Sammy Davis Jr(14)

After my father was released from the army, he rejoined the family dance act, playing around the country, being singled out and praised by critics. Late in 1948, Dad was on a radio broadcast from Los Angeles and was overheard by Capitol Records executive Dave Dexter Jr. Dad signed a twenty-record deal at fifty bucks a side. The most successful single released was “The Way You Look Tonight.” Metronome magazine chose it as the 1949 “Record of the Year” and named Dad the year’s “Most Outstanding New Personality.”

Even though he’d had his first hit, my dad was hoping for greater success with his first record label. He began working with David Cavanaugh—“Big Dave”—at Capitol Records. Cavanaugh was known for composing, arranging, and producing records for my dad and others, including Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole. At the age of twenty-three, on January 13, 1949, Pop undertook his first recording session for Capitol Records, starting with the songs “I Don’t Care Who Knows,” “The Way You Look Tonight,” and “Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone.” Dad eventually recorded twenty sides for Capitol in 1949. It was not the successful turn he hoped for. Dad blamed his lack of success with Capitol on the poor arrangements of Cavanaugh, rather than the fact that he was just getting his foot in the door. According to music review journalist William Ruhlmann, “Sammy’s Capitol material was more of the work of a young artist trying to find his voice and doing so by trying out various different approaches. Sometimes he sounds like other singers of the day, perhaps unintentionally; other times, he is deliberately doing impressions with comic intent.” My father was clearly still finding his own voice—the one that would make him stand out from the crowd of stars.

In March 1951, my father got the praise he was seeking. It happened at Ciro’s nightclub on the Sunset Strip in Los Angeles. Ciro’s was packed with celebrities who had gathered after the Academy Awards. His much heralded performance at Ciro’s that night led the family act to the hottest clubs across the country, including the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco, the Beachcomber in Miami Beach, the Flamingo in Las Vegas, and the Riviera in New Jersey.

The Riviera is where Dad first met Morty Stevens, a clarinetist in the Riviera house band. Pop had been begging his father for his own arranger and conductor for years. Morty took the job and hit the road with my father. Morty later broke out on his own, winning two Emmys for composing the theme tune for Hawaii Five-O. Shirley’s husband, George Rhodes, took over the job as Pop’s musical arranger for thirty years. After George passed away, it devastated my father, and Morty came back again to arrange and conduct for Dad.

My father had an entourage of loyal, faithful staff—all turned into family members for life: Lessie Lee, Shirley and George Rhodes, Morty Stevens, Arthur Silber (his advisor and business partner for over twenty-five years), Charley, his driver, Murphy Bennett, his assistant, and others.

Frank Sinatra was his closest “lifelong” friend. He was a mentor when Pop was a teenager and his best friend until the day he died. Dad was “the Kid” to Frank; and later he affectionately called him “Smokey.” Their relationship was a rare precious gem only they could touch. Pop had a heart of gold and was truly beloved by those who got close to him.




Pop started to stir in his bed. I heard a faint raspy whisper. I leaned my ear in toward his lips. He covered his hand over a hole in the trachea tube and spoke again, “Hey Trace Face you get uglier every time I see you.”

“Hi, Pop,” I said, holding back the tears.



Dad and the man he called his best friend, Frank Sinatra, in 1967. Their friendship lasted more than forty years.


“I got this new gadget to play with, baby!” Pop tapped on his trachea tube.

“I see,” I said, choking up.

“Where’s that fine nurse?” Pop said, holding the trachea hole. I rang the buzzer for the nurse.

“Can I help you, Mr. Davis?” the nurse entered.

“I need to use the restroom,” Pop said. The nurse proceeded to pull out a bedpan, politely motioning me to leave the room.

“Darling, I’m a superstar, get me up, I’m not going in a bedpan!” Dad exclaimed.

No, Pop was not going in a bedpan. My father created his own rules his whole life. He was a pioneer, consistently breaking the color barrier as an African American entertainer.

In 1953, ABC Television commissioned a $200,000-sitcom pilot starring “the Trio,” as the Mastin Trio was commonly called. This was an unheard of achievement for a group of African Americans. The pilot was not picked up, but that did not stop Pop from flourishing in the world of television.