My real name is Annie Ross. My mother and father were vaudevillians in Scotland. They were on tour. I was born outside of London, in a place called Surrey. There was a tradition in our family - there were five of us in the family, three girls and two boys. As soon as we could walk, even before we could walk, when we were about four weeks old, my father would cradle us in his arms and take us on stage to show the people the latest addition. Then, when we could walk, we were incorporated into the act. My father was a producer. He had one leg. He lost the other leg in France during the first World War. He played accordion, he composed, he directed, and he did sketches and things like that. I was born in a house outside of London. The house was called Loch Lomond, which was weird, but there it was. When I was about two-and-a-half, I would participate in the    2 sketches and stage things that they had. I often wonder, was it the exposure that I had in the theater? What was it that made me want to go in? I think it must have been. I was a brat. I was very precocious. I used to hang over the wings, which are - how do you explain the wings and the atmosphere of the theater. It's where you make your entrance and your exit. I was awful. I used to go around to the dressing rooms, like the magician. I would take his goldfish out to see if they'd move after a while. I would tell the audience how the man who sawed the lady in half did it. I was a general busybody. Then my mother and father got an invitation from an aunt, who was a singer who was based in New York. Her name was Ella Logan. She was a wonderful performer. We came over, steerage, which wasn't great. There were three [sic: four] of us: my eldest brother, me, and my mom and dad. We were terrified on the ship, because it took a long while to get here - I forget how long - and we were told, if your papers aren't in order, you're sent back, never to return. I was terrified. At that time - I don't know if they'd still do it - there was a small ship that would come in with the customs men aboard. They frightened me to death. I had this - Ellis Island was weird. It was frightening, because it meant that you were entering the land of opportunity where dreams could come true, and if you were rejected, who knows when you might be able to try again to get into America? So that was a very disturbing feeling. I remember vividly - I remember the Grand Hall, that big hall where you lined up and you went to - I think they had about six or maybe eight people who were at desks, who would examine your papers. Everything seemed huge. The ceiling of this hall, I remember. Then we were released, all but my dad, because something wasn't right with the papers. He had to stay overnight. I went immediately to join my aunt with my mother and brother. We stayed with her. She knew a lot of musicians. She had an apartment, I think, in the 50s - 54th or 55th [Street]. I can't remember. I used to have a little girlfriend to play with in the lobby. She said to me one day - I always dressed in a kilt, and I had a very thick Scottish accent - she said to me, "My father has a radio show. " I said, "Oh, I should be on it. " She said, "Why? What can you do? " I said, "Everything. I can dance. I can sing. I can tell jokes. " I really sold it, at which point a very portly man came into the lobby. This was my little friend's father. I said, not being hesitant to go forward when I could - I said, "You have a radio show. " He said, "Yes. " I said, "I should be on it. " Again, I was asked, "What can you do? ", and I recited everything. He gave me a piece of paper which I promptly lost. It had a number on it. I was a kid. What did I know? I was four.   3 One day, the phone rings. My aunt, being a singer - my aunt picked it up, and this voice said, "Is Annie Ross there? " My aunt said yes. He said, "We're waiting for her. We're in the studio - broadcasting studio at a child's competition, and she's supposed to be here. Is she there? " My aunt said, "Yes, she's here, but she's taking her nap. " He said, "Could you get her up, get her dressed, get her down to the studio? ", wherever it was. My aunt said, "Okay. By the way, who is this? ", and he said, "Paul Whiteman. " He had been a huge bandleader, and he had very famous musicians in his band. So I got dressed, and my father gave me a joke to tell, which was, "What do you have on, little girl? " I'd say, "That's my kilt. " He said, "What's that thing around it? " I said, That's my sporran. " He said, "What's a sporran? " I said, "That's where a Scotsman keeps his money, and you'll notice I said, he keeps his money. " Ha ha ha. Then I sang a song that my father wrote. I won the competition. The prize was a token contract with MGM. It was a six-month thing. It didn't say you were going to be in the movies, but you were signed to MGM for six months. My aunt was going out to L.A. to do a couple of movies. She took me with her, with my mother. We went to L.A., where she had rented a house. I remember going to MGM and meeting Louis B. Mayer. Meyer and various people in authority. I never did make a film for MGM, but I had a real good time. My aunt, she must have known that I was musical, because she played me a record. She gave it to me. It was the first record I ever had. It was Ella Fitzgerald singing A-tisket, A- tasket. I didn't know what it was. I had no idea what it was called. But I knew I wanted to sing like that, which I did. I learned the song, and I'd sing it at the drop of a hat. I went to school in Beverly Hills. I had a lot of famous classmates. One of my little friend's father was Harold Lloyd. He had an estate in L.A. that was unbelievable. And Edward G. Robinson's son, and Wallace Berry's daughter, etc., etc. It was a beautiful school, right on Rexford Drive in the middle of Beverly Hills. Then I got a call saying, would I come and do a film for Our Gang? It was all arranged with my aunt. I didn't know anything about it. But I did go on the set. I sang a jazz version of Loch Lomond. It's available on the Our Gang collection. It was wonderful, because I got lots of hugs and kisses and pats on the head. I don't think there was ever a doubt that I was going to be in the music business.  