Devils & Blue Dresses: My Wild Ride as a Rock and Roll Legend

invitation. Given the fact they were stars simply because they were British allowed their egos to test the lyricism of their inherent arrogance. A thousand and one little Shakespeares were born.
    Bob Crewe had established himself as a minor singing star on the American landscape as Bob Crewe and the Crewcuts, and had already done the same early on as the producer of the hit recording “Silhouettes” by the Rays. He was in the middle of Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons and had done Freddy “Boom Boom” Cannon, amongst others, when he ran into me. Bob had structured his business in such a way that he controlled any and everything having to do with the music and the artists he produced.
    There were exceptions of course. For example, I was somehow aware that the contractual arrangement he had with Bob Gaudio, the musical brain behind The Four Seasons was different. But, for the most part, Mr. Crewe held all the cards. He either wrote or held a piece of the songs used by his artists and, in one case I know of, attached his name as a writer by coupling two different songs that had been written and published by others.
    Bob’s office complex was very much like the old Tin Pan Alley, where a series of small cubicles stuffed with pianos or other instruments, would-be poets, dreamers, and the occasional real writing talent of individuals who wanted a piece of the still-blossoming fruit called rock ‘n’ roll, toiled away everyday searching for the next big hit. All of the music appeared on his record labels, or was licensed out, and he held management, recording, and publishing contracts wherever he could to ensure no one would steal from him.
    To guarantee such a thing he placed his brother, Dan Crewe, in charge of his business affairs. Dan was gay, but was hiding behind a heterosexual marriage. He was an ex-Navy man who had slick administrative skills. This was necessary because Bob had no control when it came to spending the millions of dollars he recklessly went through in his days of success.
    What was most important, though, at that precise moment in time, was that Bob Crewe was a “star maker.” This wasn’t necessarily bad if you ended up being one of his stars, but it was a nightmare if you only ended up having one hit with him. When I began to work with him, Mr. Crewe was powerful enough to cause Andrew Loog Oldham, manager of the Rolling Stones, to transfer American administrative publishingrights to the Rolling Stones catalog to him for a short period of time. It also put Keith Richards and Brian Jones in the control room at the time we were cutting our first hit record, “Jenny Take a Ride.”
    But that is a leap ahead. Right now I need to step back and talk about those mysterious transformations in the relationship between Bob Crewe and myself, not only as it affected my music, but how it impacted my marriage to Susan.
    I often tell my daughter Dawn that the decision to leave her, her brother Joel, and her mother was the only thing I have ever regretted in my life. That is the truth. In a way it is ironic because during the time I was with Susan and the kids, it was in show business terms really the beginning and the end. So in a strange way Susan witnessed the birth and death of a “star.” Unfortunately, she was spared the part that counts: the struggle to survive and go on living.
    I was first allowed to visit Detroit for a few days when Susan was around seven months pregnant. We met at her Aunt Betty’s, who lived on Grand Boulevard near the very train station that had taken me to New York. Aunt Betty was quite the opposite of Susan’s mother, Belle. Belle was kind of step back and take a look, but Betty was all about loving life to its fullest––and dancing. She loved to dance, and she liked me very much. Susan and I tried to put together a plan about where to live, but we didn’t have the means to carry it out. So I flew back to New York to begin recording.
    Bob Crewe truly did believe I was an amazing white talent with an ability to transcend the color barrier through my interpretation of black American soul and R&B. I believed that as well, and so the very first recording we tried was an up-tempo R&B ballad called “I Need Help.” Jimmy McCarty was the only Wheel invited to play on the track. I’m sure he had mixed emotions about that, considering the other boys were sitting on the bench. I did too, but we still hadn’t figured out the grand plan that was twirling around in the