relaxed smile, the easy manner with the public. Look at the jewelry — not overstated, but always apparent.
Who has Talent? Many do. Mozart. Da Vinci. Henry Ford. Let's take a closer look.
EYDIE GORME: Elegant simplicity, a capital T.
STEVE LAWRENCE: Excess baggage. She's carrying him.
BOBBY DARIN: A genius. The good die young.
DON HO: Tiny bubbles, tiny talent.
MICHAEL JACKSON: A mega-talent. The vitiligo thing was my idea.
TOM JONES AND A FEW OF MY FAVORITE BABES CUT ME A PIECE, IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY, BUT THE BAKER PUT TOM'S NAME ON THE CAKE BY MISTAKE. LEFT TO RIGHT: JOAN RIVERS, JOEY HEATHERTON, SONNY BONO, TOM, DIONNE WARWICK, DEBBIE REYNOLDS, AND LIBERACE.
STEVE ALLEN: The schtick — great. The music — this could be the start of something boring. Just kidding, Steverino! See you at my golf classic.
WAYNE NEWTON: Bankrupt or not, always going for broke. A Geronimo with pipes.
WILLIE TYLER AND LESTER: These guys kill me.
NANCY SINATRA: Great boots.
ENGELBERT HUMPERDINCK: Making this name a household word was no easy task. Capital T.
FRANKIE AVALON: No.
PHYLLIS DILLER: I love what she's trying to do.
NEIL SEDAKA: Great writer. Sings higher than Wayne, God bless him.
PETER, PAUL AND MARY: Very sincere. Love her, but two bald guys on the same stage? It must be 500 miles to the nearest toupee shop.
TRINI LOPEZ: If I had a hammer, I'd hit this clown on the head. But I kid Trini.
DON RICKLES: Yes. Misunderstood, and a close personal friend.
JOHN DAVIDSON: Hair, A-plus.
DONNY AND MARIE: Teeth for days, talent to spare. I loved what they did with my barbershop quartet idea.
TONY ORLANDO: Without Dawn, we're all in the dark.
TOM JONES: Big T squared. Almost as good as me. One of my model students.
PAUL ANKA: Undeniable.
PAT BOONE: Nothing but white and green bucks. R
OBERT GOULET: On a clear day, you can see his house from my ranch.
PIA ZADORA: Career — bought and paid for. I hope she has a receipt.
ASHFORD AND SIMPSON: Too much hair.
SANDLER AND YOUNG: Too much talent.
AXL ROSE: Misunderstood. A sensitive talent.
JUDY COLLINS: Pitch, Judy, pitch. Pick a key and stick with it.
NEIL DIAMOND: I love the moody thing he does.
MADONNA: Definitely has it. She defined lounge in the eighties.
DINO, FRANK, SAMMY, JACK JONES, LIZA, MEL TORME, AND TONY BENNETT: What do you think? T-T-T-T-T-T-T.Forever.
WHY BILL MURRAY'S A BUM
Las Vegas is built on two things — lounge singing and comedy. Bread and butter. Earth and water. Without music, the laughter is hollow. Without laughter, the music means nothing. Comedy and music need each other.
Bill Murray — comedian — denigrated and disgraced the profession of lounge singing with a tawdry, insincere, and off-key imitation of the work of his brothers and sisters in music. This kind of betrayal is the hallmark of a hooligan, a ragamuffin, and, the worst insult I know, a non-professional.
How would Bill's mother, Mrs. Murray, feel if I, Bud E. Luv, got up and told Bill Murray's jokes without an ounce of feeling or an iota of timing? Bill Murray is an ill-shaved, misshapen bum. May all his sequels be turkeys and all his Christmas releases be bombs.
Actually, I kid Bill. We're very close.
THE HATS AND HAT NOTS: LEFT TO RIGHT, DEAN MARTIN, FRANK SINATRA, AND SAMMY DAVIS, JR.
IF YOU'VE GOT IT, FLAUNT IT!
Does Dolly Parton wear a topcoat? Does Tony Bennett shy away from the Big Finish? Does Tom Jones wear baggy pants?
No. They play (and wear) their strongest suit. They amplify. They enhance.
The Chairman phrases. Dino sips. Cher tattoos it. The Chief slam-dunks. Every great lounge entertainer understands the First Commandment of Show Business — Thou Shalt Maximize.
