Welcome back! In this installment, Connie stars in the New Jersey version of Father Knows Best, scores a string of hits, vacations in Fort Lauderdale surrounded only by white people thanks to Florida’s Jim Crow laws, and reveals that entomology is one of her weakest subjects. Meanwhile, American record company moguls comfortably place their heads up their asses, confident that the music business has entered a period of blessed stability.
“Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool” (Greenfield-Keller, 1960): The story behind this song dates back to sometime in 1950 when George Franconero took his family on an outing.
We were out for a leisurely Sunday drive in our decrepit family Chevy, when daddy, as always, religiously tuned into Newark’s only popular country and western DJ, Paul Brenner. All present, groaned at the sound of the hillbilly music. “Here we go again with that same friggin’ hillbilly crap,” mom carped. “Why the hell do ya have to put the whole goddamned family through the same friggin’ agony every goddamned Sunday?”
“Yeah, give us a break, will ya, Daddy?” I agreed. “I realize that your taste in music is totally corny, but this Ozark noise, well, even the birds hate it!”
“It’s corny, huh? It’s too hillbilly for ya, huh? That’s ‘cause you’re too goddamned dumb to concentrate on the words, kid, that’s why. Forget the arrangements; the lyrics are what really count. These country and western songs, they have more to say about life and love than any of the goddamned crap you listen to everyday on the Hit Parade.”
“Yeah, but they don’t use strings, Daddy. The purists won’t allow it, and they’ll never go pop without using strings.”
“Those southerners are very shrewd. People don’t give ’em enough credit, that’s all. They’ll put strings on eventually, and when they do, there’ll be a buck shot heard ’round the world—you’ll see! Why don’t ya do yourself a big favor, huh? Save up all your money, and buy yourself a few albums that Hank Williams recorded. Then you’ll finally see what the hell I’m talkin’, about, OK?” Why, I asked myself am I always proven decidedly wrong about every single thing, both musical or political, that this man predicts?
Francis, Connie. Among My Souvenirs: The Real Story Vol. 1 (Function). Kindle Edition.
Fast forward to April 7, 1960, when Connie had just finished her recording of “Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool.” From the chapter “The Session that Changed the Face of International Music: ‘Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool.'” (ibid):
“I don’t even have to hear the playback! It’s a smash, gang!” I shouted after the second take of Ev’rybody’s Somebody’s Fool, grabbing Howie Greenfield and jumping up and down. “I knew it, Howie! I knew it as soon as I added the organ! Hey, hey, hey! You did it, Joe!” I gave Joe Sherman, my arranger, a big bear hug, nearly knocking him off his feet. Then I grabbed him by one hand, Howie by the other, and made a beeline for the staircase leading up to the control room, scaling the steps three at a time.
Then I noticed Arnold Maxin, the president of MGM Records; he did not look pleased. “What’s the matter, Arnold? Did you just lose your pet schnauzer, or what?” “You’re not serious, are you?” Arnold asked, morosely. “Serious about what? I’ve never been so sure of a side in my life! Ev’rybody’s Somebody’s Fool is a monster, Arnold!” “It’s country; the country people will HATE it! You’re never gonna break that country market with this one, Connie.”
And just like a one-man cavalry, Daddy rode to the rescue.
“No, she’s right, Arnold,” daddy interjected. “This thing’s goin’ to #1. Now what are ya gonna put on the B-side, Connie?” “No doubt about it, Daddy! The Millionaire’s the flip side.” “It stinks.” “But it’s a Barry Mann song; he’s really hot.” “I don’t give a shit if Beethoven wrote the goddamned thing; it still stinks.”
“Look, dummy,” daddy suggested tenderly, “you gotta give the jukebox operators a decent follow-up to “Mama,” especially in the metropolitan areas. They lose a helluva lot of money with a crappy B-side.” “You’re right, Daddy; I didn’t think of that.” “So then it’s gotta be “Tango della Gelosia” on the flip side; it’s the only thing you got in the can that makes sense.” “Another Italian song? That’s what I figured . . . any day now, at the movies they’re gonna start askin’ me for my passport. OK, OK, you win as usual. So what else is new?” I’m glad he won as usual, because “Jealous of You” (“Tango della Gelosia”) became #1 in every metropolitan city in the U.S. and in every hamlet and city in Italy as well. (ibid)
MGM actually ignored Daddy’s suggestion and released “Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool” as the B-side, but radio stations all over America ignored those instructions and turned “Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool” into Connie’s first #1 hit—the first time a woman made it to the top of the Billboard 100. The song was equally popular in several countries, hitting the top spot in Australia, Canada, Norway, and New Zealand, and #5 in the U.K. I have no idea how it reached #2 on the American R&B charts (?), but Connie did make it into the U.S. Country charts at #24. “Tango della Gelosia” did well in the metro areas but not so well in the sticks, topping out at #19.
