When I was a teenager living with my parents in New York City, an amazing thing happened.
Harry Belafonte and his young family moved into our Upper West Side Manhattan apartment house, and our families became close friends.
It was the late 1950s, and there were very few “upscale” buildings that were receptive to Black tenants. Ours was one of them. In fact, our upstairs neighbor was the actress Lena Horne.
Belafonte was as open and approachable in person as he always seemed to be in his TV shows and concerts. His kids were in the same age range as my brother and me, so our families were able to socialize together. Harry knew I was a guitar player, so we connected through our mutual appreciation of music.
My father, who had recently retired from a business career, started doing some work with Harry’s enterprises, and the two of them began planning to turn our apartment building into a Coop. All of a sudden there were a number of reasons for ongoing contact between our families.
I’d like to share a few memories of my time with Harry Belafonte in the early 1960s.
He would frequently invite my family to come along when he was performing outside the city. On one such occasion we went to Washington DC for a major concert at a huge outdoor venue. When the show was over, Harry, wanting to unwind, invited us to join him for a drive.
Riding through the midnight streets of the capitol, we came to the Lincoln Memorial. All the lights were out, the place seemed deserted. There was a low chain strung across the bottom steps, but nothing else that would discourage entry.
“Let’s go up there, and see brother Abraham,” Harry said, so we jumped out of the car, stepped over the chain, and took several steps up — until a guard appeared.
“We’re closed; you can’t come up here,” he called out.
“I’m Harry Belafonte, and I’d just like to come up and say hello to you,” Harry called back.
“Well yes… I’ve heard of you,” said the guard (who happened to be Black), “but I don’t know you personally, so I can’t let you come up here.”
Harry laughed heartedly at that response: it seemed so perfect to him that there could, and should, be limits to which doors fame could open. We got back into the car and drove off in search of a new adventure, with Harry’s laughter ringing into the night.
Because my dad and Harry were working together, there were frequently papers that needed to be signed. One weekend, my Dad sent me downstairs with some forms. Harry was home alone and welcomed me in. He signed the papers, then said, “Hey Bobby, I want you to listen to something.”
He had just received the first copies of his latest record, “The Midnight Special,” and he wanted to share it with me! So there we were, Bobby and Harry, sitting on the sofa in Harry’s apartment, listening to an album that nobody else had heard!
Was I ready to go to heaven at that point? Do I have to ask?
And then, towards the end of the album, I heard a familiar voice singing, but right next to me: it was Harry singing along with himself as he listened to “Makes a Long Time Man Feel Bad.” Can you imagine how this high school senior felt: Harry Belafonte is signing along with himself, with me sitting right next to him?
If you’re of a certain age, you probably remember that for many years, Harry was famous for the song Matilda. Remember the chorus?
“Matilda, Matilda, Matilda she take me money and run Venezuela… Everybody!”
This was, for many years, the closing song for every performance. People loved it, looking forward to being called on as “women over forty” or “people in the balcony” or simply “all together now.”
Yes, the audiences loved it and craved it. But Harry grew tired of it, wanting to introduce new songs. You probably know what it’s like when you pay your money to hear your favorite performer sing your favorite song — then they don’t!
During my senior year of high school, Harry invited our family to join his family on a Las Vegas vacation where he was the headline performer at one of the major casino hotels. We got to hang out, visit sights such as the Hoover Dam, and play touch football with the members of his band. During one of these backyard games, his top guitarist hurt his finger catching the ball. Harry turned to me and said, to my horror, “we might need you tonight!”
While Harry was performing every evening, our families went to the different hotels and enjoyed the other headliners on the Vegas Strip. My dad, being the “senior male” of the group, was always presented with the bill for our extravagant dinners. Just as he would start to sweat, the casino manager always appeared, and, thanking Harry’s wife for the pleasure of hosting her group, withdrew the bill.
Come New Years Eve, however, we all were at the casino for Harry’s gala performance. My parents and brother had ringside seats with Harry’s family. I, however, was backstage: Harry had invited me to watch the show from the wings. I felt so honored, it was as if he considered me to be part of the team.
Things went along very well, until it came time for the show’s closing number. Everyone in the audience knew it would be “Matilda.” What no one knew was that Harry had grown tired of being identified with this song, and had produced a replacement number.
I don’t remember what that song was — I wonder if there’s anyone alive who might remember — but what I do so clearly remember was the audience’s reaction when it dawned on them that “the show’s over, and no ‘Matilda.’”
Yes, there was the standing ovation, but among the cheers came a resounding outcry:
Matilda! Matilda Matilda!
Harry virtually stormed off the stage, and with the demands for “Matilda” still echoing, he said to me — “Screw ‘em — I’m not going back out there.” And that was it. An era had ended.
(Actually truth be told, his exact word choice was a bit harsher than “screw ‘em…”)
Another perk of being friends and neighbors with Harry and his family was being invited to recording sessions. One time we sat in awe as Miriam Makeba, the South African singer Harry was promoting, recorded track after track of harmonies, unable to tell the recording engineer how many tracks would be needed: she wouldn’t know until she had sung them all!
Another time, we were there when Harry was working on “The Many Moods of Belafonte” album. At one point, he realized that he needed a chorus for “Zombie Jamboree,” but he didn’t have a chorus on hand. Looking around, he saw my dad, my brother, myself, and a few other stragglers. Guess who’s singing in the chorus on “Zombie Jamboree?” Correct! (But he cautioned us to not tell anyone, as there could be union issues… So please do me a favor and keep this secret between us.)
One other memory about that recording session. There was this scruffy kid playing harmonica, who tossed his harp into the trash as he walked out the door. Yes: a still mostly unknown Bob Dylan!
One of my favorite memories.
To celebrate my high school graduation, my parents hosted a party for my classmates. It was a steamy June New York evening, and we had been dancing up a storm. We were a hot, sweaty mess of teenagers. And then Harry and his wife Julie walked in, with a guitar they were giving me as a graduation gift. Suddenly, one of the great icons of our day was right there in our presence, wanting to greet my friends. My classmates, rather than mobbing Harry for autographs, simply quieted down while he said hello to everyone. And then he danced with all the girls. Definitely a night to remember!
One time Harry mentioned to my parents that a couple of friends were coming to town, but he would be busy that evening. Harry asked if my folks would be willing to take them out to dinner. My folks said they would be happy to help out.
Turns out those “couple of friends” were Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Rev. Ralph Abernathy. Who could have guessed… My parents said they had a great time with these two icons of the Civil Rights Movement.
So yes, looking back on those times from 60-plus years ago, I consider myself a very fortunate teenager with a whole host of memories to savor. Thanks for letting me share some of them with you.
Rabbi Bob Rottenberg lived and worked in Franklin County from 1974 to 2006, and served the area in a number of ways: Administrator of the FRTA, Executive Director of the Franklin County Solid Waste Management District, and Rabbi of Temple Israel. He now lives in Arcata, California, but still has family and many friends in Franklin County.