"Feels Good That Way"

On Monday nights the crowds at Los Angeles' Palladium are often on the thin side, but last week the evening brought out 7,622 croon fans, come to listen to a voice that one of its admirers once described as having "the virility of a goat and the delicacy of a flower petal." They sat patiently on the huge, circular dance floor through the preliminary stuff--Ike Carpenter's band, the Bobby True Trio, but when the main event came on they howled with delight. And when 35-year-old, toupee-topped Crooner Frankie Laine finally let them have what they wanted --his bobbing, bouncing Rosetta and By the River Sainte Marie--they were on their feet.

Frankie, in his usual knit tie and sharp suit, was there to receive a plaque from Mercury Records for selling 5,000,000 of their platters.* His cooey "gettin' kinda lonesome" style ("It feels good coming out that way") had come to him as naturally as a good night's sleep. But it had not always come that easily to his listeners.

Beer & Beef. Thirteen years ago, burly Frankie Laine was singing for beer and beef at the Stamford (Conn.) German Club; for half a dozen years before, he had been an unnoticed mediocrity on the soggy-ballad circuit around Chicago nightclubs. He had given up singing for selling cars, songwriting (It Only Happens Once) and, during the war, defense work. But, says Frankie, the son of a Chicago barber, "I couldn't stay away from it long . . . I hadda get up in front and sing." In 1946, he made only $2,000 at it. Then things began to happen--for one, his recording of That's My Desire caught on belatedly, sold a million records. The way the bobby-soxers started crowding around, he began to look like a well-nourished Sinatra. Last year, he raked in about $300,000.

Shuffling & Jumping. It was not entirely an accident. Fast-talking Frankie Laine (real name: Frank LoVecchio) had picked himself a "safe" repertory: "Who doesn't want to hear On the Sunny Side of the Street, Body and Soul and All of Me? You can't miss with them." And he had learned to put on a show to take a bobby-soxer's heart. In the old days he sang with his eyes closed ("I couldn't bear to look at the audience"). Now he sings with his eyes wide open and swiveling in their sockets. He also moves about, shuffling, jumping, pedaling, ending with what he calls his "cheerleader finale."

He has also found out how to keep his fans interested. He spends most of his spare time writing postcards to disc jockeys, answering fan mail, getting around the country ("You've got to get out and let the people who buy your albums see you"), and dropping into record shops to wow the salesgirls. Says Frankie, who likes to say his success is all a mystery and not a matter of mugging, writhing and hard work: "I can't explain it. Some people say I'm a fluke."

* No record. Bing Crosby's White Christmas alone has sold over 5,000,000.

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