The pairing of a sad story with an exceptionally memorable melody, half-step upward key changes in each verse-chorus, and an upbeat tempo allows listeners to forget and forgive their poor mating choices. The message “it happens to everybody”—further strengthened by the presence of background singers—inspires a “You’re gonna win some, you’re gonna lose some” perspective that encourages listeners to try, try again.
The tears I cried for you could fill an ocean
But you don’t care how many tears I cry
And though you only lead me on and hurt me
I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye‘Cause everybody’s somebody’s fool
Everybody’s somebody’s baby
And there are no exceptions to the rule
Yes, everybody’s somebody’s fool
And yeah, buddy, it can happen to you.
Someday you’ll find someone you really care for
And if her love should prove to be untrue
You’ll know how much this heart of my is breakin’
You’ll cry for her the way I cried for you
The underlying message still stands true today, even with AI-driven dating apps (duh)—finding “the one” is a quest that can last a lifetime, and frustrated lovers often settle for second-best . . . or worse. Whether you’re a teenager or a full-grown adult, allowing your hormones or feelings of loneliness to guide your choice of a mate is guaranteed to turn you into a fool.
Connie’s remarkable ability to cross genres is on full display on both sides of the single. Her vocals on “Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool” are a perfect fit for the Grand Ole Opry, and her performance of “Tango della Gelosia” sounds positively operatic at times—with a little more training, she could have been a diva! I’m also going to share the audio for both songs to demonstrate her wide-ranging vocal abilities.
“My Heart Has A Mind of Its Own” (Greenfield-Keller, 1960): What’s this? Two #1s in a row? You go girl!
Connie doesn’t mention the song in Among My Souvenirs, and I sure would like to know why it took forty-nine takes to get it right. As it turns out, MGM released take #49, but a few weeks later, Connie and the songwriters begged the label to release take #37. If you have the original release, you could be rich!
The song opens with a full orchestra doing their best to imitate a fiddle ensemble, identifying the song as Connie’s second foray into country music (thanks, Daddy). What knocks me out on this song is Connie’s lead and harmony vocals—particularly the latter. Unlike some of her earlier works, the main melody is the high part and the harmonies are the low part, a combination that combines plaintiveness and desperation in the melody and a sense of defeat and despair in her harmonies.
What makes this song (and “Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool”) so compelling is something Howie Greenfield shared with Connie how he approached writing songs for her. “Every song I write, I write about you, and what’s currently happening in your life.” Though she and Bobby Darin had parted years before, she never got over him and regretted not marrying him for the rest of her life. Howie was aware of her lingering attachment, and even though she only ran into Darin when they simultaneously appeared on the same bill, Howie knew she would hear Bobby’s voice on the radio, and the feelings expressed in both songs came straight from her broken heart.
I told this heart of mine our love would never be
But then I hear your voice and something stirs inside of me
Somehow I can’t dismiss the memory of your kiss
Guess my heart has a mind of its ownNo matter what I do
No matter what I say, no matter how I try
I just can’t turn the other way
When I’m with someone new, I always think of you
Guess my heart has a mind of its ownYou’re not in love with me, so why can’t I forget
I’m just your used to be?
It’s wrong and yet
I know forgetting you would be a hopeless thing
For I’m a puppet, and I just can’t seem to break the string
I say I’ll let you go, but then my heart says no
Guess my heart has a mind of its own
Guess my heart has a mind of its own
I’m sure that Connie deeply appreciated Howie’s empathy for her plight, and it should come as no surprise that the song turned out to be her second #1.
“Many Tears Ago” (Scott, 1960): Winfield Scott didn’t have the kind of relationship Connie had with Howie and Neil, but he was a proven songwriter who co-wrote the King’s “Return to Sender” with Otis Blackwell and “Tweedle Dee” for LaVern Baker. After two country songs, Connie needed to change things up, and this bluesy R&B number with the repeated Hank Williams phrase “your cheating heart” made for a smooth transition. Even better, Connie pulled herself out of the dumps and delivered this song about her cheating ex-lover with strength and palpable irritation along the lines of “I’ll take no bullshit from you, dude.”
