The setting: a square, dull, small room without windows. A cell, really. A few wooden chairs in a row, as if it were a tiny theater.
An upright piano backed against one of the walls in a front corner of the room. It must not have been a name brand, such as Steinway, or I would remember it. Maybe. At least it was not white. Not Vegas.
This room, the putative function of which was hazy — executive piano practicing? rehearsals for middle-school musicals? — was on the 33rd or 32nd or 30th floor of what then, in 1970, was the Gulf + Western Building. (Never mind what the building is now. Just…never mind.)
Until that day, I had no idea Paramount Pictures had such a room, understandable because it had been slotted into the inner workings of the building, maybe along with storage rooms, cleaning supplies and the elevator mechanisms. It was, in effect, on the other side of the tracks.
My friend and compatriot Susan and I were invited into the room by our boss, Stanley Jaffe, the president of PPC. I’m not sure Stanley told us why we were so summoned. Soon we learned why: we were going to be the entire audience for a hearing of what might become the title song for Love Story, then in late post-production.
Even at that stage, Paramount knew Love Story would be a major hit. Counted on it becoming a major hit. We needed a major hit. I could give you a list of our big releases that year but it’ll be more fun to tell you about a contemporary incident during which the name of one of those releases was invoked, sarcastically.
One spring day we had a bomb scare; the entire Gulf + Western and Paramount staffs were evacuated.
Bomb scares back then didn’t produce the traumatic effect they do now so, instead of crazily galloping across Central Park West to wait out the police activity in Central Park, we ambled around the plaza on the south side of the building, where we’d certainly be buried by falling debris if indeed there were a bomb.
As we ambled, we chatted, forming and re-forming little groups. The conversation was the sort of thing that used to spring up during bomb scares: eccentric and occasionally hilarious.
One of the ambler-chatters was Charlie Bluhdorn, the chairman of everything in the building. After some time had passed, Frank Yablans, then the EVP of sales, came up to Charlie with an announcement: “Charlie, they found the bomb in the screening room. It was a print of Darling Lili.“
And now, back to the piano room, Sue, Stanley and me, and two other people. The two who were not from our executive suite were Howard Greenfield and Neil Sedaka.
Neil and Howie had composed what they hoped could be a title song for Love Story and it was why we were in the room, to hear it for the first time.
Neil sat down at the piano, played and sang the song. He was warmly expressive, relaxed and extroverted in a way so natural, so menschy, he didn’t seem to be Neil Sedaka, major recording star. He was simply our pal at the piano. (Howie was shy, stood to the side.)
And the song was absolutely wonderful, melodically and lyrically. It sounded American, as if it had emerged from the film, which was of course an American love story. Moreover, it was to my ears a hit song. A major motion picture, a big hit movie, should have a hit title song.Lest you think I’m indulging in pretentious hindsight, my ears had been sort of certified as recognizing hit songs. A few years before that day at Paramount, Paul Simon and Artie Garfunkel, pre-success, were my close friends. When I first heard Paul sing and play, “Sound of Silence,” I said (shyly), “I think that’s a hit.” “No, it’s not,” Paul said. “It’s an intellectual song, intellectual songs are not hits.” Later on, I mentioned I’d heard Lou Christie’s “Lightning Strikes,” on the radio for the first time, and thought it was a hit. “Gnomse,” said Paul, using my nickname, “You got teenage tastes.”
So there.I tell you Neil’s “Love Story” was a hit; he was magical, incapable of writing anything but a hit. And it was perfect for the movie.
When he finished and looked at us, we were caught up in expressions of pleasure. Even Stanley, who tended to wear a poker face. All of us, smiling, sighing, murmuring our appreciation. Then Stanley, in an uncharacteristically reticent way, asked Neil if he would, if he wouldn’t mind…
And Neil laughed and said, “Sure!” He turned back to the piano and played and sang a medley of many of his many hit tunes. Just for us.
Epilogue. Neil’s song was not to be the title song. Behind the scenes, certain Eurocentric executives wangled and voila! Francis Lai, a French composer, wrote the musical score, including the title song. Which was pleasant, quite French, and became a modest hit.
Neil Sedaka and Howie Greenfield’s “Love Story” was much, much better.