Every night when I go onstage, do I blink and hide in the glare of the lights, skulk, whimper a lyric or two, and scuttle offstage? Of course not. I put on a dazzling display of pyrotechnic talent, a musical explosion that makes the cats' jaws drop and leaves the broads drooling in their drinks.
When you've got what That Cat Upstairs gave me, you don't hide it behind the slots. You flaunt it. All the way. You should do the same.
Everyone's got a special talent. Figure out what yours is and practice flaunting it. Try to get applause for what you do well. If you park cars, try parking them at breakneck speed. Park two at a time. If you have a knack for delivering packages, go the extra mile — deliver more. Balance them. Stack the breakable ones sky-high, and then dump them with a flourish and a "who loves ya" wink. Whatever you do, flaunt and maximize until your customers are on their feet screaming for more.
MY TALENT: THE INCREDIBLE BURDEN
It's true. Having Talent is a burden. And sometimes the weight is overwhelming.
People often ask me, "Bud E., how do you carry the heavy burden of your talent so gracefully?"
Simple.
I wear a Talent Brace.
Send $49.95 to: Talent Brace, House of Luv, Box 711, Las Vegas, Nevada 85103. No checks, please.
But even so, when you're the special me that I am, sometimes the ordinary Bud E. gets lost. I get confused. The voices blur in my head: "You're the greatest." "You're a legend." "The white zone is for loading and unloading only."
At times like these, I have to catch myself.
What do I do?
I stop and smell the cactus. I go to the desert. I get out of the limo, get away from the marquee with my name on it (in HUGE letters), away from the standing ovations, away from the groupies and listen. You should do this, too.
If you can't go to the desert, go into your closet. Close the door. Stand among your clothes in the dark, and listen.
If you've got an enormously large talent like I do, you've got to learn to live with it. Buy a king-size bed for your talent. Remember, you've got to sleep with yourself at night. Add a wing to your house. Your talent needs room to breathe. Wear pantaloons.
Remember, only you can face yourself in that morning mirror framed with all those little light bulbs. No one can do it for you.
When you're feeling the burden, when you're at that painful crossroads ... stop. Breathe. Wait. Listen.
Touch your medallion.
And remember: Bud E. goes through this every day.
LOOKING TALENTED: TEN THINGS YOU CAN DO
You may be Pavarotti. You may be Caruso. You may be Florence Nightingale or Florence Henderson. You may have all the God-given Talent in the world. But you're not going anywhere if you don't look talented. And if you don't have any talent, you'd really better look like you do.
People often say to me, "Bud E., why do you look so talented?"
My friends, I'll tell you. There are secrets. And I'm going to give you ten very basic pointers to help you look as talented as you may or may not be.
1. LOOK UP. Look like you have vision. Talented people don't walk around staring at the ground. Get your chin up! Focus on the horizon.
2. PRACTICE SQUINTING. The very Talented often tighten their eyelids, as if peering dimly into the future. This can work for you.
3. CARRY A PAIR OF GLASSES. Glasses lend an air of intelligence. Put them on occasionally during conversation, even if there's nothing to read. But don't wear them all the time — you'll look like some two-bit scientist.
4. NEVER CARRY PENCILS OR NOTEBOOKS. These things are for secretaries. Talented people seem to be able to keep things in their heads. And if they forget, it means they're really talented.
5. WEAR LEISURE APPAREL. Look like you have lots of free time, as if you've just come from the beach, the golf course or the tennis court. Talented people don't have to work as hard as normal schmucks.
6. SPEAK SOFTLY. You should act like you're used to being listened to.
7. APPEAR SENSITIVE. Stare at plants. Notice colors, tints, hues. Appreciate fabrics. Everyone knows Talented people can find inspiration in anything. Act like you can, too.
8. IN CONVERSATION, SAY "WAIT A MINUTE!" BE QUIET FOR FIFTEEN SECONDS. THEN, SAY "Go AHEAD." This gives the impression you've just had a brilliant thought you've decided not to share.
9. FORGET TO EAT.
10. CONSIDER WEARING AN EARRING. Not right for everyone, but it can lend a dash of flamboyance. Don't wear it all the time, andnever wear two.
CHAPTER 2A Little Thing Called Style
Style starts with an inner voice. A tiny atom of confidence. A nucleus of faith deep within. And slowly it grows. It grows like a bank account. Outward. Upward. Compounding. Soon you feel it everywhere: in your hands, your eyes, your smile, your shoulders. They're broader somehow. Your shoulderpads rest more easily.