I knew I was going to love this song as soon as I heard the whistled melody in the opening passage. I love to whistle, and I love to hear other people whistle because it means we’re all in a good mood. In the context of this song, the whistling conveys the message, “It’s no skin off my back that I dumped your sorry ass. Yay me!”
“Where the Boys Are” (Sedaka-Greenfield, 1961): After reading the book and deciding to turn it into a film, producer Joe Pasternak knew he wanted Connie Francis in the movie and definitely wanted her to sing the then unwritten theme song, but he had to remove a few obstacles to realize his vision. First, he had to convince Connie that she wasn’t a self-described “lousy actress.” Second, he had to deal with Daddy (no surprise there). After reading the script, Mr. Franconero blew his top. “You’ll do this movie over my dead body!” he purred gently. Flinging the script on the desk, he muttered, “Did you read this piece of garbage? It’s a dirty movie.” This time, Connie decided that father didn’t know best. “Never mind daddy, Mr. Pasternak; don’t even listen to him. I’ll be delighted to do your movie, and yes, of course, I’ll sing the title song. Forget what daddy said. He’ll stay home in New Jersey.” (Among My Souvenirs)
The final obstacle involved the theme song. Pasternak had lined up an impressive list of songwriters like Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen who were itching to write a song for Connie Francis. The singer pushed back and suggested that he give Neil and Howie a shot. Pasternak had never heard of them, but agreed to give them a week to ten days to show their stuff.
Alas, Neil and Howie weren’t particularly excited about the opportunity.
“HOWIE, YOU GUYS HAVE GOT A SHOT AT WRITING THE TITLE SONG FOR MY FIRST MOVIE!” I shouted excitedly. “But you’ve got only a week to do it! As soon as you guys finish the song, Neil’s gotta record the demo, and then put it on a plane with this stewardess friend I know; that’s how I get all my mail really fast.”
“So what’s the name of the movie?” “Where the Boys Are.” “WHERE THE BOYS ARE? Talk about a stupid title! Don’t tell me you expect us to write a hit song with a dumb title like that, Concetta. We’re not magicians, y’know.”
“Howie, get real; I’m serious as disease. Don’t you realize what this means? If you don’t, Donnie Kirshner, as the publisher, is gonna flip his lid. Now get hoppin’, and don’t give me any agita, Howie, OK?” Four days later, Howie called me. “We wrote two ‘Where the Boys Are’ songs, Con. One of ’em we love, and the other one we hate.” “Well, have Neil do the demos right away, and get them on a plane to me pronto. I gave you the stewardess’ phone number, right?” Several days later, after receiving the two ‘Where the Boys Are’ songs, I called Neil and Howie. “You boys are absolutely right. I love the song you guys love, and the other one—I hate it, too.”
When Mr. Pasternak listened carefully to the two songs, he said happily, “You were right, Connela. These two kids can really write! This is the song I want!” I called Howie and Neil again, this time somewhat sadder. “Boys, I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news. YOU’RE IN! You’ve got the title song for my first movie! But unfortunately, it’s the song we all hate!” So thank you, Uncle Joe, for choosing the song we all hated, because it went on to become my signature song, reaching number one in fifteen countries in six different languages
Francis, Connie. Among My Souvenirs: The Real Story Vol. 1 (Function). Kindle Edition.
Years later, when Connie spoke to Neil, he had no idea what happened to the rejected version and couldn’t remember a thing about it. My guess is that the rejected tune was lighter and more poppy, while the chosen one was more cinematic and worthy of the classic opening orchestral crescendo.
As we learned from “Who’s Sorry Now,” Connie wasn’t one to pack it in when covering a song she hated, and here she gives a bravura performance, holding the frequent long notes with ease while imbuing them with heartfelt emotion. I always get the shivers when the orchestra backs off to give Connie room to sing the closing lines with passion and finesse, and I’m thankful that arranger Stan Applebaum ended the song with a nod to rock ‘n ‘roll with a few guitar licks.
Although such a development could not have been predicted in 1960, Connie joined Judy Garland, Barbra Streisand, Liza Minnelli, and others as a favorite of a certain demographic. Connie wrote about her feelings about joining that group in the chapter covering her visits to Fort Lauderdale in 2009-2010 to plan for the Connie Francis’ Great American Beach Party on Memorial Day weekend.
