IN THE HEART OF SHOWBIZ,

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

VARIETY RECORDING STUDIO

By


Variety Recording Studio

And

Fred Vargas

And

Warren Allen Smith


1st Draft
  30 Aug 2004

Preface

The material about its two founders in 1961 – Fred Vargas and Warren Allen Smith –
is also autobiographical. Fred's is by Warren. Warren's up to 2004 is by Fred, who died in 1989 (sic).

Part I

1.  Variety Recording Studio, New York City, 1961 - 1968

I was founded in 1961, but my lineage can be traced to my founders' childhoods. Fred Vargas will tell his story later, as will Warren Allen Smith, who called Fred Fernando, never Fred. Fred usually called Warren Warren, never wasm, which many others called him because that was his Connecticut license plate.

So now you have the names of the three stars, and the rest of the cast will be described as I tell my story.

My genesis, if that's what it can be called, was in New York City's famed Brill Building at 1619 Broadway, between 50th and 51st Street, at a company called Audiosonic.

Two Brill brothers had built the place in 1931 and, allegedly because of their difficulty in renting space – the stock market had crashed in 1929, and times were not good – they were forced to cater to music publishers and the noise their type of business was sure to involve.

Famous-Music, Mills Music, and Southern Music were three of the first to move in, followed by dozens more. In 1962 over 150 music businesses were housed there. Rooms could be rented all over the building, some used by composers to knock out a quick tune on an upright piano, some used by performers to practice their work, and some were the offices of music companies, agents, and companies supplying other services for musicians.

Hire some musicians, rehearse your song, make an appointment for a demo at the recording studio, get your acetate dub of the demo, and take it to a company within the building to try to sell your work. The dream was that by the end of the day, all within one building, you would become famous and rich.

When you walked through one of the three polished golden-brass doors at the entrance, you headed for the building's directory of businesses on the wall in order to locate the room number of the company you wanted to find. You could ask the guy in the elevator, but the operators were jaded, not too helpful, the ultimate of blasé. As they took you to the desired floor, they were unimpressed by anything that was said. Sure, you had just signed a contract. You were going to meet with the prexy of a music company. You were about to have your lights up on Broadway. But which horse would win tomorrow's third race?

The major sound studio in the Brill Building in the late 1950s was Audiosonic Recording, which was owned solely by Bob Guy. A native Iowan, Guy was a bisexual sharpy, not the Midwestern rube he once may have been, as shrewd a guy as anyone else in the world of recording studios. He was known, perhaps incorrectly, for losing - then earning back - oodles of money. If it took banks several days to clear checks, he would open several accounts, deposit a worthless check in one at the same time as he wrote a check on that account, then try to cover the insufficient funds with cash, or more checks, before the first written check had bounced. He was also known as being a jovial extrovert, a medium-sized sexaholic with the teats of an Olympic swimming champion, a generous person with food and drinks, but one who could give blisteringly bad news when he looked at you with a serious face and said, "Let's go out for a talk over coffee."

His bookkeeper in the late 1950s was Joseph F. Cyr, who worked against three-day deadlines to make sure checks did not bounce from bank to bank. His problem was that sometimes it would be the clients' checks that bounced so, when deposited, these bad checks made it all the more difficult to keep everything afloat. Cyr got his job after being recommended by his then-lover, Lor Crane. Lor was one of the engineers and suggested to Guy that Cyr would be ideal for dealing with the public and that he would make the appointment scheduling more efficient – as it was, sessions were booked on top of each other and many clients were complaining that they had to wait until the previous session finished. Joe showed that leaving an hour between recording sessions was good business – the clients usually went overtime anyway, so charge extra for the overtime they used.

Working for Guy was the ultimate in stressful living. It might be great fun to set up an appointment with a celebrity like Steve Allen, but it was another matter to collect enough good checks from the slow-paying companies to avoid checks' bouncing and to avoid Guy's questioning about what might have gone wrong. Cyr was never happy when a call came through to COlumbus 5-4048 with questions about the company's finances. Using his best Boston brogue, he would explain away and try to cover over whatever the complaints might be: "I fully understand how your bank could have made such a mistake, Johnny. Just bring in the cash by Tuesday, OK?"