This inner sense of Style, slowly emerging, tells your body what to do, what to wear, what to sing and when. It makes the choices for you, in brilliant colors.
Soon you feel the transformation. The microphone feels more comfortable in your hands. The high notes are easier. Your pants fit better in the seat.
Can it be happening to you? Yes!
I think of style as a coming of age, a rite of passage, an entertainer's puberty. Until you possess a fully developed sense of style you will languish with the Holiday Inn riffraff, slumped over a cheesy synthesizer and a glass of cold house burgundy. If you find a cigarette butt in it, don't be surprised. Until you have style, panache, savoir faire, vichyssoise, chateaubriand, you're not ready for the lounge.
HAVE IT? I INVENTED IT!
Drench yourself in Style, like I do.
Buy yourself a brilliant canary-yellow wool gabardine suit embroidered with covered wagons and cactus, designed personally by Nudie.
Or slip into an elegant scarlet tuxedo jacket with lucky dice, martini glasses, and playing cards tumbling down the back and sleeves.
Purchase an 18-karat white gold pinkie ring with your name spelled out in sparkling diamonds, your middle initial in sapphire.
You're starting to feel the style, aren't you?
Of course you are.
Now spray that lofty mane of blue-black hair until its sheen resembles nothing so much as the luster of a sinewy black panther.
Pick up your platinum cigarette case embossed with an emerald portrait of Sammy Davis, Jr., his good eye a rare Burmese opal.
Move with the sure stride, the easy demeanor, the devil-may-care Ka-chow, chow, chow attitude.
Who are you?
That's right.
You're someone with Style.
What makes you sparkle? What makes you special? What makes you expensive?
Style, my friend.
CHARISMA : IT'S EASY
Camelot. Those heady days. Being with Bobby and Jack Kennedy in the Oval Office, entertaining at the White House. It's still a dream, those times in the early sixties. Those nutty Thousand Days.
I remember being with the Kennedy family in Hyannis Port one weekend. Bobby had flown me in from the Catskills with Pat Cooper for a small surprise birthday party for Ethel. There were broads everywhere. I was in the living room when Jack came in from the beach. He'd just been out for a swim. Suddenly, the room stopped. What was it? Was it the towel with the Presidential seal on it? Was it the tousled hair? Was it the swim trunks with the Presidential seal on them?
No.
It was charisma.
I learned something very special from the president that day — a lesson about magnetism. I learned where charisma comes from. It was more than the compelling vision of this young leader of the free world. It was more than the razor wit, the flashing eyes. It was more than the broads.
The charisma was in his teeth.
When Jack smiled, and I saw him smile many times that day, every atom in the air stood crisply at attention. The glow of his smile warmed the room. It was unforgettable. And I've often noticed that the most charismatic people have ... The Teeth.
Bobby had an even bigger set. Look at Ray Charles. Sure, there's the music thing, but he had no charisma until he started smiling. The Osmonds. They'd still be steaming towels in a barbershop in Utah if it weren't for their teeth.
Remember, when the Kennedys smiled, the whole world smiled with them. Camelot started with clean enamel. When Carol Channing smiled, you couldn't get Hello, Dolly off Broadway with a crowbar.
To get charisma, see your dentist. He (or she) can help. The American Dental Association wouldn't be where it is today if it weren't for the marriage of teeth and charisma. It's a wedding you can't afford to miss.
WHERE TO HANG OUT
If you're going to be a lounge singer, it's important that you hang out in the right places. Don't let where you hang out hang you. Your image is very important. When you're not performing, it's location, location, location.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from You Oughta Be Me by Bud E. Luv. Copyright © 1993 Robert Vickers. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Introduction,
ONE - Talent with a Capital T,
TWO - A Little Thing Called Style,
THREE - Dressing,
FOUR - Jewelry: A Few Pointers, My Friend,
FIVE - What to Sing,
SIX - Putting It All Together,
SEVEN - Making It in This business We Call Show,
EIGHT - Broads, Chicks, and Dolls,
NINE - Becoming a Legend,
TEN - Tax Write-offs,
ELEVEN - Developing an Alcohol or Drug Problem,
TWELVE - Retirement,
AND NOW A WORD FROM MR. MILTON BERLE ...,
You Oughta Be Me,
GREAT MOMENTS IN LOUNGE HISTORY,
Copyright Page,