I’d like to preface this story by saying that as far as the gay community is concerned, I am in their corner 110%; for decades, they have been among my most loyal of supporters. As a matter of fact, at my concerts before I sing ‘Where The Boys Are,” I’ll invariably announce, “Ladies and gentlemen—the gay national anthem.” I’m grateful for my very large gay following, and that’s the name of that tune.
Francis, Connie. Among My Souvenirs: The Real Story Vol. 1 (Function). Kindle Edition.
Right before I moved to Seattle, my father took me to see Connie at the Castro Theatre in the gay hub of San Francisco. A sellout crowd consisting largely of gay males sang along to all her songs, but when she sang “Where the Boys Are,” partners hugged and kissed each other, and tears flowed down many faces.
I’ll explain why my father wanted me to see Connie a little bit later.
The film is definitely worth watching, but the poster above is offensively misleading. There are plenty of laughs, but I would never use the word “hilarious” to describe a film in which one of the girls is essentially raped (off-camera). Connie’s fans also expressed concerns: “During Christmas and New Year’s, after the movie was released, I received a bale of mail from disgruntled fans saying pretty much the same thing, ‘We’re pissed! Why did they have to stick you with the ugly guy?’ (My apologies to all Frank Gorshin fans.)” (ibid)
Oddly enough, her signature song peaked at #4 on the Billboard 100.
Breakin’ In A Brand New Broken Heart” (Sedaka-Greenfield, 1961): The song has a pleasant melody, and Connie sings it well, but godDAMN that guitar in the right channel is irritating! It sounds like an overgrown jaw’s harp! I guess a lot of people just shut it out and focused on Connie’s gorgeous voice, since the song became another top ten hit.
“Don’t Break The Heart That Loves You” (Davis-Murry, 1962): Connie overcomes another clunky guitar part with her beautiful dual harmonies and spoken-word delivery to score her third #1 hit. I have no problems whatsoever with the song, but I did notice a disturbing development when I checked the U.K. charts, where she had always done well. After the single “Together” (not included in this compilation) made it to #6, her next three A-sides failed to chart, and “Don’t Break The Heart That Loves You” only made it to #39. My initial theory about the decline was “too many breakup songs,” but a closer look told me that the Brits were challenging American chart dominance in the U.K. with a raft of homegrown artists like Cliff Richard & The Shadows, Helen Shapiro, Adam Faith, Billy Fury and Shirley Bassey. Connie would have only one more top ten hit in the U.K. before vanishing from the U.K. charts.
None of those artists made a splash in the States, but there was no doubt that something was brewing in Great Britain, and the smug American record moguls failed to read the tea leaves.
“Second Hand Love” (Hunter-Spector, 1962): Boy, oh, boy, there must have been one helluva market for heartbreak songs in the early 60s, and Connie rode that wave to yet another top ten hit (#7). As you may have noticed from the quotes attributed to Connie, she was anything but a pushover, but despite her belief that she was a lousy actress, she successfully slips into the role of a wimpy girl suffering from low self-esteem and humiliation at the hands of a first-rate asshole in the sad tale of “Second Hand Love.”
They tell me that there’s someone else you really, truly, love
And even when we kiss, that she’s the one you’re thinking of
I guess it’s true, ’cause once or twice
You called me by her name
I need you so, but now, I know
That you don’t feel the sameIt’s all over town
You put me down
A second-hand love
A second-hand love
Despite her real-life tough girl persona, Connie did indeed have a heart with a mind of its own that led to some very poor choices of partners. She married and divorced four times. Three of those marriages lasted less than a year, and at least two of the hubbies beat the crap out of her. She did even the score with one of them: “We were in our apartment the second time Dick beat me for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Instinctively, I struck him hard over the head with the brass base of that lamp. I always knew it would come in handy some day, knocking him unconscious (I didn’t know whether he was dead or alive, and I didn’t care), took a taxi to my office, called Rico to come and pick me up, and I never returned.” (ibid) Things got a bit more complicated when she flew to Las Vegas to get a divorce and three of her admirers came to her defense.