The studio had the typical problems: prima donnas who wanted excessive attention; equipment breakdowns; nearby offices complaining about noise; unwanted noise from upstairs or downstairs that got picked up by the microphones; the gay father who brought his son to sessions and cavorted in front of the son; the same person who was observed going onto an outside terrace and pissing downwards onto the street; the businessmen who came to sell their wares and took up valuable employee time; everyone wanting to use the telephones at the same time; clients who wanted their acetates in minutes, not in hours; complaints about mis-spellings on labels; the continual need to update expensive equipment; checking to make sure equipment was not taken after sessions; customers who at the ends of sessions found they had forgotten their checkbooks but who never paid for the work done; and on and on.

Guy was a deal-maker. OK, the printed rates per hour are such and such, but for you, m' friend, take a percentage off. Swing a company's business to me, and I'll give you a free session so you can record the trick you picked up last night. Give me the trick, and I'll put him on the payroll at your expense.

Once claiming he needed more space, he rented a room solely for the purpose of making masters at 165 West 57th Street, an address known as being that of the prestigious Carl Fischer's Concert Hall Studio. This lasted only a short time, and the cutting lathe had to be moved back to the Brill Building.

Guy conducted affairs under several business titles. Whoever it was that filed the annual tax reports most assuredly knew the shenanigans of how to try to cheat the government as well as, perhaps, get undeserved refunds. Whatever was necessary, do it!

One of Guy's businesses was Ad Lib Jingles. For a moderate fee this company made call letters for radio stations. Singers were hired to sing over standard tracks. If the client was Radio WHO, singers would overdub its call letters onto one of many standard tracks, and the resulting tape would become well-known throughout that station's geographical area and could be played over and over without further cost. Except that Guy cleverly included in the contract's small print an annual charge for continuing to use the material. If the Radio WHO audience had become acquainted with the call letters and expected the accompanying music, the company was sure to pay the annual charge to keep the recognizable sound, the fee for which was nominal but resulted in large amounts of money from a client list that was nationwide and numbered in the hundreds. If you were driving across state lines on Route 66 and had your radio on, from state to state you might hear jingles made at Audiosonic.

How were the Ad Lib tracks made? First, Guy hired musicians who were down on their luck, then complained to them about their work even though he knew he was going to use it, gave them checks that even the bars on the downtown side of 50th Street between Broadway and 8th Avenue knew better than to cash, and knew full well that the musicians eventually would give up about ever getting paid. But would still return in a few months for a much needed job!

Fred, called "Mr Wonderful" by composer Jerry Bock

Fred Vargas, his prized engineer who, like most other employees had passed the casting couch test during the initial interview, was the one who cut the acetates and duplicated the sounds of announcer-singers onto tape, using an octave spread – for example, going through the alphabet with a C in the key of F, then C# in the key of F, then, D, Eb, E, F, F#, G, Ab, A , Bb, B, and C. Then on to the rest of the alphabet so that all the call letters from A to Z were duplicated.

For Radio WHO, Vargas would splice the W to the H to the O, and with a little practice the W could sound as if a C in the key of F, the H would sound as if an A in the key of F, and the O would sound as if an F in the key of F. Depending upon the track, the lead-in lines could be "You are listening to Radio . . . " or "Stay tuned to Radio . . . " or "This is your favorite station, Radio . . . ." When the morning mail arrived, Vargas would be informed to make call letters for a new client, perhaps Radio KSO, but using a different track because both stations were in the same Iowa city.

Guy was not above dirty tricks. Angered by one competitor - a hard-working one-legged business executive who had trouble making it up the stairs with a cane to his small office - Guy broke into his place after hours and stole the Rollodex with information about all his customers. He climbed up through the transom over the locked door and stole the entire Rollodex instead of copying down the hundreds of addresses and phone numbers. The door handle was wiped with a handkerchief. Witnesses? They were on Guy's payroll already.

In addition to Lor Crane, Joe Cyr, and Fred Vargas, Guy had many short-term employees who passed the audition on the couch, most of whom were star-struck about working in Tin Pan Alley, and most of whom also didn't last long enough to earn a W-2 at the end of the year. Cyr particularly disliked one of Guy's new tricks, Pat DiFucci, a pushy blond who tried to make the studio different from its laid back way but was backed by Guy, who sometimes took him for dinner to New Jersey where he lived with his young daughter and Mrs. Guy, who may or may not have understood the implications. What "Miss Thing" did was to spend Guy's money. His tastes were enormous.

