Maybe we've had too many Mai Tais. It couldn't be him in the lounge of the Viking Princess. But the grating falsetto sure sounds like him. And the man in the psychedelic suit and pasty makeup looks like him. Tiny Tim, now 64 and performing on the cruise ship circuit, remains music's most mesmerizing novelty act. His weirdness is intact too. "I thank Jesus Christ that we have the greatest supermarkets in the world," he says. There he stocks up on the senior incontinence diapers Depends ("I don't have no problems, but they're so sanitary. I wear them as underwear"); Noxema (for his six-per-day face scrubs); and Bounty towels ("I never use cloth, even at home. Who knows who used the: before?"). Says his third and current wife, "Miss Sue (Gardner), 40, daughter of an industrial supplier: "He spends hours every day saying his rosary and his prayers. He's very conservative." The stance helped propel him to the top in 1968-69, when, carrying a ukulele and a collection of vaudeville-era tunes, the former Herbert Khaury offered America a respite from the disturbance of rock and roll. "Tulips" went platinum in '69, and when Tim married his beloved "Miss Vicki" (Budinger) on Dec. 17, 1969, on The Tonight Show, a phenomenal 45 million viewers tuned in. Fame quickly faded but, he says, "the most shocking things in my life were the broken hearts I've suffered." Budinger and their daughter Miss Tulip left him in 1977 (Vicki later posed nude for Out, worked as a go-go dancer and married several times). Tim's second marriage, in 1984 to "Miss Jan" (Alweiss), ended after he met Sue. He says he has little hope for this union though. For one thing, he says, "I'm about 98 percent impotent." Professionally, a new CD, Girl, and a possible part in the screen version of Howard Stern's Private Parts may interest a new generation. "I believe in the saying, A dollar and a dream," says Tim. "I'll go down to the grave always trying."
Year of the Cat
Al Stewart, 1976
He well remembers the songwriting lesson he got—through the wall—as a struggling young folksinger in London in the mid-1960s. It went, "I'm sittin' in a railway station...pause...scribble...erase...Got a ticket for my destination ..." says Stewart, who at the time was living in the apartment next door to an up-and-comer named Paul Simon. His own career hit its high note with "Cat," which gained him entrée to parties attended by "Alice Cooper, Charlie's Angels, Morgan Fairchild—people I had never imagined meeting," says the Glasgow-born Stewart, who soon learned that fame was not his cup of tea. "I remember trying to engage a famous actor in a discussion of Russian history, and all he wanted was to score some cocaine." Stewart, 50, an oenophile who now lives in San Rafael, Calif., with his wife and daughter, has recorded 17 albums, still performs worldwide—and has no regrets that he never matched the success of "Cat." "I've consumed tens of thousands of bottles of fine wine and sold several million records," he says. "What's wrong with that?"
The End of the World
Skeeter Davis, 1963
As a little girl in rural Kentucky, Mary Frances Penick was nicknamed Skeeter by her grandfather because "he said I was always like a water bug, skeeting here and there," she says. True, since 1953, Davis has recorded more than 30 albums and scored a No. 1 hit with "The End of the World" in 1963. But breast cancer slowed her down in 1988. Following a mastectomy, she underwent reconstructive surgery, but "I had terrible problems with the implant, which ruptured," says Davis, now 64. "My vocal cords swelled. I felt like somebody had their hands around my throat, choking me." This year doctors discovered a recurrence in the form of bone cancer. Still, bolstered by her nine-year marriage to her NRBQ bassist Joey Stampinato (her previous marriage to then country music deejay Ralph Emery ended in divorce in 1964), she remains popular in Nashville and abroad. "If she's not out of the country, she's on the Grand Ole Opry," says RCA executive Ron Howie. Davis vows to be touring again by fall. "I got a wakeup call from God with this," she says.
Harper Valley PTA
Jeannie C. Riley, 1968
"Harper Valley PTA" has both sustained and tormented Jeannie C. Riley, who recorded it in 1968 and sings it still on a steep comeback trail. Once a thriving star, Riley, 50, if is bankrupt and between homes, temporarily bunking in the Franklin, Tenn., condo of her ex-husband, bus driver Mickey Riley. "It was a cruel thing to have a record that big, right out of the chute," says Riley, who I was a record company secretary just before she recorded the song. "I didn't have a chance to grow little by little." She started reading the Bible in the '70s and turned increasingly to Christianity. In 1992 she met a woman at a prayer meeting who became her business manager and housemate. Riley calls what ensued "a life of hell. I was manipulated and intimidated." Broke, she fell into a deep depression. Last fall her family committed her to a hospital for psychiatric evaluation. Now, her mother, Nora Stephenson, says, "I think she's doing well." Riley has an offer to perform with Billy Ray Cyrus at fairs. She is interested. "I don't think the Lord will let me get by with resting forever," she says. "My pocketbook can't afford that."
