DISGRACELAND - Tommy James and the Shondells: Mony Mony and Mafia-Sanctioned Hits

Episode Date: August 17, 2021

Tommy James came up during a time when the music industry was in part controlled by New York’s Italian mafia. And for a period in the 1960s, that power was centralized at Roulette Records. The record label was run by convicted extortionist Morris Levy and operated in partnership with the Genovese crime family. Tommy James’ hits were sanctioned by the mob, the same mob that would threaten not only his career, but his life. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at ⁠www.disgracelandpod.com⁠. This episode was originally published on August 17, 2021. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at ⁠disgracelandpod.com Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - ⁠GET THE NEWSLETTER⁠ Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: ⁠Instagram⁠ ⁠YouTube⁠ ⁠X⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠ ⁠TikTok  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed, I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you thought it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro. And these are just a few of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of Family Secrets.

He kind of shoved me out of the way and said, move. And he went out the front door and he jumped in a car and drove off. And that was the last time I saw him. Listen to Season 14 of Family Secrets, starting May 7th, on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark.

When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do. You'd rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships,

or religion or sex or addiction, or you just go straight for the, Guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tanna-Majou, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Tommy James and the Chondells are insane. He was obsessed with guns. His hits were sanctioned by the mafia. He was heavily addicted to pills and a one-time supplier of speed to the vice president of the United States. Tommy James came up during a time when the music industry was

in part controlled by New York's Italian mafia. And for a period in the 1960s, that power was centralized at Roulette Records. The record label was run by convicted extortionist Morris Levy and operated in partnership with the Genovese crime family. This was where Tommy James made some of his greatest hits, great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop for my Melotron called Frank's Nice and Sleasy, MK2.

I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Monday Monday by the Mamas and Pappas. And why would I play you that specific slice of wrecking crew cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on May 21, 1966, and that was the day Billboard magazine reported that the rights to re-release Tommy James and the Chondell's regional hit Hanky Panky had been purchased by Roulette Records, an event that would drastically alter the chorus of Tommy James' life and very nearly lead to his death. On this episode, Music, The Mafia, Moni, Moni and Tommy James and the Shondels.

I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. Tommy James was exhausted. The black beauties helped, and that's what they were called on the street anyway. Speed, amphetamines. Late 60s heads used them to stay up all night to counter the grass. Soldiers over in Vietnam relied on them to stay awake on overnights and the shit. The soldiers were also relying on. Vice President Hubert Humphrey to get them out of the mess that President Lyndon Baines Johnson

had landed them in. It was 1968, and there didn't seem to be an end in sight for the Vietnam War, but if the VP and current candidate to replace President Johnson had a plan, a country didn't yet know about it. Tommy James waited in his midtown high-rise for the car, struggling to keep his eyes open despite the late morning hour. He contemplated another pill. The car would be on time. The vice president had sent it. Tommy James had been up all night. There was another sold-out Coliseum show the night before. His group, Tommy James and the Chondelles were flying high. One of the biggest in the country and abroad with massive top 10 hits beginning in 1966 with Hanky-Panky, continuing into 67 with I think we're alone now and into 68 with the Monster Smash

Money, Mone. Currently, the song was everywhere. Tommy heard it that morning on the radio in his apartment while waiting for his ride. He remembered back to writing that song, in that very apartment, stuck with his songwriting partner for hours, trying to find a word to hang the chorus on. Boney, Boney, that wouldn't do. What about phony, phony, phony? Now, that didn't make much sense. They sat on Tommy's outdoor patio, sharing a joint overlooking the Manhattan skyline, searching for an answer to unlock the riddle that was their song. And there it was, in big neon letters staring back at them. The flashing Mutual of New York sign atop the insurance company's building at 1740 Broadway, a couple blocks from Tommy's building. The first letters of each word spelled it out for them.

M-O-N-Y. Mony-O-N-Y. Moni-Money. Yeah, that's it. Yes, that's it. They had their hit. The song went like gangbusters up the charts and solidified Tommy James and the Chondells is one of the biggest pop groups of the day. So big and with such influence over American teenagers, that the vice president came calling upon Tommy and his group to help him boost attendance at the VP's campaign rallies that summer. It worked. Tommy and the Chondells could take a Humphrey campaign event

and with their draw ballooned the size of the event from a couple thousand to more than 10,000, sometimes 20,000. Today's event was going to be different. Tommy knew it. He'd done many for Humphrey by this point and would do many more, whatever was necessary to defeat Richard Nixon from gaining entry into the Oval Office. Tommy knew that today, the VP was going to ask him for a favor, and where Tommy came from, favors were a currency.