It was when Crane's, Cyr's, and Vargas's checks bounced, the rent could not be paid, and banks were on to his business practices, that Guy called a meeting of the staff. Lor, Joe, Fred, and Fred's lover – Warren Allen Smith, a public school teacher – attended. Guy said that his main source of income, Eaton Factors, would no longer advance him credit, that he was even unable to pay his family expenses in New Jersey, and he gave notice that bankruptcy was the inevitable solution.

Eaton Factors had been advancing money on Audiosonic's accounts-receivable, charging immense fees far larger than any bank would be allowed to have charged. What Eaton Factors found, however, was that Guy told them his receivables were a certain figure and that he was willing to be charged for advancing a percentage of that figure. But, however, his receivables were nowhere near the amount he claimed. Check kiting was no longer possible, the piano tuner would accept cash only before he worked, the tape companies that had fought for his business no longer would supply the products needed, the Brill Building demanded that they leave for non-payment of rent, and by the end of the 1950s and into 1960 Audiosonic was flat broke. The Brill hummed with gossip about the studio's demise.

Lor Crane wisely deserted the sinking ship. He became a successful producer at Columbia Records, one of whose 1965 hits was Chad Stuart's and Jeremy Clyde's "Before and After." The year prior his song with Bernice Ross, "White On White," reached #9 on the music charts. In the 1960s he wrote the songs for and co-produced "Astral Scene," a somewhat mystical work. In 1970 he wrote the music for "Whispers on the Wind." To Cyr's and to the surprise of many, Lor eventually married one of the nuns in Broadway's "Sound of Music" and, in poor health, was nursed tenderly by her until his death.

But Joe, Fred, and Warren wondered if any alternatives were still available. Warren asked, for example, who would get the piano and the equipment. Told that it would likely be Eaton Factors, he asked what they would do with it. So the three went to the factor's plushly appointed office and inquired. What they found was that the guys at Eaton didn't know a woofer from a tweeter, were tone deaf, and were eager to turn all the "stuff" over to them or anyone else. For a fee, of course.

Fred and Warren had become companions in 1948 and, in fact, Warren had taught him English while earning his M.A. from Columbia University in 1949. Warren had then worked at a private school, Bentley School on 86th Street, from 1949 to 1954, then got a better paying job at the high school in New Canaan, Connecticut. The two, however, remained roommates, sharing not only their apartment on West 103rd Street but also Warren's in Connecticut.
 
Joe Cyr had a B.A. in business from Boston University, and he was concerned about being able to continue paying rent on his small walk-up studio at 112 West 74th Street. So when Warren suggested that the three start a company themselves, Cyr was all in favor.

Smith made a suggestion that because he would put up several thousand in cash to start such a company that maybe the three could be equal partners in the new venture. Guy, however, had the trump card because even more important than the equipment was Audiosonic's list of clients plus Ad Lib Jingles. Warren then suggested that in the proposed new company Cyr would have 17 of 100 shares, Vargas 17 of 100 shares, Smith 17 of 100 shares (for having advanced cash), and Guy the remaining 49 of 100 shares (representing $35,868 he estimated Ad-Lib was worth plus the value of the recording client lists, without which any new company would have difficulty starting). On 15 September 1962 Guy listed his Advertising-Lib, Inc. assets as follows:

All four saw this as a way out. Cyr and Vargas would draw wages from the new company. Smith would draw no wages but would be President and Treasurer and could form side businesses such as Talent Associates. Guy would draw no wages, would see his studio continued under a different name, and would receive 49% of any profit the new company might make.

The Brill Building was no longer an option as a place for continuing the business, but nearby just off Broadway at 225 West 46th Street Bob Sanders, owner of Variety Arts, was interested in renting the bottom floor of the rehearsal building to the new venture. He would even forego any rent for the first two months because construction of the sound studios would need to be made before any new funds would be coming in. And he saw no conflict with Variety, the showbiz journal just down the street on 46th, if the new company were to be called Variety Sound Corporation and the studio could be called Variety Recording Studio. He suggested that in lieu of any rent Variety Arts would be willing to collect a percentage of the profits. Smith, however, successively objected to such an arrangement of sharing the financial books.