Undercover Angel
Alan O'Day, 1977
Alan O'Day keeps his past in perspective. " 'Undercover Angel' is all most people know me for," he admits. "But I was a songwriter first who just happened to write a song for a singer named Alan O'Day." Indeed, by the time his No. 1 single was released, O'Day had already written hits for Cher ("Train of Thought"), the Righteous Brothers ("Rock and Roll Heaven") and Helen Reddy ("Angie Baby"). Later, when New Wave took over the airwaves, he simply changed his tune. Teaming up with songwriter Janis Liebhart, the never-married O'Day, 55, has written music for children's TV shows such as Muppet Babies and National Geographic's Really Wild Animals. "He has this great sense of humor," says his friend, fellow songwriter Diane Warren. "He's very clever." Today, O'Day's gold record hangs in the hallway of the three-bedroom L.A. house that he purchased with proceeds from the song. And on the jukebox in his living room, one 45 is "Undercover Angel." But he doesn't miss stardom. "A friend I hadn't seen in years told me I used to have an anxious side, but I seemed so much happier in my skin," he says. "And I am."
Turning Japanese
The Vapors, 1980
It was more than a little politically incorrect, but "Turning Japanese" became a near-instant Top 40 hit. Ensuring cult appeal, the band hinted that the New Wave novelty song (sample lyrics: "I've got your picture...I sit there staring, and there's nothing else to do") was about masturbation, though they would later say it was simply about "being confused." "It's not my job to explain," says Vapors lead singer Dave Fenton, 43. "The age of reason is out to lunch."
Soon, so were the Vapors. When their followup album tanked and their record company was taken over in 1981, the band called it quits. Fenton, who is married, with his second child on the way, returned to his pre-Vapor occupation: practicing law in London. Lead guitarist Ed Bazalgette, 35, headed for film school and is now a film editor for the BBC in London, where he lives with longtime girlfriend Lucy Zanetti and their infant son. Bassist Steve Smith became a sound engineer, and drummer Howard Smith (no relation) works for the U.K. equivalent of ASCAP. Says Fenton: "You live through it, and then you've got the rest of your life."
Seasons in the Sun
Terry Jacks, 1974
It has been 22 years since he set pop fans weeping with his tender ode to a friend dying of leukemia, but at 52, Terry Jacks is still savoring his Seasons in the Sun—specifically, the 33-foot power boat that he named after his monster single. "Life for me hasn't been better," says Jacks, who lives happily off royalties from that song and 1970's "Which Way You Goin' Billy?" (recorded with ex-wife Susan as the Poppy Family). But it's a life largely outside the music business. Though he knows the impact his hit had ("I was in China recently and heard this guy singing 'Seasons in the Sun' in a rice field," he marvels), Jacks now focuses on environmental issues, producing award-winning videos and speaking out on the dangers of clear-cut logging and pulp mill pollution. "I wish more artists were like him," says Canadian activist Paul George. Though he prefers to live unobtrusively with second wife Maggi and daughter Holly, 10, in British Columbia, Jacks recently returned to the stage for a Norwegian TV show. "I lost 15 pounds," he says. "I don't want to be one of those old fat rock and rollers."
Wildfire
Michael Murphey, 1975
His name is different, and so is the horse's. But as Michael Martin Murphey canters Levi around the Taos, N. Mex., ranch he shares with third wife Mary, his love for all things equine is as evident as ever. "I love being able to work with the ponies," says Murphey, 51, who rode to fame with "Wildfire," the soaring ballad about a ghost horse. These days, Murphey, who has recorded 24 albums, sometimes even performs on horseback, part of his late-1980s decision to leave country and rock for cowboy music. "I fell in love with the cowboy life," says the father of three, who serves as host of the annual WestFest celebrations of western culture. He has also dabbled as an actor (another acting Michael Murphy prompted the name change), costarring in the 1981 film Hard Country and the 1994 syndicated series Lonesome Dove. But his passion is the melancholy music of the Old West. "Michael's got a great gift for the turn of a phrase," says his longtime producer Jim Ed Norman. And no real need for the charts. "I have absolutely no problem being an elder statesman of cowboy music," Murphey says.