I arrived in Las Vegas with two purposes: to begin my four-week engagement at the Sahara and also to get a divorce. I was accompanied by my usual 27 trunks, mom and dad, Aunt Marie and Uncle Ray, Charlotte and Lou, Anita and Rico, and Ellie and George Scheck. Also there at the airport to greet me, was my friend of three years, Eddie Pucci, Sinatra’s close friend and bodyguard. “That strunz has been hiding out in his friend, Herb McDonald’s, apartment,” Pucci revealed, “but I found him and gave him some shellackin’.” “Gee, I didn’t know you were gonna do that, Pooch.” “We were just waiting for you to get here to tell us what the hell you want us to do with this sfaccime.” Then, within two days, three prominent members of two of New York’s Mob Families, men I’d met only briefly, called and pleaded with me to allow them to “put ‘im in a box in the desert, which is too good for the bastard, if you ask me.” “OH, MY GOD, NO! THANK YOU FOR CARING, BUT I COULD NEVER LIVE WITH MYSELF IF ANYTHING LIKE THAT EVER HAPPENED!” “Sure you can, Concetta—sure you can live with that, easy. You’ll sleep like a baby; think about it some more.”
Francis, Connie. Among My Souvenirs: The Real Story Vol. 1 (Function). Kindle Edition.
For Connie, it was an offer she could definitely refuse and did.
“Vacation” (Connie Francis-Weston-Hunter, 1962): Thanks to laziness on the part of the other members of the songwriting team, Connie managed to earn her first and only credit as a songwriter. Weston and Hunter provided her with the music and one line (“V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N in the summer sun”) and left it to Connie to fill in the blanks. Employing relatively recent memories of her high school years and referencing a Pat Boone hit as well as a current dance craze, she did a superb job of capturing the “no more school, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks” vibe of a summer vacation.
V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N in the summer sun
Put away the books, we’re out of school
The weather’s warm but we’ll play it cool
We’re on vacation, havin’ lots of fun
V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N in the summer sunWe’re gonna grab a bite at the pizza stand
Write love letters in the sand
We’re on vacation and the world is ours
V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N under summer starsYeah, we’ll hop in a jalopy to a drive-in movie and never look at the show
We’re gonna hug and kiss just like this and I can’t wait to go, go, go
We’re gonna mashed potato to a jukebox tune
Park your car ‘neath an August moon
We’re on vacation till the start of the fall
After all that heartbreak, it’s nice to hear Connie having a good time for a change. Her perky vocal is filled with joy, and in a few passages she seems to mimic the voice of her close friend Brenda Lee (and I’m sure Brenda didn’t mind). The song was recorded in Nashville, giving Connie access to top-flight session musicians, and Boots Randolph delivers the goods with a seriously hot sax solo.
Leave it to Wikipedia to spoil the party: “It is also noted that this is the last song that would reach the top 10 in any type of pop chart for Francis.”
“I’m Gonna Be Warm This Winter” (Hunter-Barkan, 1962): This pleasant little pop tune features Connie in her best little girl voice as she sings of finding true love at a ski lodge. It’s not a bad song, but it doesn’t exactly light my fire. My indifference could have something to do with my only trip to the slopes, where I twisted an ankle and came down with a cold. The song peaked at #18 in the States, and a measly #48 in the U.K. Connie would not have another charting single in the mother country for another two years.
Gee, I wonder why.
“Follow the Boys” (Davis-Murry 1963): Since Connie had shared her opinion of the music in the bio and the movie, I’ll let her take over.
“I was in London recording the soundtrack album of Follow the Boys, a nothing album for a nothing movie with Arnold Maxin, president of MGM Records in the U.S. and Norman Newell, leading producer of EMI in Britain (MGM’s distributor). I was scheduled to begin filming in Nice the following Monday. None of the songs on that forgettable album was anything to write home about; only one song had even a slight chance of making it as a single—a Greek-flavored tune called Tonight’s My Night.” (ibid)
*****
In early 1964, Connie opened at the Sahara in Las Vegas and was surprised to see that her dear friends, Lou and Charlotte Sukoff, weren’t in the crowd. After the show, she sent a telegram to Lou, who ran the company that pressed most of the albums in the USA. Unfortunately, the operator garbled the message, so Lou placed a call to Connie early the next day to find out what was up.
“I was wondering why you weren’t here for my opening night last night? It’s the first time that you and Charlotte ever missed one of my Vegas openings.”
“Look, Connie, it was impossible for us to make it.”
“Why, Lou, is somebody sick?”
“No Connela, it’s because the factory’s been busy twenty-four hours a day.”
“Why?”
”Because the beetles have invaded.”
“So, call an exterminator,” I advised.
Little did I know, that this heretofore unknown singing group from England, The Beatles, would practically wipe me and virtually every other American artist—including Elvis for a while—smack off the charts.
Francis, Connie. Among My Souvenirs: The Real Story Vol. 1 (Function). Kindle Edition.