 
Warren's parents, Ruth and Harry Smith,
on a 1975 visit to the Variety Arts Building.
Down the street was Billy Rose's Diamond
Horseshoe in the basement of the Paramount Hotel.

Variety Arts Studios was located near the original Howard Johnson's just off Broadway on 46th Street. Adjacent was a ticket agency for Broadway plays, a Greek diner, the Paramount Hotel, and Billy Rose's Diamond Horseshoe, a popular showplace.    

The plan went through, Smith arranged all the necessary papers for forming the Variety Sound Corporation and the d/b/a for Variety Recording. Vargas took over all the engineering problems related to setting up the new studio. Cyr helped with the construction and worked with Smith on the bookkeeping, but he said he'd prefer eventually to become a recording engineer.

Guy didn't show up very often to help out, partly because he was being hounded by creditors who came looking for him. It became known that Cyr had already made copies of Audiosonic's client list, Guy's major asset. One day when everyone else was having coffee inside, Smith invited Guy to "go out for a coffee" and made him a private offer, roughly saying, "Bob, you're a good guy, but the three of us want to run an honest business and we see no way of working with you. So we are asking you to trade your 49% in Variety Sound and 49% in Variety Recording for our 51% in Ad Lib Jingles. That way, the three of us will be a separate entity for which you will have no responsibility, and you will completely own Ad Lib." The 49% for 51% trade at first sounded mathematically favorable, but not, Guy realized, to him.

Guy had little recourse, he could always operate his jingle company out of his home, and he reluctantly agreed to sign the necessary papers. Soon afterwards, Internal Revenue and various debtors came looking for him. He was not to be found, however, either in New Jersey or New York. Reportedly, he had moved to Canada (one rumor was that he had started a dry cleaning establishment in Florida) and was never again heard from. For decades, no one he had ever known had any news whatsoever from him. This included "Stanley," the physician who had been his companion for years and was the doctor the recording studio employees used. Stanley, because of having prescribed some drugs illegally, had reportedly fled to Morocco, and one rumor that floated around had Guy's leaving his wife and going to Morocco to be with his old supplier and lover.

Under a draft for "Tri-Vestors," Warren penned a suggestion that Cyr, Vargas, and Smith each own one-third of Variety Sound Corporation. To keep the recording separate from Vargas's mastering, it was suggested he entirely own Variety Recording Service but that the advertised name of the business be Variety Recording Studio. All agreed. Gone were Eaton Factors and Bob Guy!

The Variety Arts building was where most of the major musicals were rehearsed on the upper four floors. At least eight companies of "Hello Dolly" were rehearsed at Variety Arts Studios, including the ones that starred Pearl Bailey and Mary Martin.

Harold Prince and Robert Whitehead were major clients, Bob Fosse worked on "Sweet Charity" there, but LPs of their plays were recorded by major labels, not by an independent recording studio such as Variety Recording.
   
The trio of partners' new company aimed at catering to the independents, who were attracted to the place's low rates and its early-on reputation for good service. Audiosonic clients followed them, many claiming the facilities had a non-glitzy ambience and was bigger and better. Prince and Whitehead followed, although they could have afforded any of the prestigious, expensive studios.

In 1961 when Variety Recording's first clients arrived, they could record with 16-track capabilities, they could have a 45rpm or 33rpm dubbed immediately onto an acetate disc, and they could order quantities of pressed records complete with printed labels and ready to be sold.

   

One of the first to take advantage of the facilities was Dolores Gray, who arrived from an upstairs rehearsal room to make a test dub. To the dismay of the three partners, she was less interested in the quality of the work than in the fact that dust and lumber were throughout the place – Fred thought she was covering up for a poor performance. Not so difficult were two mainstays, clients who followed from Audiosonic: composer David Amram, who brought the business of making numerous cues for Joe Papp's Free Shakespeare in Central Park - Amram was named by Leonard Bernstein as the first resident composer of the New York Philharmonic; Hal Gordon and Athena Hosea, whose Songwriters Contact worked almost daily, often with Paul Simon (then known as Jerry Landis); Vic Catala, manager of Barry "Ballad of the Green Berets" Sadler; and Maurice Levine who brought the American Jewish Congress account.