Turn the Beat Around
Vicki Sue Robinson, 1976
She started singing at age 6 and in her teens played in Hair and Jesus Christ Superstar on Broadway. But nothing prepared Vicki Sue Robinson for the changes her dance hit "Turn the Beat Around" would bring to her life. "Vicki Sue was in awe, like, 'I can't believe this happened to me,' " says pal Harry Wayne Casey, better known as KC, of the Sunshine Band. Admits Robinson, now 41: "It was wild for a 20-year-old kid. All of a sudden I'm a disco queen." As disco waned, however, the crown tarnished. Job offers dwindled, and years of drugs and partying took their toll. Finally, with the help of her manager-husband, Bill Good, Robinson saw that it was her life that needed to be turned around. Today the Connecticut resident has a cabaret show and a thriving career singing commercial jingles, where her mixed heritage (she's part black, white and Native American) gives her a crossover appeal advertisers love. "I'm enjoying myself," she says. "I've been to hell and back. I feel like I've earned it."
In the Year 2525
Zager and Evans, 1969
In the year 1969, the future looked very bright for Rick Evans. The college dropout had written his famous piece of science fiction "in 30 minutes, at the most," he says, after a gig in which his bar band backed a stripper in St. Joseph, Mo. When he partnered up with fellow guitarist Denny Zager, the song hit the No. 1 position on the Billboard chart and became the No. 2 single of the year. "Bam! It was so fast," says Evans, now 54. "We flew to New York. I didn't even know how to buy an airline ticket!" The two toured but never again approached their initial success. Their manager passed on a chance to play Woodstock and instead booked them to open for Engelbert Humperdinck. "We couldn't follow the song—that was why we were your classic one-hit wonders," says Evans. Never very comfortable with each other, the duo split up soon after and haven't spoken since the late '70s. "The public eye didn't suit me at all," Zager, now 53 and a music teacher in Lincoln, Neb., told the Rocky Mountain News in 1994. Songwriter Evans, who was married briefly in 1973, has fared better, parlaying the tune into homes in Santa Fe, Nashville and Incline Village, Nev. He has few memories of his fast-paced life in rock and roll. "A lot of it's a blur for some reason," he says. "You know the old saying: If you remember the '60s, you weren't there."
Disco Duck
Rick Dees, 1976
The ditty sold 2 million copies in 1976 and transformed unknown Memphis deejay Rick Dees into a star. Not bad for an investment of $800. "I did it as a goof, but it caught on. It became a real calling card for me," Dees, 46, recalls. And how. He met his wife, Julie, who does cartoon voice-overs (most famous: Casper the Friendly Ghost and Sassette Smurf), while he was promoting "Duck" on a children's show called Wacko. They married in 1978 and have a son, Kevin, 17. In 1979 he took his daffy brand of humor to L.A. Four years later, at radio station KIIS, he became one of the country's top deejays. He is also the host of a syndicated radio program, Rick Dees Weekly Top 40 Countdown, which has made him famous in 70 countries. How did Dees turn a fowl into a home run? "He has the most incredible mind," says his University of North Carolina roommate Ken Lowe, president of the cable channel Home and Garden Television. Still, he'll never live down his disco identity. "There are worse things to be remembered for," Dees says with a laugh. "But not a lot worse."
Me and Mrs. Jones
Billy Paul, 1972
"Me and Mrs. Jones, we got a thing going on/We both know that it is wrong..." sang soul-jazz vocalist Billy Paul on his rueful ballad of adultery. The sentiment struck such a nerve that "Mrs. Jones" became a No. 1 hit and a 72 Grammy winner. For Paul, 58, it also repaired his fraying marriage. He was separated from his wife, Blanche, when the tune broke out, and he had begun an affair with a real-life Mrs. Jones, who, he says, is now a lawyer at an American university. (He keeps her identity a secret.) He later reunited with Blanche, and the couple, now married 30 years and with two grown children, settled in Blackwood, N.J. Paul, who sang bebop with Charlie Parker at age 15, has recorded 23 albums. "I'm not complaining," he says. "I've been places where people don't speak English but they know every word of 'Mrs. Jones.' " He now tours often in France, where new fans pack his appearances. "I see these young girls falling all over themselves for a man who's near 60," says Blanche. "Then I see that his voice is better than ever and his body's not bad, and I understand completely."
