Medford mail tribune., April 28, 1963, Image 36

LAST FRIDAY I was 21. Legally I be
came an adult, but coming of age
doesn't make you a grownup.
Several weeks ago, an incident jolted me into
realizing how far I've got to go. My court guard
ian, Judith Jamison, asked Frankie Day, my
manager, and me to drop in to her office. Judith
has played a special role in my life. Until I was
21, I came under the so-called "Coogan Law,"
named for Jackie Coogan, who was the moat
successful child actor of the 1920s. He had earned
more than $4,000,000, but all he ever got from
it was a $6.25 allowance and $1,000 when he
reached 21v The rest had been squandered.
To protect other child performers, laws were
passed which created court-appointed guardians
to take charge of their income. Judy Jamison
was my guardian, and I am thankful for all she
has done for me.
But the afternoon Frankie and I arrived at
her office, I was beat and in no mood to hear
about finances. Judy began to talk about taxes,
bonds, and the $1,000,000 I've earned through
such record hits as "Wild One" and "Volare"
and my new movie, "Bye Bye Birdie," which
opened this week and I guess my mind began
to wander. Suddenly, she turned sharply to me
and asked, "Bob, what are you going to do on
your birthday?"
"What do you mean?" I answered.
"Just this. For years, I've invested your money
and checked your bills to make sure no one cheats
you. But soon you'll be 21, and all this drops into
your lap. Are you ready for it?"
The question hung there in the room. I looked
at Frankie, and we both knew what she meant.
For most of my life, I've been living in a strange,
adult world where there always has been some
one to pay the bills, hold the bags, answer the
phone. I've had only one job to get on a stage
and sing, and I've been bo busy doing this, I've
never had to worry about growing up.
I know it sounds crazy, but since the age of
five, I've had my mind on show business. Hy
father used to take me to. see the big bands
when they came to my home town, Philadelphia.
I flipped over the music and would go home im
itating the band instruments.
When I was nine, I auditioned for the Paul
Whiteman tv teen show broadcasting out
of Philadelphia. I wasn't a teen-ager, but Hr.
Whiteman took me on as a regular anyway. I
sang and did imitations, and when I saw the
audience laughing and smiling in the studio, I
knew this was really what I wanted.
I also got a new name. Mr. Whiteman had a
hard time pronouncing my real name, Ridarelli,
so he changed it to Bobby Rydell. There wasn't
much time after this to play with my neighbor
hood pals or to learn about growing up with them.
I had a career to work on.
I joined a rock V roll group called Rocco and
the Saints. Frankie Avalon played trumpet, I was
on drums, and we split the singing. This turned
out to be my biggest break. During a club date
one evening, the bass player with another act
called me over, told me his name was Frankie
Day, and said, "I'd like to manage you."
Pop was pretty skeptical, but he agreed to
talk to Frankie. "Mr. Ridarelli," Frankie aaid,
"I never thought of being a manager until I saw
your son. I'm not even sure what a manager does,
but there is so much raw talent in this boy that
ENTERTAINMENT
Now
That
I'm
of Age
By BOBBY RYDELL
88 told tO
Marya Saunders and Bob Gaines
While he sang, others worried
about the $1,000,000
he earned; but last week the
factory foreman's son
turned 21 and all that money
became his responsibility
it's just got to be developed." Pop and I liked
him immediately. Finally, we shook hands; that
was the only agreement we had.
While other kids were going to proms and
basketball games, I was traveling hundreds of
miles for record hops, sleeping in the back of
Frankie's old car to save money, washing in
garage rest rooms, eating meals at hot-dog stands.
While other kids were getting ready for high
school graduation, I sat in dirty dressing rooms
between performances in rock V roll shows
studying for exams I'd missed. It really bothered
me not graduating with my class. Eventually I
got my diploma, but it wasn't the same.
Finally, it happened. In 1960, Frankie con
vinced Bernie Lowe of Cameo Records in Philly
to give me a chance to cut some records. Within
two weeks, "Kissin" Time" was on its way to
becoming a million-record seller.
Things went great, but Frankie made it clear
we still hadn't made it for good. Hy teen-age
following would inevitably fall off as I grew older.
So when I was 19, he decided to book me into
the Copacabana club in New York, to see if I
could reach a sophisticated audience.
June 22, 1961, was the big night The Cops was
packed with adults; teen-age fans couldn't help
me here. My first show lasted 47 minutes. When
it was over, I couldn't believe it the audience
wouldn't stop applauding. We'd made it again,
Frankie and I.
Today A team of people picked by Frankie
surrounds me. Pop retired as a factory fore
man and is now my road manager. I've got a
publicist who deals with the press, a booking
agent, accountants, a conductor, and a drummer.
I'm rarely alone. If I want a pack of chewing gum,
Frankie still buys it. If I want a magazine,
Frankie buys it Recently when a couple of teen
age girls followed me everywhere and called my
room at all hours, it was Frankie who made them
stop. He called their parents.
I'm grateful for what Frankie has done for
me, but we both know-that now I've got to prove
myself I've got to make it as a man. And I
must do it on my own.
Thanks to my guardian's warning, I started
facing my responsibilities. When the courts offici
ally handed me control over my estate, I retained
the accounting firm Judy recommended to handle
my finances, and Horn, Pop, and I now discuss
and decide on all investments.
Instead of a big blast of spending, my only
major purchase will be something I've looked
forward to buying for a long time a home for
my parents in a suburb of Philadelphia. We don't
want one of those splashy $100,000 mansions
with swimming pool. We're looking for a com
fortable, modest home which has room enough
for my parents, grandparents, and me, and maybe
a visiting relative.
The first time I had to put my foot down came
when I was told a lavish party was being planned
for my birthday at Radio City Music Hall in
New York. It was to be a promotion tie-in with
the ppening of "Bye Bye Birdie." I said, "No,
it'll have to be another day. I'm spending my
birthday with my folks in Philadelphia."
The publicist looked surprised, but that's how
I spent the day. We gorged ourselves on Italian
food and my aunt's cakes. It felt good to be home
for such an occasion. I want to make a success
of my life, but even if I mess it up, it's my job,
and I'm responsible, for it now nobody else.
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