November 21–28, 1996

20 questions

Connie Francis

By a.d. amorosi

The records of legendary pop-diva Connie Francis represent 20th-century Italian-American culture as much as any work by Scorsese, Pacino, Puzo or Sinatra. Born Concetta Franconero, she was the biggest selling interpreter of popular youth and adult songs in 1958. She was also the first popular performer to tackle full-blown ethnic theme records of her own origin as well as Jewish, Mexican and country songs.

You can reminisce with her on a brand new four-CD box set collection Souvenirs (Polydor), or relive her comeback show from last year on Live at Trump's Castle (Columbia). You'll hear that Francis' power has not diminished.

Her powers of control reach into the business side of her life as well. Not only did she produce her own records and hand-pick musicians, she also controlled every aspect of her visual image.

As the first Italian American to display ethnic dedication at a time when America was as white as President Eisenhower, she proves that her Italian roots are thicker than red gravy. When I answer yes to Francis' question: "Are you Italian?" she laughs and responds, "then do whatever you want."

Did you realize that after 1960 every Italian home had a copy of your Italian Favorites with that brightly colored heavy sleeve?

It's funny but a friend of mine actually invented those record covers. He worked for two years in his factory's basement and came up with the first seamless jacket — that's what keeps the records from breaking.

Your involvement with Philly is fairly auspicious. But didn't it involve the near-end of your relationship with your label, MGM?

Yes it did. No sooner than I signed with them, I had nine bombs. As I was heading into my last session for MGM, my father says, "Why don't you record 'Who's Sorry Now'?" from 1923. I thought kids would laugh me off American Bandstand. He says, "Listen Dummy" — the man had elusive charm —"if you don't sing that song, the closest you'll get to Dick Clark is if you sit on the TV set." So we added triplets to it and put it out. Three months pass. My Philly distributor would bring records to Clark and put 'em on his desk. It's January 1, 1958 and Clark comes out and says, "Here's a new girl singer headed straight for the top." All I could think was "Good for her." And then he plays "Who's Sorry Now."

Would it be fair to say that your first big break came via Ted Mack's TV show and the like?

No, but those shows were important. I was 11 when I did programs like Arthur Godfrey and Star Time Kids in New York every week for four years, but my real break came from American Bandstand when it was in Philly. Any success I've had, except for my father's unusual contribution, is due to Dick Clark acting as mentor. I'd send him records before they came out. If he didn't like it, I didn't release it.

Your father remained pretty important throughout your career.

Yes. My father had an amazing ear for music. He passed away two weeks ago and there's such a hole in my heart. His father came from Italy in 1905 and he brought with him a broken-down concertina. My father played that very thing. I was so fascinated I'd sit at his feet and listen to old Italian songs. At age 3, he asked me if I would rather take accordion or piano lessons. Me, being the dope, picked accordion.

The critics didn't take too kindly to you. They seemed to think you were pandering to the lowest common denominator.

I did. After the advent of Elvis the world of music belonged to teens. Each song had to have a formula and it had to reach out, especially to young girls. It's weird, when I was 13, I sounded like a woman. When I was making records like "Stupid Cupid,""Vacation" or "Lipstick on Your Collar," I sound like a kid. It was all premeditated.

You produced your records, brought in great jazz players and managed your visual image. How did you pull all that off?

It came to be because I kept MGM alive. No one else sold records. After "Sorry," my contract was up. Everyone offered me amazing money deals. The only thing left, the only thing MGM could offer was total autonomy. I recorded whatever I wanted, wherever I wanted with whomever I wanted.

What do you think the squeaky non-ethnic culture of the times wanted from an Italian girl?

People wanted the "girl next door." The idea of Italian-Americanism wasn't out there and none of the popular Italian singers would dare sing Italian songs. My father told me that if I didn't want to wind up on Alan Freed's rock 'n' roll circuit the rest of my life — If I wanted to play Vegas or the Copa — I'd better record something that adults wanted to hear. So I went to England where I recorded five albums at once — one of them was the one with "Mama." After I did "Mama" on the Perry Como Show — which was the equivalent of an Ed Sullivan then, I was an adult-star overnight. The only other person to cross that gap and play both sides was Bobby Darin, who I was very much in love with. The love of my life. No one's ever come close.

So what happened?

My father shot him. With a gun. That'll spell the end of any romance. [I'm laughing so hard Francis jokes: "It's funny huh. Cheer up, Angelo."]

What was the worst musical moment or trend you lived through?

The worst was the British Invasion because all American recording artists, including Elvis, stopped selling records. We cried a lot, believe me. The silliest music though has gotta be rap.

What are your most and least favorite songs and why?

My favorite is "Mama" because it touched more people than any song I could ever do. My least favorite are the first 18 songs or so on that Souvenirs box set. Such stupid songs. I don't know where they dug 'em up from. Hundreds of great, artistic, jazzy moments and they use those. I'm just glad they put it out because in the last few years finding a Connie Francis record was rarer than finding plutonium.