You didn't ask for them unless you were prepared to pay, and you didn't grant them unless you were prepared to collect. When the limo arrived in the back seats, the party was a lot of. in full effect. Comedian Alan King played it nonchalant, something cool and wet, tumbling in the rocks glass in his hand. He acknowledged Tommy with a hey kid

and went back to staring out his window. Actress Shelley Winters just stared at Tommy. She was clearly sauced, even at this early hour. She eschewed the formality of the glass and pulled Jack Daniels straight from the bottle. Whatever Alan King was annoyed with, it seemed to Tommy that the very drunk

Shelley Winters was quite possible. at the top of that long list. Tommy sat back and played it cool, popped a pill, shot it back with a snort of Jack, rested his head back on the leather headrest, and made like Alan King and ignored Shelley Winters. When they were on stage an hour or so later, before Tommy set, introducing the vice president,

Shelly almost fell over right there on stage in front of the audience. She was slurring her words. I'm Shelley Winters, and I'm an actress that I can say any damn thing I want. and I say Hubert Humphrey is going to be the next president of the United States. Behind him on the stage, Alan King leaned over and quietly said to Tommy. At least you got his name right. Every time this fucking broad shows up, we lose 10,000 votes.

The crowd roared with laughter. Alan and Tommy and everyone else in attendance all realized at that moment that the stage mics had picked up Alan's commentary, and 10,000-plus people had just heard him shit-talk Shelley Winters in real time. It didn't matter. If anything, it helped. The crowd loved it, and they loved Tommy and the Chondell set, and they loved Hubert Humphrey as well.

The VP came on and rapped harmony, wrapped power to the people, wrapped non-committal Vietnam strategy, wrapped tricky dick in unemployment. Tommy James, like everyone else in attendance, lapped it up. Later that night, backstage, he sat with the vice president and a small group of others.

Humphrey asked Tommy if he would lead the president's council on youth affairs. It was a sub-cabinet position, but an important one nonetheless, and here was Tommy James, singer of pop songs with nonsensical titles like Moni-Money and Hanky-Panky accepting the prestigious position. The vice president was happy to hear Tommy's answer. He was also tired. He confided in Tommy as he had come to do more often on their trips from campaign stop to campaign stop that he was exhausted and had no idea how he was going to stay up all night writing this new

speech. Tommy, ever the pleaser, saw an opportunity to help out and further embed himself in the VP's good graces. You know, when I have to stay up, I sometimes take these little stay-awake pills. Tommy reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of black beauties and gave one to Humphrey who happily accepted. Needless to say, the VP's next speech killed. Tommy James was opportunistic. Life, especially in America, presented you with opportunities. It was like a game of cards, and to Tommy, it was all how you played them. He played his first break back in 1966 into a winning hand. He recorded a local single back on his home turf in Michigan, hanky-panky. It sold okay, but failed to set the world on fire.

So his band, the Chandel's split, abandoned him for the straight world, the service, marriage, etc. Tommy was adrift alone, broke and busted. It stung. He thought he and his band, and mates were boys, a gang, in it to conquer hearts and the charts, but in the end, Tommy James and his hanky-panky were nothing but a fad to the rest of his band. When he got the call from Pittsburgh's famous DJ, the larger-than-life on-air personality from WZU-M-A-M-M-A-M-M-Mad, Mike laid it down for him real simple. Tommy James, your song, Hanky Panky. It's a bona fide smash, man, I can't stop playing it.

My listeners won't let me. Get your ass over to Pittsburgh with the rest of the Chondells and come on my show. The station will put together a concert for you to play to your fans. Fans? Tommy James had fans? He didn't even have a band anymore. That didn't matter. Instinctively, Tommy knew this was his opportunity. Sure, Mr. Mike, me and the band will be there for sure right away, sir.