                                                                                                                                            

One of the best pianists ever to record at Variety was Harold Wheeler, who later was chosen by Burt Bacharach to be the first black to conduct a Broadway orchestra, the one for his Promises, Promises.

 

Harold Wheeler at the piano

 

On a day when Price was recording a song for one of the studio's clients, Smith thought he heard an Italian opera singer in Studio A and was surprised to find that the baritone with such masterful projection was Gilbert. In 1963 Warren became Gilbert's personal agent and became in charge of his financial affairs. They remained companions until his death in 1991.

A 1966 brochure described Studio "A" as the site of the room where dancing lessons long ago had been taken by Eddie Cantor, Betty Grable, Bea Lillie, and Walter Winchell. A sampling of then-current customers included the following:

Acosta Music, "Le Frisson" (1966)
Steve Allen, "Honey Boy"
David Amram, movie themes for Manchurian Candidate and Splendor in the Grass
Jim Boothe, "Jingle Bell Rock"
Don Corvay, "Pony Time"
Eclectic Music, performers Paul Simon and Barry "Red Rubber Ball" Kornfeld
The Emotions, all the masters by Henry Boye
Fantastic Music, Gordon "Walking Proud" Evans (1966)
Dolores Gray, "Flamenco for Gipsies"
George Goehring, "Lipstick on Your Collar"
Lesley Gore, various rehearsals
Marian Grudeff, Baker Street
Marvin Hamlisch, "Sunshne" and "Travelin' Life"
J. J. Jackson, "But It's Alright" (1966)
Steve Jerome, "Walk Away, Renée"
The Knickerbockers, Jerry Fuller, "Lies, Lies"
Meadowlark Lemon, "Witchcraft" (1966)
Mary Martin, various rehearsals (1966) and "Hello Richard"
Liza Minnelli, "The Travelin' Life"
Gilbert Price, various rehearsals including "Feeling Good" (1966)
Serendipity Singers, "There's Another Side To This" (1966)
Sun Ra, many of his LPs, most of his masters
Sarah Vaughan, various rehearsals

At the ends of sessions, tapes were stored for one year although clients were encouraged to take their material with them. Mary Martin came in with a small combo while rehearsing upstairs for her role in "Hello, Dolly." She had penned special words for her husband, Richard, on their 25th anniversary: "Hello, Richard, you've been swell, Richard, all these twenty-five long years. . . ." She cited the Rolls-Royce and love he had given, a sentimental and highly personal work. Asked at the end of the session what she wanted, she said one single-face 45rpm record. Just one. And she penned an inscription in ink on the label, stuck it on the acetate, paid the combo, paid the studio, and had in her hands a 7" record that may have cost $250 total. The catalogue card for her tape:

 

Gordon Thomas had once played trombone in Duke Ellington's band but was a customer who arranged many sessions to make birthday greeting records and other 45s that sounded as if they had no commercial possibilities whatsoever. Employed by real estate companies to "sit" houses that were vacant and in need of security until they were sold, Thomas spent his savings on recording, then gave away the hundred or so pressings he would have the studio make for him. On his 90th birthday, he appeared in a surprise recital arranged for by a Brooklyn fan, Citizen Kane. The recital reminded some of Florence Foster Jenkins, the American soprano who had sell-out concerts at Carnegie Hall and who performed as people laughed at her inability to hold a note or indicate a rhythmic sense.

                         

Within three years, Warren announced that Eaton Factors was at last paid off, that the equipment was also at last paid for and there were no outstanding debts. By 1965 Vargas and Smith were listed in Standard and Poor's Register of Corporations, Directors and Executives, US and Canada. This was the first step to their later being listed in 1971 by Who's Who in Finance and Industry and later by Who's Who in Advertising, Who's Who in the East, Who's Who in Entertainment, and by Who's Who in the World (Marquis).

