Sammy Davis Jr. was like a brother-in-law to Tucsonan

What fewer knew was the man himself. I was lucky to be one of “the few”, so to mark Monday’s centennial of his birth, I want to share a few memories of my friend, Sammy … a man who lived an extraordinary life, giving so much to so many.

I met Sammy in 1970. In a sense, he became my brother-in-law when he and Altovise Gore married on May 11, 1970. She was my former roommate … a woman who was like a sister to me from the day we first met in New York in 1967, dancing in a Broadway show, Mata Hari … the biggest flop in Broadway history at that time! A few years later, she and I decided to move from New York to Los Angeles … and then she left me to marry Sammy!

Theirs was my second home where, on quiet non-Hollywood evenings, I had the chance to really get to know the quiet thoughtful man who was always there for you, always wanting to stay current on what was happening in the world, always there to fight for causes that mattered, always excited about new young talent, always wanting to learn and grow.

Sammy started his career as a 3-year-old performing with his father and uncle in the Will Mastin Trio. As he grew up traveling with the Trio, he also grew in stature, given his prodigious talent as a performer, both as a dancer and a singer. But because he was on the road with the Trio from an early age, he had virtually no formal education, yet he was one of the smartest, best-read and most curious people I knew. It was a commitment he made to himself, he once told me, but it was also a struggle — having to push through a certain sense of inferiority he held because he had no formal education.

He had a small library in a quiet nook off the large living room in their home on Summitt Drive in Beverly Hills, where we sat for quiet conversations … or not-so-quiet games of Ms. Pac-Man. He loved that game, getting his own full console when the game became popular.

The larger living room was the site of some spectacular parties over the years. True Hollywood style, with an amazing mix of people from all tiers of showbiz and all walks of life. More meaningful for me, though, were the quiet, small dinner parties with fascinating conversation on topics from show biz to politics to economics … to visions for the future. It was during those evenings when I heard stories including marching with Dr. King, integrating the Strip in Las Vegas, and shooting the movie Porgy and Bess.

In contrast to the showbiz and highly social side of his life, Sammy took up cooking in his 50s. He spent time with his cook/housekeeper Leslie Lee in the kitchen, picking up the basics, then set off on his own. In fact, Altovise and I enjoyed the first meal he ever cooked: a breakfast of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes. That humble beginning grew into quite a hobby and joy for Sammy. And because he never did anything halfway, his passion grew into bringing a portable mini kitchen with him on the road. A few years later, he built a small kitchen in a separate building behind the main house, where he’d spend time creating meals.

I also had the chance to experience Sammy’s brilliance as a performer for weeks on end when I worked as one of his dancers. The first time was a three-week stint in the Copa Room at The Sands Hotel in Las Vegas in the 1970s. It was then that I experienced Sammy’s true brilliance … and magic … not just as a singer, dancer and musician, but also as a showman. No two shows were the same — ever — unlike most shows at the time that had a set list of songs the performer, conductor, and orchestra followed every show.

As one of his dancers, I learned that though our opening number was set and we’d change for our second number, we’d then have to wait in the wings for when it felt right to Sammy to sing our next song (For Once In My Life). Sometimes we’d wait 5 minutes … sometimes 15. It depended on what Sammy was sensing from the audience at that moment … that night … combined with how he was feeling. (By contrast, when I worked with Charlie Rich several years later, every show was exactly the same every single night. You knew exactly when to be ready in the wings for the second number, and third, etc.)

And that first night I performed with Sammy will always stand out in my mind — not simply for the experience of dancing with one of the top stars in Vegas at the time, but also for what happened at the end of the show. After we’d performed our first two numbers, we were standing by for the finale when Sammy introduced a new number, saying it was a song very close to his heart. The lights dimmed as he walked to center stage and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s rendition of Mr. Bojangles began to play … and Sammy danced to the lyrics. We watched from the wings as he turned from an athletic, powerful showman into the tired, worn-out man Bojangles became in his later years. Sammy ended the piece in the pose that became his signature for the rest of his career: standing center stage, looking up at one arm raised over his head, spotlight shining down from above.

Silence, then thunderous applause. Sammy lowered his head, paused, then walked off stage … and did not return. No finale. No bows. Nothing.

We gathered in his dressing room to see what had happened and found him there — in tears. He told us performing that number, becoming Bojangles for those few minutes, made him come face-to-face with one of his greatest fears … that at some point, despite all his current success, he might become a washed-out shadow of himself in his later years.

For the rest of that run, Bojangles was his encore — the closing number of each show AFTER the big finale. It was simply too draining for him otherwise. One year later, when I again danced with Sammy, this time for three months in the grand ballroom at The Sands, he was now singing Mr. Bojangles, not dancing to a recording … and it was no longer the encore. But you could see how it still impacted him. It wasn’t just “a number” for Sammy; it was an homage to the past.

And perhaps it was that memory of Mr. Bojangles that guided Sammy’s thoughts as he confronted the throat cancer that killed him on May 16, 1990. He refused to have his vocal cords removed, something that might have extended his life by a few months or years but would certainly have left him speechless.

And so on this, the centennial of his birth, I remember my friend, Sammy … a man who lived an extraordinary life, giving so much to so many.