Tommy wasn't about to tell the DJ he no longer had a band, that they'd left him in the lurch. He'd figured the band thing out later. He'd find a band in a club 30 miles southeast of Pittsburgh. Hey, you guys want to be the Chondelles? Sure, great. And voila, Tommy James, once again had a band.

And when it came to Mad Mike in the radio appearance, Tommy James was all, yes, sir, sure, sir. And right away, sir, you can count on me, sir. Tommy sees the opportunity, just like he would later, with the vice president. And just like he would after Pittsburgh, in the Big Apple, when another larger-than-life personality would make him an offer.

He couldn't refer it. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And Rule 2, never mess with her friends either. We always say that, trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends... Oh my God, this is the same man.

A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target.

He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. When you'd walk into your local video rental place and there were always those two employees behind the counter arguing about movies.

Well, that's us. I'm Millie to Cherko. And I'm Casey O'Brien. And now we're arguing about movies on our podcast. Dear Movies I Love You, from the exactly right now. network. Can I say something about the criterion closet? Go ahead, dude. They're letting too many people in there. Okay, that's another film grape I got to. Sadly, that rental place doesn't exist

anymore. It's probably a store that sells running shoes. Or an ice cream shop with an extra P and an E at the end. So consider us your slacker movie clerks in podcast form. I would like to establish a timeline of the moment you figured out who Channing Tatum was. Every Tuesday, we dig into the movies we can't stop obsessing over, from hidden gems to big screen favorites. New episodes drop every week on the exactly right network. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, host of the Wicked Words podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years

spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face, and he knows something happened. His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them changed forever. Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do. You know, you look back at it, and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the Exactly Right Network.

Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. The office phones wouldn't stop ringing. Mr. Levy can't speak at the moment. Mr. Levy can't speak at the moment. Mr. Levy can't speak at the moment. Oh, sure. Mr. Gigante. One moment, please.

Let me grab Mr. Levy. There was a constant hum of action. around every corner of the record label's headquarters. Tommy James' his young pretty head felt like it was on a swivel. And there were songwriters, publishers, accountants, and taxmen, all buzzing about and every last one of them was there for the same reason. To speak to Morris Levy, head of roulette records and its various sister labels whose stable of stars included Frankie Lyman, Bill Haley, and Ronnie Hawkins, among others, and were responsible for early rock and roll hits and dance crazy songs like the peppermint twist, among others. But at the moment, Morris wasn't seeing

anyone. Not even Tommy James and his manager, who he, Morris Levy, had requested to see. Tommy had come all the way from Niles, Michigan, to meet with him, as well as with all the other labels after it was clear that the hanky-panky was no fluke, no fat, and now he was being made to wait. Tommy, just 19 at the time, didn't know much, but he knew this felt like disrespect. Then he heard the yelling, scream. really from Morris's office by a very angry man who he could only assume was Mr. Morris Levy himself. Then the sounds, rough sounds, big bangs, violent shuffles, clanging, more yelling, and unbelievably screams from someone clearly not Morris Levy. All of it was fully out of place in this business environment, but no one,

not the secretaries, not the accountants, not the publishers, not any of the waiting guests acknowledged the sounds as even being there. They all just kept going about their business, while Ma Bell's choir kept ringing in the background, soundtracking, what was some sort of midtown madness the likes of which Tommy James could not comprehend. He was a long way from the Midwest. He knew that much, and he also knew this was all very exciting. He'd been in New York City for less than 24 hours. The goal was to find a record label to sign to. Getting meetings was easy. The regional success of Hanky-Panky opened the right doors. Columbia Records, Kamasutra Records, Redbird Records, Atlantic Records, and RCAA.

They met with the heads at all the labels, except Roulette. Morris Levy was not available, so they simply left a copy of Hanky-Panky with his very attractive secretary and one about the rest of their meetings. Atlantic was hot to trot. So was Columbia. Word got back. Not only did Atlantic and Columbia want to sign Tommy James, but so did every single other label they met with. It was a whirlwind. Tommy was hot on Atlantic. He would just as soon assigns. with them on the spot during their first meeting, but his manager knew better. Make him wait, sweat it out, get a better deal, that sort of thing. But that was yesterday, the day before.