In the middle of the night on 10 July 1968, Fred and Warren were telephoned and told the studio was on fire. They rushed from their apartment at 425 West 45th Street and, surely enough, they arrived to find a 4-alarm fire with 150 firemen battling the raging fire.

As morning arrived, it was evident that the entire building had been destroyed. Although the studio was insured, it would take an entire year for the insurance company to pay but a fraction of the amount insured. To have sued for the entire amount would have delayed any payment and lawyers would have taken most of the proceeds.

The staff had the task, when the smoldering debris had cooled, to rescue the safe – contents of which were intact – and salvage the Hammond church organ, which lay beneath a fallen wall and was barely singed. Together, they jimmied open the Pepsi machine's cash box with quarters and, while they were at it, broke open a pay telephone and used the money to buy lunch and beer.

Someone reportedly heard that Warren and pianist Harold Wheeler were missing and believed dead inside. In Connecticut when the New Canaan Advertiser reported the rumor, Warren rushed to announce that his death "had greatly exaggerated."

A thousand or more tapes were burned, all the recording equipment was beyond being salvaged, and the new problem was what to do with the two items not damaged: the safe and the Hammond organ. When Jack Goodman, the owner of Studio 42 in the Bush Building at 130 West 42nd Street offered to allow Variety to continue there, the staff moved in and filled orders from old clients within a week of the fire.

On the 8th Floor at 130 West 42nd

The new problem was that Mr. Goodman was neither a musician, a recording studio manager, or a decorator. The décor had to be changed. Immediately. Down with the Puerto Rican blue drapes!  His old customers had to agree to the new higher pricing for recording, and his next-to-worthless equipment had to go.

Goodman agreed, for he ran the studio only as a hobby,  his  main interest being the sale and purchase of cloth and clothing. What irked, however, is that he wanted to keep a bed in the office so he could bring in prostitutes in the middle of the night. Meanwhile, he would not change the brand of his smelly cigars. And, of course, he was quite vocal about the prompt payment of his rent.

By the time the $90,000 insurance check arrived, legal expenses had pared the figure down to $60,000. Cyr requested his one-third in cash but asked to be continued on a moderate salary as an engineer and office manager. With the remaining $40,000 Vargas and Smith – now 50-50 partners as they had always been in their personal lives - paid some debts and invested the rest into new equipment.

Further, in one year they purchased the place from Mr. Goodman for $6,000, threw his bed out into the trash, and washed the walls to rid them of the cigar smoke.  Included in the deal was the unexpired lease in the building which once was Wurlitzer's showpiece store on the ground floor.

The manager of the skyscraper, who liked the idea of having another recording studio in the building – upstairs was Mastertone – suggested to Vargas and Smith that they move from Studio 42's smaller space on the 8th floor down to a 5,000 square foot space that had been headquarters for a labor union. Given a 10-year lease, they agreed. Now they proposed making their name as the best independent recording studio on The Deuce.

In the Heart of Showbiz

2.  130 West 42nd Street, Just Off Broadway 1968 - 1990

So I got moved from the 8th down to the 5th floor, and the new digs at Room 551 with 5,500 square feet were a great improvement. The space had been used by a labor union, and Nicholas Ghatta, the landlord, had the place cleaned out in no time. The good thing was that we now had our own airconditioning unit, a huge one in a special room.  On the other hand, the bad thing was that we had our own airconditioning unit, because these always give problems, repairmen have to be called, and would we or the landlord pay? The bottom line was that we had to pay for routine maintenance but the building retained ownership of the unit and would have to pay for major repairs.

The hard part fell on Fred, who had to decide how the entire space was to be used.

He decided that the lobby would be in the big space as clients exited one of the five elevators on the floor, that the front door would be locked in a secure fashion, that the bathroom just inside the front door would be co-ed, and that the office would be to the left as one entered. 

When you turned left down the inside hall behind the console room you would come to the engineer's room for Studio B, then Studio B itself, then a large storage room for the German echo chamber and other equipment.

When engineers wrote invoices for work, Warren credited anything on the left side of the brochure to Variety Sound Corporation (owned 50-50 with Fred). Anything on the right side was credited all to Variety Recording Service (100% Fred). Their wills, meanwhile, each named the other as their sole beneficiary.

Two advertising blurbs: