Musical Memoir: A New Jersey State of Mind

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I was born — literally — in the shadow ofthe Empire State Building. Each day, the morning sun cast a shadowygloom all the way down Union Street, to 8 Daniel Street in myCzech-Slovak hometown of Little Ferry, N.J. 

What is there about this small EastCoast state that captivates the country? What makes people yearn forthe seriously mean streets of this urban-industrial corridor thatparallels the Hudson River? Is it that view from the city of West NewYork, N.J. (yes, that’s the actual name), from which Woody Allen fansromantically ponder the skyline of the city that never sleeps?  

Beginning next Wednesday, the WhartonCenter skims the surface of what was the real-life musical experienceof many Jersey boys growing up. “Jersey Boys” is based on the lives andcareers of just four of those guys. Frankie Valli headed up the FourSeasons, known earlier and less successfully as the Four Lovers — andnot to be confused with the Four Aces, the Four Lads, the Four Freshmenor the four members of the Three Musketeers. The Four Seasons were notthe first, nor the worst, nor nearly the best, of the dozens ofmusicians of all stripes, the doo-wop dudes we worshipped and mimickedin the era of Brylcreem. 

In the beginning, before Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, before doo-wop rock and roll,  beforeNew Jersey was even a thought in the yet-to-be-awakened musical mindsof many Midwesterners, there was Frank: Old Blue Eyes, the Chairman ofthe Board, the leader of the Rat Pack, Frank Sinatra. 

I still remember at 18 years of age, sneaking up that dark highway of 9W trying to find the  nightclubin which Frank Sinatra first sang and, a year later, as musictransitioned, crossing the Hudson in my Convertible, over the  GW— the George Washington Bridge — finding the Apollo Theatre in Harlem,standing on my seat, dancing in the aisle, experiencing my first majorimmersion in doo-wop rock and roll.

New Jersey boasts (of course, we boast)more acclaimed musicians than any other state. Paul Simon, Jon Bon Joviand Bruce Springsteen are just three of the biggest but, my God, thereis Count Basie, Nelson Riddle  andLes Paul, too, and George Clinton, Tommy James, Ice-T and Wyclef Jean,Rick Nelson and David Cassidy. There are the women: Sarah Vaughn,Whitney Houston, Dionne Warwick, Lesley Gore, Janis Ian, Debbie Harry,Mary Chapin Carpenter, Lauryn Hill, Marilyn McCoo, The Shirelles, QueenLatifah and Patti Smith — and who can forget that guy, AngeloBadalamenti, of “Twin Peaks” fame? 

Music was one of the major ways up andout of that blue-collar, working-class ethnic ghetto of mostly Europeansecond-generation Americans, people that Midwesterners commonly callwhite people. Back then, however, there were no whites and no blackseither. People were Polish and Hungarian, Italians and Puerto Ricans,Negroes, Germans and Jews, Catholics and Protestants. It was in themidst of that international salad of musical traditions that New Jerseybecame the music capital of the East Coast. No joke.

Yes, we all did sing: some, in three andfours, often on street corners, under evening lamplights. We sang atKnights of Columbus and Labor Day picnics. I talked my dad and brotheronce into doing a doo-wop trio of “In the Still of the Night,” decadesbefore karaoke. I sang in junior high in a multi-racial quartet, I sangin that Catholic high school — both as an altar boy and in the choir —and, come to think of it, every day of my life since.  

Contrary to popular belief, it was notentirely the music. It was also the hair, that long, luxuriousgreased-back, straight, dark brown, ducktail hair. The hair alonealmost got this good Catholic Jersey Boy kicked out of Holy TrinityHigh School in Hackensack, circa 1957. Not a day has gone by withoutsinging — but also not without mourning the loss of that hair.

It’s been a while since I was a Jerseyboy, 19 years old, sitting on the hood of my 1954 Ford convertible, theone with bubble skirts, Hollywood glass-pack mufflers, Buick hubcapswith stainless steel spinners on the front wheels (conveniently liftedoff someone else’s Buick by my good friends, Lennie Grebler and Ralph Ridnick). It had red leatherupholstery and matching red and white buttons pinned to the visors withnames — Tommy and Rosemary — and there was a graduation tassel hangingfrom the rear view mirror. Saturday mornings would find me sitting outon that car, listening to the radio countdown from No. 10 to No. 1 onthe Hit Parade. Writer Sherman Alexie says, “Music just might be themost important thing there is. Music is powerful medicine.”

And so it was.

We wanted to be thoseup-there-on-the-big-stage guys. Not just the Four Seasons, but allthose icons who preceded them: our guys from the home country, the oldcountry.  

A lot of upper New York State reservoirwater has gone out to the sea under that George Washington Bridge inthe intervening years. The once Jersey Boy faux-greaser has ditched hisblue suede shoes and his black leather jacket with the eagle on theback. He moved on up and out, first into Army uniforms,then Brooks Brothers three-piece herringbone wool suits in the world ofbusiness, then on to wearing sports jackets while attaining degrees intheology and psychology and then, most recently, now insemi-retirement, Casual Friday clothes seven days a week.

In my household (I laugh as other members of the family call it ’our household’ — yeah, right) the singing continues.We have a saying: “You can take the man out of New Jersey, but youcan’t take the New Jersey out of the man.” There will never be anon-singer in our nuclear household. It was almost a requirement ofmarriage that my daughters hooked up with a man who got music, whocould sing.   

A certain seemingly hostile chip-on-your-shoulder macho insecurity remains to this day. Being  bornin the shadow of the Empire State triggers a need to assert,aggressively at times, a radical in-your-face sense of individualrights. We say what we think, we tell it like it is.   

“The Sopranos” was filmed in my dad’sbackyard: Lodi, N.J. Some location shots in the series featurebuildings that I know, that I recognize. The dominant Italian Mafiainfluence is still palpable there.

The “Jersey Shore” in South Jersey hasnow become the title of a creepy and venial little TV series that takesaway the much of the charm of those beachside communities, places wherereal Jersey Boys made out under the boardwalk at Manasquan and PointPleasant with real Jersey girls — and lived to talk about it. Hey,Rosemary! You know what I mean.

Yep, all of us New Jersey boys thoughtwe were not only as good as anyone else but better. Frankie Valli said,“We are the Jersey Boys who made it big.” Well, a lot of us felt likewe made it big, escaping small-minded families of origin that were toobusy surviving to dare to dream. Some might suggest that his comment isa sign of a big ego. Huh. Imagine that. 

Those oldies but goodies? Hell, yes — they can make a grown Jersey boy cry. Almost.


’Jersey Boys’

Wharton Center

Wed., Sept. 28-Oct. 16

7:30 p.m. Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays; 8 p.m. Fridays; 2 and 8 p.m. Saturdays; 1 and 6:30 p.m. Sundays

$35-$95

Special 1:30 p.m. show Sept. 29: tickets $27-$67

(800) WHARTON

www.whartoncenter.com

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