Every Time You Go Away
Paul Young, 1985
"Right place, right time." That's English soul singer Paul Young's explanation. For Young, the place was the London stage of 1985's Live Aid concert, with a multimillion-strong TV audience. The time was two weeks later, when the plaintive ballad of loneliness notched No. 1 on the charts. "It was the end of the '80s wave of synth pop, and people wanted to hear voices and songs again," says Young, 40. "And there I was." Although he tours and is working on a new album, Young is relaxed about another shot at fame. "As long as we've got enough for the family, and I'm doing what I love," he says, "I've got nothing to be cutthroat about." His three young children with former model Stacey Smith are a priority too. Young rarely wants to leave the comfortable household confusion. "There's so much starting to happen," he says. A domesticated rocker? "He's not very good about painting the garden fence," says Stacey, "but he will vacuum up the biscuits the kids leave in the carpet."
Walking on Sunshine
Katrina and the Waves, 1985
The relentlessly cheerful song won't go away. It's a staple of oldie station playlists, and the video recycles on VH-1. "Sunshine" also earned the Waves a Grammy nomination and took Katrina Leskanich and her mates from drafty club gigs to opening for Don Henley and Wham! in, well, record time. Though the money rolled in for a while, the pressures of instant fame, compounded by cocaine and alcohol use (and a bad case of swollen ego), kept her from enjoying the brief rays of success. "Sometimes you felt like strangling the girl," says band manager Carmina Cooper of Katrina's rock star antics. "But she has finally grown up." Two hitless albums later, the Waves are maturing too. They are still together, writing songs and getting by okay on the European concert circuit. Says a sunny Katrina, 36: "I just want to get on with my life. I want that happy-ever-after ending."
Afternoon Delight
Bill Danoff, 1976
"If Bill Clinton hadn't become President," says Washington-based singer-songwriter Bill Danoff, 50, "I could have been the most famous person in the [Georgetown] class of '68." As the writer and performer—along with ex-wife Taffy and two other pals—of the inescapable smash, Danoff, who also co-wrote John Denver's "Country Roads," at least got to sing "Delight" for Clinton at the class's 25th reunion. Danoff and the Starland Vocal Band made three more albums and served as hosts of a short-lived TV variety show on the strength of "Delight." "It could have been so much fun," says Taffy, now raising their two daughters, "but we ended up with the worst show of all time." Yet the echoes of "Delight," named after a menu at the Georgetown hangout Clyde's, still resonate for Danoff, remarried and the father of a 6-year-old son. "Personally, I haven't heard it enough," Danoff says, with an eye to royalty checks. "But everyone else seems to have heard it...a LOT!"
Monster Mash
Bobby 'Boris' Pickett, 1962
Carving a pumpkin just wouldn't be complete without those growls. "Monster Mash" has become such a fixture in the pop lexicon that Bobby Pickett can only grin—and gleefully bear it. "When I hear it," songwriter Pickett, 58, says with a laugh, "I hear a cash register ringing." So far, the tune has scared up hundreds of thousands of dollars. Not bad for two hours of work on a Saturday afternoon in 1962. Pickett, who grew up in Somerville, Mass., watching horror flicks in the theater his father owned, aspired to be an actor. In talent shows, he performed a dead-on impression of Boris Karloff. "I'd win all the time," he recalls. "I knew I was going to Hollywood." He didn't get far until he hooked up with a friend's band and mimicked Karloff on the graveyard smash. Hitting the charts three times in two decades ('60s and '70s), "Mash" always found its way back just when Pickett needed it most. During the lean years he worked odd jobs, split with his wife and suffered the drowning death of his 3-year-old son, but he never sought help—emotional or otherwise—from his friends. "Bobby wouldn't ask for a quarter," says his pal, actor Alex Rocco. These days a more philosophical Pickett is happy to don his lab coat for Halloween appearances at Spooky World theme parks in Massachusetts and Minnesota. "I wanted to be known as an actor, not a guy who did a novelty record," he says. "But now I'm glad I did the song, because some people never get to do anything."
Saved by the Bell Reunion
The hookups, the meltdowns, the memoires
The case reveals what was really going on what they think of each other now!
