I Can Hear The Music: The Life of Gene DiNovi

Chapter Forty

One summer day in the late 1970s, my friend and agent Paul Grosney and I were walking along King Street past the King Edward Hotel where it was obvious that extensive renovation work was going on. Among other changes, the hotel was installing a spiffy new bar.

    "Hey," Paul said, "maybe there's a gig for you in this place."

    I needed a job like that because my long run at La Scala had recently ended.

    "Come on," Paul said, "let's talk to the manager."

    I was feeling sartorially snazzy that day, wearing an elegant summer suit in an oatmeal brown shade. It may have looked like a million bucks, but the suit actually cost twelve dollars when I bought it a few weeks earlier at a store in New Jersey during a time I was down there visiting my brother Victor. The twelve-dollar suit was such a bargain I bought two of them.

    The suit turned out to be a lucky charm on that summer day with Paul Grosney because Paul had no sooner begun his pitch to the King Eddy's general manager when the general manager interrupted him. "You don't need to go any futher, Mr. Grosney," he said. "I already know all about Mr. DiNovi around this town." He proceeded to offer me a gig in the new bar as soon as it was completed.

    I accepted.

    "Do I really need to pay you ten percent for getting the gig?" I said to Paul after we left. "You didn't have to sell that general manager a thing."

    "That's true," Paul said. "But I'm the guy who thought of going in and applying in the first place."

    Paul had a point.

The King Edward job came with all kinds of advantages and pleasures. The room where I played had a little window in one wall, and in the winter, when snow began to fall, it brought a magical quality to the scene inside. Then there were the benefits to my own playing. When I started, I played only in the evening, but later I also played for a late afternoon period of about two and a half hours. With all the playing, my hands got much stronger, and I generated more power at the piano than I'd had in years.

    The living arrangements at the King Eddie were another huge benefit. I moved into my own quarters in the hotel. People used to say to me, oh Gene, that's so terrible for you, living in a hotel month after month.

    Yes, I always agreed, it's a burden.

    In fact, it was fabulous. I got fresh sheets and towels every day. I installed a fender Rhodes piano so that I could practise and compose whenever I wanted. I ordered room service meals, which I got at half price. And the hotel took pride in hiring the most beautiful waitresses in town. All those gorgeous girls-and I was an unattached guy. What more could I ask?

Vladimir Horowitz stayed at the hotel for a month while he took care of some business he had in town. The greatest pianist in the world was in the building where I played every night. Would he come into the bar and listen to me? Would I play well? And what, as I began to think about it, did a guy play for an audience that included Vladimir Horowitz?

    I performed for the usual number of celebrities and musicians who came through the King Edward, but not for anybody remotely like Horowitz. I fussed over the possibility of his appearance in the audience. My fussing level went up when the flutist who played in the lobby told me she had spoken to Horowitz and suggested to him that he should catch the pianist in the bar.

    "I'm sure he'll want to hear you, Gene," the flutist told me.

    One night, in the period when I was still waiting for Horowitz to show up, I finished a set, and hurried out to get myself a coffee during the short internission.