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It was a small item, even in the local news. You might have missed it. News out of the entertainment industry these days pretty much obsesses about Brad Pitt’s new love interest or the fact that on the Internet you can find a picture of Selena Gomez wearing a thong. Buddy Greco died a couple of weeks ago.
Maybe you’re too young to remember Buddy. He was 90 when he passed away. Some critics believe that in his own way, Buddy Greco was the first lounge singer. If he wasn’t, he certainly defined the term. He was not your washed up singer in a cheap, gaudy jacket with fake palm trees near the bar, singing banal songs off-key. He was definitely not the guy tinkling the piano keys while you made moves on the lady sitting alone at the end of a bar. If Buddy Greco is to be considered a lounge singer, he was the quintessential lounge singer. The guy who turned lounge singing into an art form.
Buddy was born in South Philly. His brother and his family lived on South Iseminger Street, just blocks from where this newspaper ’s offices stood until this past year. And while we understandably celebrate the great talent born in this area, you seldom hear the name of Buddy Greco mentioned. This column is meant in its small way, to correct that injustice.
I guess it was some time in the late 1940s that I first heard Buddy Greco. We had a 78 RPM recording of a song called “Oh Look-A There Ain’t She Pretty.” You might remember that I mentioned this song in my column of Dec. 22 (“The Last Christmas”) about my late Uncle Chibby. The song was recorded around 1947. Uncle Chibby loved to sing Buddy’s song right down to the words “hubba hubba.” “Hubba hubba” when used to describe a female would translate today into “she’s hot.”
According to his bio, Greco thought he would collect big royalties from “Oh Look-A There Ain’t She Pretty.” It turned out he received a check for about $30. But don’t get me wrong. Buddy was not a novelty singer like Lou Monte. A better comparison would be Greco and Nat “King” Cole. Like Cole, he could’ve made it in the business as a terrific jazz pianist. And like Cole, Greco found out that there was more money in singing than in playing jazz piano.
There were actually three great talents who could play jazz piano and sing. In addition to Greco and Cole, there was Oscar Peterson. Peterson sounded like Nat Cole. Ironically, he chose playing jazz piano over singing. Maybe because no one could play jazz piano like Peterson.
By the time I first saw Buddy Greco perform, he played a token instrumental piano solo, but mostly he sang. And, oh, how he sang. Buddy was at the peak of his ability that night my cousin and I saw him perform at the Black Orchid Club in Atlantic City. Some singers are better on ballads, but Greco excelled at up-tempo songs. He made the great American songbook swing that night. Gershwin, Porter, Harold Arlen, a little Ellington tossed in. Unfortunately for Buddy, he was paired with the controversial and brilliant comedian of his time, Lenny Bruce.
Bruce respected no sacred cows. Everything from the Church to John F. Kennedy was fair game at a time when satirical and often caustic social humor was much less acceptable. Bruce pushed the limits. The establishment responded by using the police to harass Bruce in an attempt either to censor him or shut him down completely. Lenny’s story is chronicled in the film “Lenny” in which he is portrayed by Dustin Hoffman. At the time, Bruce often appeared at jazz venues. But it wasn’t working out well for Buddy Greco on this particular booking. The crowds at The Black Orchid were there to see Lenny Bruce, not Buddy. And they let Buddy know it. They sat impatiently during Greco’s portion of the act, either ignoring him or clamoring out loud for Bruce to appear. Buddy took it for a couple of nights, including the night we saw him. Then he announced he had had enough, and left.
It was a long time before I saw Buddy Greco perform again. He and his wife were booked at the Prince Theater in Center City about six years ago. By that time, Buddy was well into his 80s. He was playing mostly at a small club they owned in Palm Springs, and occasionally played some tour dates in Europe. Most of his fans had passed on and he was pretty much unknown to younger fans. The crowd was small. The tickets, which were originally priced at $85, had been marked down a couple of times. My wife and I felt a little sad for Buddy when he walked on stage. He still had that thick curly hair, the jet black almost all gray now. He flashed his trademark smile. We hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself. He didn’t. The years melted away as he performed. Though his fingers were gnarled from arthritis, Buddy could still dazzle at the keyboard.
It proved to be Buddy’s last night performing in Philly. And that’s the way I’ll always remember him. Smiling and swinging. More than a lounge singer. Much more.