This was today, and now suddenly the labels were no longer interested. All except roulette. It made no sense. Not to Tommy James and his Midwest Hick manager anyway. In New York, though, it made perfect sense. What happened in between Tommy's meetings with the heads, of the music industry's biggest record labels the day before, and his jet-cooling stint on the sofa inside the roulette records waiting room,

was that Morris Levy had heard hanky-panky, loved it, and decided unilaterally that Tommy James was to be a roulette artist and called the heads of the other labels and collectively told them all to back the fuck off, mincing no words with Atlantic's Jerry Wexler telling him, this is my fucking record, leave it alone. And now Tommy had been sent for it and was waiting patiently to learn of his feet. The fate of whoever was on the other side of Morris Levy's door, however, was seriously in question. The sounds continued.

It was clear that there was some sort of violent confrontation happening. And then, Morris's office door opened and the sounds ceased. Out limped a haggard-looking young man. He didn't look much older to Tommy than himself. Mid-20s, greaser, workman's clothes, and fresh wounds on his face. Two big Italian-looking men in suits followed him. Take him back to Flatbush! came the booming voice from out of Morris's office behind them.

Flatbush. The Brooklyn bootlegger was making good bread. Most kids didn't care what label covered the records of their favorite songs. As long as they get to spin them on their turntables while they did the mystery dance, the mashed potato, or the hanky-panky. Bootlegging records was big business in the 50s and 60s, and if you were trying to make your money running a record label, a bootlegger could put you out of business by printing up and selling off-brand copies of

the music you financed to the unsuspecting record-buying public. Morris Levy's men located the bootlecker no problem. He was right where they said he'd be in Flatbush. They stormed the makeshift pressing plant with baseball bats, grabbed the little dude at the press by the shirt collar, beat the living piss out of him, treating him like the unseen stitches on a whitey-ford fastball. And when they got done swinging for the fences, they tied him to a chair, grabbed his illicit inventory of vinyl,

spread it out all around him, doused it with gasoline, and lit a match. It quickly went up in flames. They found the bootleggers' partner cowering in the corner of the office. They grabbed him as a souvenir for their boss and headed back to the roulette offices in Midtown. And now, that bootlegger was walk of shaming it out of Morris Levy's office and back to his torched misfortune, having no doubt worked out some sort of devil's bargain to save his life. Morris appeared in the doorway of his office, looked out into the waiting room and to no one in particular asked, this the kid? Tommy said nothing.

Neither did anyone else. Neither did Morris. He just turned and went back into his office. Tommy and his manager were soon after ushered him behind him. And once inside, Morris Levy's inner sanctum, they were pleasantly surprised. All the intimidation of the experience thus far had been replaced by Morris Levy's sizable charm. Hanky-panky was a smash. Were there more where that came from? Tommy was clearly the next big thing with all that talent, and Roulette was just the record label to make it happen for all of them. Morris laid out his vision for Tommy James and the Chondels. Another pressing of hanky-panky on roulette with proper promotion, nationwide radio play, a publishing deal, an advance, a tour, certain stardom, and then more hits.

Tommy was all years. He immediately took to Morris. It was hard not to. When Morris Levy wanted you to feel the love, you felt the love, and he seemed like the only guy on the planet who could give it to you, who could give you whatever it was you wanted. Morris Levy was boisterous, larger than life, and despite his gruff demeanor and cigar-chomping voice, he had a kindness to him with big round, soft eyes, the kind that said, don't worry about nothing. Don't worry about the thing earlier with that guy.

Just a little trouble we had to take care of so that you can realize you dreams, dreams that I'm going to make come true for you, kid. Morris Levy pulled from an endless reservoir of confidence. A Jew, he came up in the Bronx, working Italian mob-owned nightclubs and other mafia-controlled rackets. The most infamous being the Manhattan Jazz Club, Birdland, which operated under the protection of the Genovese crime family. It was one of New York's most successful clubs at the time, but it wasn't without its problems. Morris's brother was murdered there on some beef that was never entirely clear, but Maris pressed on.