I would make one small but important change to Connie’s claim: except for the guitarists and guitar-based bands like Roy Orbison, the Beach Boys and other surf groups, virtually every American artist who followed the ‘don’t mess with success’ doctrine was wiped out. Connie also failed to mention that many of those slots in the year-end Billboard Top 100 were filled by the new Motown artists with their driving bass lines. Though Connie had recorded songs in a variety of genres, none of them fit into the new Venn diagram. She would continue to draw plenty of fans to her concerts, but after the British Invasion and the rise of Motown, her singles rarely reached the top 40.
*****
Connie wrote two autobiographies: Who’s Sorry Now in 1984, and Among My Souvenirs in 2017. There are limited copies of the first one, so be prepared to either spend a big chunk of money or try to pick up a used copy somewhere. The latter is available and more reasonably priced.
However, I need to warn you that Among My Souvenirs is not a linear narrative, and the first two chapters are devoted to what would be her last concert for years and the horrendous event that occurred in the very early morning on November 8, 1974, when she was held at knife point, raped and brutally beaten in her hotel room. Connie tells the story in all its gruesome detail, so be prepared. The police found her naked, bound and gagged, tied to an overturned chair, and about to suffocate under the weight of a heavy mattress. She would suffer from PTSD for several years, spent time in mental health facilities, and attempted to commit suicide in 1984 by swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills. She was in a coma for several days. Her first autobiography was partly an attempt to understand what could never be understood.
But she came back in 1989 and resumed her career, prioritizing live performances over recordings. She returned to Vegas that year, came back in 2004, then eventually made her way to San Francisco, where I saw her live and in person.
Now I’ll tell you why Dad felt it was important for me to see her show. Six months before her performance, I was abducted at knifepoint by a strong young man as I was leaving work. He shoved me into the front seat of his car. Holding the wheel with his left hand and his knife in his right hand close to my throat, he drove across the Bay Bridge and turned south. Pretty sure he was going to rape and kill me, I focused on means of escape. Unlike Connie, who was locked in a hotel room, I had a way out. I remembered the scene in Rebel Without a Cause when they played chicken and Jim Stark got out of the car before it went over a cliff, while Buzz got his jacket stuck in the door handle and fell to his death. I was wearing a leather jacket just like Buzz, so as we were driving down the freeway, I said to the guy, “Hey, it’s getting hot in here. Do you mind if I take off my jacket?” Instead of asking me if I was up to something, he said, “Good idea! Then I can see your titties.” I took off my jacket, put it on the floorboard, and waited for the right moment.
He eventually drove us into this large open space covered in gravel and dirt, and I noticed the presence of tract homes on my side of the car with their lights on. In one quick moment, I opened the door, rolled onto the gravel, and started screaming and running toward the light. Two of the occupants of one of the houses heard my screams and came running to my rescue. The potential rapist had done a U-turn and had pointed his car in my direction, but when he saw those likely witnesses approaching me, he took off. I still remember the license plate. I lost a jacket, but still had a life.
My suffering was petty compared to what Connie went through. I was taken to the nearest hospital where they removed the bits of gravel under my skin, and then I talked to the cops and gave them all the details. I got the distinct impression that they sensed it was a date gone wrong, but by this time my mother had arrived and they learned she was one woman they didn’t want fuck around with. I was advised to go through trauma therapy and did so. The cops eventually found the prick, who received a lousy three-year sentence. Knowing the guy would get out relatively soon sealed my decision to find work in Seattle. It also made me take my martial arts training more seriously.
Dad took me to see Connie Francis because he sensed I was still suffering from the trauma of the abduction, and Connie was a role model of someone who had managed to overcome most of her lingering demons (you never fully get rid of them). She was now doing what she loved to do ever since she climbed up to the stage when she was four years old and heard the sounds of delight from the audience. I was surprised to see how small she was (a little over five feet) and absolutely stunned by the power coming out of that tiny woman’s lungs. The largely gay crowd loved her, and she loved them back, validating their choice to be their true selves (including this bisexual female). And yes, “Where the Boys Are” was the showstopper to end all showstoppers. I left the concert feeling optimistic that I could get over my trauma and resume my quest to make a positive difference in the world.
Connie’s decline in the charts had nothing to do with the quality of her music. Tastes change, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. In an era when melody is virtually dead, I was delighted to hear about her TikTok success, and I hope that today’s musicians begin to recognize that melody is an essential aspect of music with an exceptional ability to touch hearts and souls. Connie was one of the best when it came to melody, and her contributions to music should never be forgotten.
