Briefly tapping into the source of Da do ron ron

Four guys used to practice singing and harmonising on the corner of those two streets in the evenings back in the mid-1950s, and eventually they cracked it, becoming Dion and the Belmonts: Italian kids who moide good.

We were unable to spot any taxis. Bronx taxis have signs on their sides as opposed to their roofs. Eventually Ellie asked a very overweight black lady with five children, where she could find the subway. She told us we would lose a lot of weight going there for it was miles away. As her weight problem was accentuated by her sporting the most vivid green, tight ski pants and matching top, I thought that ironic.

We thanked her and then I turned back and asked about getting a taxi.

Without a moment of hesitation, she promptly walked out into the street, hailed down a taxi, which we would not have spotted, called through the window “Take good care of moi froinds now” and opened the door and wished us well with a “God bless”.

It was done in such a spontaneous and quick fashion, we knew we were more likely to be hijacked than expected to give a tip.

“Enjoi” she said as she shut the door on me.

By taxi and train we got back to Times Square, for despite the rain, I had an appointment with the Brill Building.

Back in the early 60’s when I was 20, going on 17, I loved the American music that washed through the British charts as usual. If you peered at the little bracketed section underneath the song title on your 45 rpm record, you might spot the names of Bacharach and David; Sedaka and Greenfield; Leiber and Stoller; Goffin and King; Mann and Greenwich; Pomus and Shuman, Darin, Spector, Ben E King, Sonny Bono and a whole lot of others, whose songs I grew to know and love.

Of course they were the people responsible for hits by Elvis Presley, The Coasters, Peggy Lee, Neil Sedaka, Sonny and Cher, The Crystals, Drifters, Ronettes, Righteous Brothers, Dionne Warwick and a whole host of others.

What is not generally known is that those young composers used to report every day from around 1958 onwards to the Brill Building. Inside they would sit down in their unadorned, allotted cubicle, pick up the pencil or fountain pen or work the keys of the piano provided and, perhaps sipping from a cup of water from the water fountain in each cubicle, churn out an endless stream of hits.

The Brill Building has been the subject of sundry documentaries and several books. There are many anecdotes about such as a frustrated Dionne Warwick despairing as to whether Burt Bacharach and Hal David would be able to write another hit for her.

They promised her they would have a new song for her by Monday next week. “Huh,” she said, heading for the door, thinking they were taking her for a ride. “Don’t make me over”.

The duo looked at each other. Don’t make me over, they repeated and started doodling on the piano. It was the title of her next hit, written that afternoon.

The Brill is six blocks over from Times Square. I don’t know quite what I expected, looking through the lobby consisting of large gilt mirrors. When a man with Mafia connections bought the franchise, he could be seen would see walking through it, adopting various poses in each mirror.

“You can’t take photos in the lobby,” said the guard. Quite why not, eluded me. He was unable to provide a reason either. It would be to some purpose if they sold pictures of Bobby Darin walking through the avenue of mirrors, and they were being protective of their postcard franchise but the Brill is just a large building with an impressive lobby.

I contented myself with just being there and walked out humming Be my Baby and took some photos through the glass door while whistling You’ve lost that loving feeling and headed off down the street to the mental sound of the intro of Breaking up is hard to do.

Dey don’t wroite loik dat no more.

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