He commissioned a theme song for the club, The Lullaby of Birdland by George Shearing. It was a quick hit in an occasion to start a publishing company for Morris, a publishing company that Morris levied quickly by a combination of cunning and force turned into an empire. Morris aligned himself with the most successful disc jockey in the country. Cleveland's Alan Freed. Morris brought him to New York. Winded him, dined him, proceeded applying with the lavish lifestyle Freed felt he deserved. Morris and Scotsdale on the W-I-N-S radio and Alan Freed was now the most influential DJ in New York.

DJs all over the country followed his lead, played what he played. With Alan Freed in the Fold in Morris' pocket and thus in the pocket of the Genevieve's family, Morris was able to get freed to play whichever of his records he wanted as frequently as he wanted, all but guaranteeing hits for the songs Morris published. So Morris then formed roulette records to grab a bigger piece of the royalty pie

from the sale of records that featured the songs he published and that were generating performance royalties from their massive radio play. Morris was smart. He needed to make that money. He was an earner, A top earner for the Genevese family as he'd always been, going all the way back to his time as a kid in the Bronx.

He knew how to make his boss is happy. First, there was Salvatore Maranzano. Then Lucky Luciano put a bullet at him. Lucky went away and Vito Genovese took over. Then Vito went away and Frank Costello tried stepping into his shoes but got clipped by Chinchicante. Frank survived and so did the man who arranged to whack him out, Tommy Ebily, who is now sitting next to Tommy James and his manager in Morris Levy's office,

seemingly out of place, a fly on the wall, observing his charge, Morris Levy, take charge. After teeing up the conversation, Morris came around from his desk and motioned a young Tommy James to stand up. Morris Levy hugged the 19-year-old he just met. He told him everything was going to be all right. He could go back to his hotel and rest,

come back in the morning and they'd talk producers. For now, though, Morris wanted some time alone with Tommy's manager so he and his boys could work it all out. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes.

And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends, Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all. dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me?

The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe.

On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. Remember when you'd walk into your local video rental place and there were always those two employees behind the counter arguing about movies? Well, that's us. I'm Millie to Cherico. And I'm Casey O'Brien. And now we're arguing about movies on our podcast, Dear Movies I Love You, from the Exactly Right Network.

Can I say something about the Criterion Clause? Go ahead, dude. They're letting too many people in there. Okay, that's another film grape I got two. Sadly, that rental place doesn't exist anymore. It's probably a store that sells running shoes. Or an ice cream shop with an extra pee and an E at the end. So consider us your slacker movie clerks in podcast form.

I would like to establish a timeline of the moment you figured out who Channing Tatum was. Every Tuesday, we dig into the movies we can't stop obsessing over, from hidden gems to big screen favorites. New episodes drop every week on the exactly right network. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, host of The Wicked Words Podcasts. podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face, and he knows something

happened. His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families and the journalists who cover them changed forever. Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do. You know, you look back at it and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It wasn't so much that the contract his manager worked out with him was bad.

It was that the guy Morris Levy, who Tommy's manager contracted him with, was bad. Some musicians signed bad contracts and in the process sign over everything, profits from their record sales and profits from their songwriting royalties, aka their music publishing. That wasn't the case with Tommy. He maintained his right to make money off of his songwriting. It's just that the man who was responsible for administering the money, that his songs generated, i.e. the man responsible for collecting and paying,

him only kept up with one of his duties. Morris Levy collected, but Morris Levy didn't pay. And by 1969, there was a lot of songwriting publishing money to be collected on behalf of Tommy James. Since signing with Roulette, everything Morris Levy had promised Tommy James in that first meeting he had delivered on. Hanky-Panky was reissued and distributed through Roulette, and it was a hit, rising to number one on the charts and selling more than a million copies, going gold. Tommy backed up that breakout success with a string of seven-hit singles, including, I think we're alone now, Mirage, and Getting Together, climaxing with Moni-Money in 1968. Moni-Money hit big on both sides of the pond.

It peaked at number three in the U.S., but went all the way to number one in the UK, and left such a cultural mark that Billy Idol's cover version would repeat the chart-topping performance almost 20 years later. By the end of the 60s, as pop music transitioned from a 45 singles market to an album-oriented market, Tommy adjusted with the times. His second single off the album, Crimson and Clover, Crystal Blue Persuasion, climbed to number two on the charts and hitting number one was the album's title track, Crimson and Clover. On radio stations, it was heard over and over. Yeah, his career, such a sweet thing. Tommy James could do everything. Tommy James couldn't miss, but Tommy James couldn't get paid.

