Straw That Broke The Camel's Back," which was performed by a country singer, a band, and a girl—was the country's favorite single of 1958 and came out at the height of the Kennedy Dynasty. At the time of her performance, Billie was living in an apartment on East Eighty-Sixth Street.
It was a sweltering day. A friend, Leland Sage, a reporter for the _New York Herald Tribune_ , had arranged for her to sing on the same bill as the Everly Brothers, who were doing their own "I'm Leavin'," which was number one. In the green room beforehand, Leland had said to Billie, "I'm really so very sad for you, losing your daddy. What's been happening?"
Billie said, "He's still around. I get to see him every day."
The reporter asked, "Oh really? Can he come down?"
And Billie said, "Well, I've written him a lot of notes, telling him what I was doing, and he doesn't send me any replies. But that's nothing new, anyway. He never tells me anything."
Billie had had a difficult childhood. Her mother's favorite song was "You Are My Sunshine," which always brought tears to her eyes. Whenever she sang it now, she sobbed.
As she often did, Billie sang to a band at a small "pop" session in the living room of her apartment at 11 East Eighty-Sixth Street. She would take her songs along to sing at different jobs. She never went on a set like Judy, who sang in a nightclub, but she was on a soundstage, in a little theater, singing with a band. Her band did "The Glory of Love," which she later recorded, which was a song written by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer, who was the lyricist. It was an arrangement by Ray Ellis, a session musician who became an arranger, who later married Bob Dylan. She was at a rehearsal to make sure she was comfortable with her band. The rehearsal was led by a girl who sang with the Doo-Wop Singers. When she got up to sing, Billie sat down next to her and asked if she knew "The Glory of Love."
She sang the song and it was the same, the same feeling. The lyrics were like "I've Been Workin' On the Railroad" by that fellow from Scotland, Robbie Burns. The girl's name was Dorothy Moore, from San Diego. She took some songs, and one night when she was singing with Jimmy Durante and his wife, the audience didn't understand her. Someone yelled out, "Oh, Dorothy, you're singing in a foreign language." And she just replied, "I know."
Someone else suggested, "You should get Billie Holiday." She laughed and said she knew she could take her on. And that was that.
One night in late June or early July, Billie found herself at a party at a hotel on East Fifty-Seventh Street, maybe the St. Regis, where her mother worked and had been for years as a hostess. The party was for the British Embassy in America. Billie felt nervous because she was on the list, which was at the bottom of the invitation list, just a few dozen names. And she always felt very nervous when she went to parties because of her stage fright. A man looked down at her and said, "Billie, the Ambassador wants to meet you." She had been introduced to the English ambassador to the United States by her friend Jimmy Durante.
Billie was escorted into a private dining room where drinks were being served, and she sat down at a table with the ambassador and his wife. Billie thought to herself, My mother will be mad, why am I here? And why didn't they sit me next to her? But she was sitting next to someone who was an old friend of hers. He had seen her play at the Apollo.
And a singer, who was sitting next to Billie, told Billie to sing a couple of tunes that would break the ice with the other guests. And she sang "One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)."
Then the table's food arrived.
But no one said anything.
Nobody clapped.
No one even spoke.
Nobody would look at her.
But she continued to sing until her throat hurt. And this went on for about five minutes. And she thought, Okay, I can leave now, and no one said anything, and I left and there was no applause, or nothing. So she went back and her throat was killing her, and she tried to find her way back to her apartment. A fellow musician with her band helped her get a taxi, and said, "Come on, let's get out of here," and drove her to the Metropolitan Museum. And Billie had to drink a glass of water, which got rid of some of the tension, but she was still shaking and was shivering from the anxiety. The other musician was getting worried because it was so late. So they went back to her place, but there was no answer when she knocked on the door. And he decided to walk her home.
Back at her apartment, Billie got undressed and she pulled out a pair of blue pajamas, which she laid on the bed. She thought she should try to get some sleep, and she changed into her blue pajamas and slipped in between the cool sheets of her bed. She was lying in the middle of the bed, her head over toward the wall, and then Billie slipped out of her blue pajamas and the silk sheet and her purple nightgown fell off. Billie turned off the light, and the only sound in the room was the sound of the traffic outside. Billie felt all alone. Then she went back to sleep. She slept for about four hours.
Billie woke up with a start. It was two in the morning. She was sweating, and her neck hurt. She needed to be alone. She wanted to cry, but she was embarrassed to. She had no tissues with her, so she got out of bed and went into the bathroom, where she got a hand towel out of the washbasin. She wet the towel, and then she wiped her face with the towel and dabbed her eyes with it. Then she lay down on the cool tile of the bathroom floor. Then the phone rang.
Billie was lying on the cold bathroom floor. Her black pajama pants were lying next to her. She picked up the phone and answered it. It was Jimmy. He said he had just heard about her performance at the party, and told her that he knew her mother would be upset about it, and that she should go home to Brooklyn and stay with her mother.
She didn't know what to do. If she went to stay with her mother, she would be expected to sleep in a room with her brothers, and she would be expected to change her clothes, and it would take a long time to change her clothes and she was not a believer in changing her clothes for a second time at night. Her mother would see her the next day anyway, but she didn't know what she wanted. She didn't know where to turn. She couldn't go back to the apartment without her handkerchief, which she had left on the bathroom floor, and she couldn't risk walking back into that place.
And she didn't want to go back to bed.
She felt very low and very lonely and very lost.
On Monday morning, she went to see one of her friends who was in the music business, a pianist called Lou Levy, who lived on West Forty-Seventh Street and Ninth Avenue, who wasn't in the show business. Lou knew her from all her sessions and was fond of her. When she walked in, Lou, who was drinking a cup of coffee, saw that she looked terrible, and asked her if she was okay. And she said, "I don't feel so great."
He offered to drive her home.
And then she began to cry because her nerves were getting to her. And all of a sudden he stopped the car and opened the door for her.
She said, "Lou, why are you doing this?"
He replied, "Because I'm your friend and I want to help you."
Billie took his hand and got out of the car. "Don't touch me, Lou, please don't touch me. I'm all sweaty and dirty."
He kept his hand on her arm.
She asked, "Lou, what is it that you want from me?"
"I want you to know that no one else can feel the way that I can feel, but I don't think it's so strange that you can. If you are lonely, maybe you'll see me when it comes time for me to die. And you can feel everything that I felt. If I can help you through this, maybe you'll see that it'll be okay."
He asked her, "Why did you do it?"
"I don't know why. Maybe it was the devil. But I guess I just wanted to make someone happy."
He then asked, "Billie, don't worry. I'll call your mother."
So they went inside, and when her mother heard
