Goose Pimples for All

Every now & then, as he goes self-importantly about his business, the American male tends to underestimate the power of his women. He forgets that they helped give him Prohibition and the sunken living room, that they choose his ties and the pictures on his wall, that they make him buy orchid corsages and join the Book-of-the-Month Club. Whenever this male forgetfulness about the real balance of power threatens to become habitual, the women tacitly band together to reassert their authority. They have just done so again by taking a pudgy, wavy-haired pianist from Milwaukee to their hearts and turning him into a sensational show-business success. He has sold more records (400,000 albums) than Eddie Fisher, has the most widely admired dimples since Shirley Temple, and displays the most relentless lovableness since Little Lord Fauntleroy. His name is Wladziu Valentino Liberace (he only uses the last name), but he has also been professionally known as Buster Keys.

The Liberace phenomenon resembles earlier crazes over Frank Sinatra and Johnnie Ray. But Liberace fans are more likely to belong to the two-way stretch than to the bobby-sox crowd. Women mob him wherever he goes. They bake cakes for him. They knit for him (one fan contributed a pair of socks embroidered with small pianos). Last year they sent him 27,000 valentines. One grandmother and her daughter have been following him for months from town to town. Says his brother George, who conducts the background music on his show: "He's got musical hypnosis." Says his manager, Seymour Heller: "He's like the Pied Piper."

Musical Momist. What is Liberace's magic? It could be merely the irresistible appeal of his shining mediocrity. But there is also his quality--which comes out in his bounciness, his sweet smile, his nasal voice, his my-oh-my prose style--of being just a big little boy. And a good boy, too, who would never swear or drink or leave his poor old mother while he ran off with some young hussy. Liberace is fully aware of this appeal. Says he: "Unfortunately, there are too many lonely mothers around today, deserted by their children when they need them most. Perhaps they are starved for affection and enjoy a little happiness vicariously . . ."

Commenting on this musical momism, the New York Herald Tribune's Radio & TV Columnist John Crosby wrote: "Sometimes, a man wonders . . . whether the women of this fair land are people or whether some other designation ought to be given them -- say, plips -- to distinguish them from the rest of us."

Cozy Evening at the Garden. Last week the women of Greater New York were out in force to welcome Liberace to Madison Square Garden. While boxing fans withdrew trembling to the shelter of their favorite saloons, a near-capacity crowd of 15,000 jammed the Garden; about 80% were women.* With a roll of drums, the crash of a gong, and a harp glissando, Liberace bounced onto the stage, wearing a snowy-white dress suit (later he changed into a gold lame jacket).

Before he could play, he had the lights turned up so he could see the huge audience. "Isn't that great, George?" he bubbled to his brother. Then he began his musical efforts by raising his piano bench higher because "This is a pretty high-class number." Pretty high-class for Liberace were something called Cornish Rhapsody (originally a British film score), emasculated versions of popular Chopin pieces, and Debussy's Clair de Lune, accompanied by five Madison Square Garden spotlights making like the moon. Hardly anybody had time to decide whether he was playing all the notes: everything he did (including a soft-shoe dance and a pair of vocal numbers) was over before it could begin to pall.

He went on to The Rosary, Twelfth Street Rag, the Beer Barrel Polka, some fast, weak boogie-woogie, and his TV theme song, I Don't Care (which he dedicated to his critics). Between numbers he casually dropped the names of God, President Eisenhower, Paderewski and some of his 185 TV sponsors (notably a toilet-paper manufacturer). He also introduced Mom, who was proudly sitting in a spotlighted box, wearing mink and orchids.

When the crowd applauded, he peered over the electric candelabra standing on the piano (an idea adapted from a movie about Chopin) and cooed: "You overwhelm me! I got goose pimples." The feeling was clearly mutual.

On to Yankee Stadium. His parents, back in Milwaukee 30 years ago, really wanted Liberace to be an undertaker, and there is little doubt that his ingratiating manner would have carried him far in that profession. But he was early drawn to music. After two mildly promising appearances with the Chicago Symphony, he went into nightclub work. At first he was shocked by his new surroundings and stopped playing whenever he saw a woman customer smoke or take a drink.

But he got used to it, and in 1952 a TV producer decided to put him on the air. Misunderstanding the offer, Liberace thought he was being hired for a cooking program (he is a devoted amateur cook and often used to whip up a few cakes for his friends). But his piano and patter act was an instant TV hit. His first sponsor : the Citizens National Trust & Savings Bank of Los Angeles. Explains an admirer: "Banks are always nice to old ladies. So is Liberace."

At 34, his popularity continues to grow. This year he expects to gross almost $1,000,000. He now lives in a $75,000 San Fernando Valley house with a piano-shaped swimming pool. Men who work with him find, somewhat to their surprise, that they like him as a nice, friendly, unassuming fellow. From the women, there is scarcely any dissent. After his triumphal show at Madison Square Garden last week, the fans stormed his dressing room. He stayed till 2 a.m., signing autographs.

Before the last admirer tore herself away, Liberace had promised to be back next year--perhaps, he had announced earlier, he might move from the Garden to Yankee Stadium (capacity: 72,000). And until then, there is always his TV show, about which some of his fans have grown so enthusiastic that they kiss the screen when he appears, leaving the red lipstick marks on the grey glass.

* In 1932 Poland's late great pianist, Ignace Jan Paderewski, played the same hall to a crowd of 16,000.

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