At least not what he was owed. Morris Levy kept him satiated with a couple grand in cash here and a couple grand in cash there and covered touring expenses, where Tommy and his band were free to make whatever money they wanted from performance fees, and Morris paid for studio time and recording and other living and lifestyle expenses. But those out-of-pocket expenses were pocket change compared to the millions Tommy James was owed in back publishing money. Millions Morris used to finance his lavish lifestyle.

expensive parties, prostitutes, a huge spread upstate and massive legal bills to fend off a constant swarm of IRS agents prowling around trying to bust Morris for tax evasion, and of course, there was the long-standing protection deal he had with the Genevieve's family, and whatever money he needed to pay out monthly to satisfy that arrangement. Morris had a healthy overhead and a stable of songwriters he deemed expendable parts necessary for him to do the real work of marketing and selling music through a mix of intimidation, force, payola, and other scams. And Tommy James was his favorite, sure, like a son to Morris,

but Tommy James was as expendable as the rest. Jimmy Rogers, who got too big for his songwriting britches and that junkie who couldn't keep his dick in his pants, Frankie Lyman. Tommy would take what he was given and shut up about it. What was he going to do? Complain to who? He wouldn't dare. Over the years, Tommy broached the subject of getting paid with Morris numerous times,

but got nowhere, and he wouldn't dare bring the business outside of the walls of a roulette. Tommy saw firsthand what happened to the bootleggers who crossed Morris, and he heard the rumors, too, about other not-so-fortunate souls who dared get on the wrong side of Morris Levy, and of course, Tommy heard what Morris was capable of straight from the horse's mouth. So Tommy James took whatever money he could get his hands on and indulged one of his growing fascinations. Guns. He'd amassed a small arsenal in his apartment. He loaded his prized piece, a 32-calibre police pistol from 1902, the one with the rubber

handle in the eight-inch barrel. He stood on his balcony high above Manhattan, took aim, and fired. Under normal circumstances, this would only be a little scary, but under the current circumstances, it was terrifying. Tommy had a head full of speed and was trying to process his overwhelming sense of anger of being screwed by Morris Levy and unable to do anything about it. The whole thing lent itself to a little cyclone of violence swirling around Tommy James in In 1969. Tommy fired off another round. The shot was loud.

With each pull of the trigger, Tommy imagined himself settling his beef with Morris. Imagine taking charge and taking control of the money Morris owed him, shedding himself of Morris and this impossible predicament of having his creativity preyed upon and exploited. He pulled the trigger over and over. With each shot, Tommy felt a little better, felt Morris levee's shackles loosened. The black beauties had him amped. The weed did little to level him off. It made him paranoid, and the boozy sipped in between rounds complimented the air of invincibility that his peace in his hand inspired. Tommy's wife screamed at him to stop. He didn't listen. She screamed some more. He listened less. He kept shooting over and over.

Scared to death, Tommy's wife, unable to call the cops, called the only person she knew who Tommy would listen to. She called Morris Levy. Maris made it over in no time. Last thing he needed was his star attraction getting busted with a stockpile of a legal weaponry. When he bounded through their apartment door, Tommy immediately snapped too. But this was his home, so fuck Morris Levy. Give me the fucking guns, was all Morris said. Fuck you. Morris grabbed Tommy by the neck, lifted him off the ground with one hand, and slammed him into the wall.

Now you listen to me, you little cock sucker. You're going to shoot these guns off into the night sky? That's one kind of stupid. If you're going to fantasize about shooting me? Well, that's another kind of stupid entirely. You insult me in a dream and you'd have to wake up and apologize. Do you hear me? How did he know, Tommy wondered.

Morris was in his head, fucking with him on repeat. Morris tightened his grip to drive home his next point. Do you know what I did to that bum who killed my brother? That Birdland? Tommy couldn't say anything. He couldn't breathe. His eyes widened. Morris squeezed tighter.

I fucking took a knife and stuck it in his fucking stomach and twisted it. Maris shaped his free hand into a fist and grounded. slowly and painfully into Tommy's stomach. I stuck it in his fucking stomach until his fucking guts fell out. Tommy's eyes got bigger. His face was plum red. Morris leaned in closer to Tommy's ear and whispered, now, you ain't going to hurt me, are you? He didn't wait for an answer. He just loosened Tommy from his grasp who crumbled onto the floor. Morris quickly went out of savior mode and began caring for Tommy. He picked him up to his feet, dusted him. him off, told him to leave the pills alone, and that he was taking his guns. But if he ever wanted

to shoot them, he could do so up at Morris's place upstate. And that if he were worried about protection in the city for whatever reason, then Morris would assign some men to accompany him and watch his back. And just like that, Tommy James, Popstar, had a full-time Genovese family bodyguard accompanying him wherever he went, looking out for him, protecting him. It was a good thing, because Tommy was going to need the protection. It was commonly known that in 1971 there were five families, Mafia families, that is. Gambino, Lucchese, Genovese, Bonano, and Colombo.

What is uncommonly known is that Roulette Records was the unofficial sixth family, headed up by Morris Levy. At least that's how he saw it. Years later, creators of the greatest television show of all time, the Sopranos would base the character of Hesh Rabkin on Morris Levy. But back in the late 1960s, all anyone needed to know was that Morris Levy had created a mini empire in the music industry that was throwing off mountains of cash and operating under the protection of the Genevese crime family, a family whose leadership in very existence was

currently under fire. In 1969, Vito Genevese, leader of the Genovese's crime family died in prison. For the past few years, there had been a type of peace between the Genovese family and the rest of the New York families. But now, it seemed that peace was unraveling. The Gambino family was on the rise, consolidating their power, and the Gambino's took over the Prafachi family. And the Bonano family was on the run, and the Gambino shot Joe Colombo, boss of the Colombo family, and the head in the middle of Columbus Circle. And as far as the Genoves family went, with their leader, Vito recently departed, and with unsteady leadership, The Gambino's smelled blood and were gunning for more power.

Roulette records would make for a shiny new piece in the crown of jewels the Gambinos were consolidating throughout New York in 1971. But first, Morris Levy would have to go. And if Morris couldn't be found, then perhaps the Gambinos could snake away something he cared about to try and coax him out of hiding and leverage him into some sort of illicit swap or bargain. Perhaps that leverage could be found in capturing Tompies.

James. Tommy James couldn't believe what he was hearing sitting in his lawyer's office. The meeting was supposed to be about developing a strategy for Tommy to extract from Morris the money he owed him. Via a clever audit, it was recently learned by Tommy and his lawyers that Morris likely owed Tommy a total of $40 million. But now, Morris was gone, in the wind, rumored to be in South America, but maybe also as far away as Australia, lambing it, Away from the Gambino soldiers in New York who had gone to the mattresses and likely wanted him dead or kidnapped and forced into signing away ownership of Roulette Records.

Tommy's lawyers made it clear. His life was in danger, and he needed to get out of New York. Now, the Gambinos were a real threat. Morris was gone. They could try and use Tommy to get to Morris or just plain kill Tommy to send Morris a message. It was a threat, the likes of which Tommy James had never felt. But whenever anything to that point in his career, had threatened Tommy, Morris was the guy who took care of it, and now Morris was gone.

And there was no one to take care of the threat or take care of him personally, never mind his career. Without Morris, the gig was over. And forget about money, Tommy would now never see what Morris owed him. He was sunk. So he headed to Nashville, to drown his sorrows and speed and booze and to naturally make a country album. Without Morris's involvement, the country album sold like ice in the middle of a blizzard. After some time, the five families warring ways calmed down and Morris was allowed to return to New York. Tommy wasn't sure of the arrangement,

but he wouldn't have been surprised that the Gambinos were now profiting off of his songs via roulette records, just as the Genevese were, in exchange for Morris being allowed to continue operations with roulette. Tommy couldn't truck with it anymore. He told Morris he wanted his money, and if he couldn't get it, he wanted his freedom. And the confrontation was,

Tommy unloaded years of resentment on Amaris about being taken advantage of, effectively stolen from. Morris unloaded right back, reminded Tommy that had not been for him that little Tommy James would still be hanky-panky in Midwest dive bars. And Morris wasn't wrong, and he was unfazed by Tommy's demands. He knew he had Tommy where he wanted him, enslaved to his lifestyle. It wasn't everything he was owed, but it was worth more than his life was before he'd met Morris. So Tommy James played the only hand he had left. He retired. He refused to make any more records for roulette,

proving to Morris in the process that he was dead serious. Not making records and not getting paid was better than making records under the exploitative black hand of the mafia and not getting paid. Anyway, he looked at it he wasn't getting paid. And the rush of fame didn't matter anymore, and the live show has paid the bills. And though the hit he took in relevance due to not having any new hits to support caused his live fees to drop.

It was still enough to get by, and he was still Tommy. James, and Morris couldn't take that away. He also couldn't take away the memories. Tommy, despite all of Morris's conniving ways, still look back at those early days of hits with reverence and strangely gratitude. Then they were the most exciting days of his life, all the glitz, the fame, and yeah, of course, even the crime. It was a thrill a minute when Tommy James was on the come-up with Roulette Records. Years later, after Tommy had professionally divorced Morris Levy and after Morris had been arrested by the FBI for an extortion scam that had him fending off a long federal prison

sentence, Morris succumbed to liver cancer in 1990. Before doing so, Morris sold off roulette records in all of his holdings, including his publishing company that included Tommy James's songs. Now in the hands of professional publishers who not only collected but who also paid, Tommy James saw a windfall of cash. He was helped by a resurgence of popularity in his songs in the 1980s due to the fact that two artists, Billy Idol and Tiffany, had both recorded and racked up simultaneous hits with cover versions of Tommy James and the Chandel's songs, Monty Moni and I Think We're Alone now. Remarkably, when Billy Idol's Tommy James cover hit number one, the song it knocked off was Tiffany's Tommy James cover. Back in 68, Morris had summoned Tommy James to his office.

It was a thing that happened regularly, but this time, as Tommy was approaching, something felt different. The surrounding office lacked its usual buzz as Tommy made his way in to see the boss. He was young and naive, but not without instincts. When he opened Morris's door and entered, he immediately realized the reason it all felt different. Inside Morris's office, there were five serious-looking Italian men sitting on Morris's L-shaped sofa. Morris looked more serious than usual. Hey kid, come on in.

Tommy did as he was told. Tommy, Mara said. These men would like to meet you. This is Mr. Gigante. Tommy knew who he was meeting. It was the fearsome Genevese Capo, one of the boss's most loyal soldiers, Vincent, the Chin, Gigante.

And this is Mr. Cirillo. Tommy then shook hands with quiet Dom Cerrillo. And Mr. Salermo wanted to meet you as well. Tommy's hand was then gripped by the massive mitt of fat Tony Salermo, who would go on to eventually become the inspiration for the Sopranos Tony Soprano. And Mr. Vistola wanted to say hello.

And of course, you know Mr. Ebelie already. Morris addressed them all. He's a good kid. He's got the number one record this week. Tommy Ebelie spoke for the group. We're all proud of you, Tommy. That thing you're doing for Vice President Humphrey, it's a good thing, and we're all very proud of you.

Morris then gave Tommy a nod as if to say, you're free to leave now, with your life. because me and these men in this room say so. Tommy then told them, it was nice to meet you all and quickly made his way out of the office. Sitting back now, years later, enjoying his newfound success,

Tommy James remembered that day, he remembered that while walking away from those very scary men, the upper echelon of the Genevese crime family, that he didn't feel frightened at all. He felt accepted, and that was all he really wanted in life and his career was to feel a,

accepted, to feel like he was part of something. The original Chondelles betrayed that feeling when they abandoned Tommy James back in his teens and later as an adult, Morris Levy and the Sixth Family Roulette Records fulfilled that feeling for him. They accepted him, but not out of love or friendship or some sense of honor or family, but for a price. And that was a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show.

We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram,

TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at DisgracelandPod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at disgraceland pod. Rock a roll. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed. I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves.

We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you thought it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro.

And these are just a few of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of Family Secrets. He kind of shoved me out of the way and said, move. And he went out the front door and he jumped in a car and drove off. And that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of Family Secrets, starting May 7th on the IHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. And my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do?

Rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yelloo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gait and Moderato from Stranger Things. Tena Mongeau. Camilla Morone. Carrie Kenny Silver.

and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.