4 I continued just going to school until I was - I think I was about 11. I did a film with Judy Garland in which I played her sister, but I didn't really get to know Judy Garland. She was a star, and I was just a bystander. Then, after that, my aunt said, "No more films. Go to school. You don't have the magic to be a singer. Why don't you try set designing? " Whatever she said, I was against it. I said, "No, I want to be a singer. " I had come from a family - it must have been very traumatic to see my mother get on a plane and leave. They told me that I tried to climb the mesh gates. They took me there to see her leave, which I thought was cruel. I was raised, really, by nursemaids, nannies, one of whom was horrific. She used to beat me every week, because I didn't have any family out there. She would never do it when the place was full. She did it when the place was empty, which was often, because my aunt was coming to New York and doing shows. So I never wanted to be a kid, ever. To me, being a child was cruel, because I used to get beat and etc., etc. I couldn't wait to be older. I started smoking at 13. I knew all the pop tunes, but I didn't like them as much as I liked what I learned was jazz. Things got to such a pitch that my aunt decided to send me back to Scotland. It was always a threat. "If you don't behave yourself" - I don't know what I did that was so terrible - "If you don't behave yourself, I'm going to send you back to Scotland, which is horrible. It rains all the time, there are no streets, and there are cobblestones. " I just thought, get me out. I don't care where. I don't care how. I don't want to be here. So I was sent back when I was 16. I got off the plane, and I thought, "These must be my family, because they're the only ones left on the airstrip. " It was raining, as my aunt had told me. I was the last one off the plane. It was case of "Hello, pet. This is your mother. This is your brother. This is your brother. " I knew the other brother. "This is your sister, and this is your aunt, this is your aunt, this is your aunt, and this is your aunt. " I thought, I got to get out of here as quickly as possible. I don't like this. I don't know these people, and I want out. So I went back to - they were real vaudevillians, and they were vaudevillians in the sense of the word that meant that they played in very poor theaters. They had a great following, but the first two rows were leather. After that, there were wooden benches. I said to my dad, "I can't stay here. I have to go. " He said, "Where are you going to go? " I said, "I don't know, but it's not here. " He must have felt that I felt very lost and alone. So he said okay. He took me in the living room, which was the front room. You never used it. It was for company. He pulled back    5 the carpet, and he lifted up a board. That's where he kept his money. He gave me about  He said, "Let me call your mother's brother. He lives in Brighton," which is a seaside town, outside of London. So he called, and my uncle Bill said, "Okay, fine. She can come and stay with me and my wife. Make all the arrangements and let me know. " I said okay. So I went down to Brighton. My uncle was an actor, but he also had done other things, like he was the road manager for a famous band called - oh shoot. What was the name? The famous band - anyway, I was supposed to meet this guy with my uncle in a club, because he had a big band, but he wasn't employing his big band. He said, "I think I can get you a job in a club. " He called - oh, what is the name? - anyway, he said, "Come over here, 4 o'clock. " So we went to Grosvenor Square, which is a very fancy neighborhood, and we met this guy, who was in a smoking jacket. He said, "Sing for me. " I said okay. Without accompaniment or anything, I sang, and he was very impressed. So he rang his friend, the club owner, who said, "Okay. I'll try her out for a couple of weeks. " It was a private club, and nothing is more snobbish than an English private club. I mean it was - I couldn't even sit in the room when I wasn't singing. I had to go and sit downstairs with the ladies' room attendant. I bought a second-hand dress and a pair of shoes. It wasn't a bad little band. It was about 10 pieces. I was doing a lot of <span class="otherMatch" rel="popover" id="other_244_167652">Rodgers</span> and Lorenz Lorenz Hart, and <span class="fullMatch" id="match_17">Cole Porter</span>. They had never heard that. After a while, a coterie of people grew and grew, who would come in to hear me sing. They finally gave me - like Marilyn Monroe in Bus Stop - they finally gave me a switch, so that when I got up to sing, I could switch the light on and get the spotlight. I had one room. I thought it was heaven. You would put shillings in the meter to get heat. My window was broken. I didn't care. I had a ball. I loved it. Then I got into a show. I read a part for a show which was a famous Broadway hit called Burlesque. I read for Jack Hylton, who was also a famous bandleader, by this time, an impresario. He said, "How can you be so" - he should have said "hip," but that wasn't a word then - "How can you be so talented, and you're only 17? I can't give you the lead in the show, but I know what I'll do. I'll make you the understudy of the lead. " The lead was a 45-year-old woman. So I said, "Great. " He said, "We'll put you in the chorus. " I said, "I can't dance. " He said, "You'll be the one that always makes the mistake, and that'll be funny. " I said okay.    6 We rehearsed. There were a lot of high kicks, I remember, like the Rockettes, and I had about four jokes with the leading man, which distinguished me from the chorus. I had a speaking part. The leading lady saw it, and demanded that I be relieved of my dialogue, because I was younger. You know. Her name was Marjorie Reynolds. She was a famous Hollywood star. So I went down to the basement of the theater, and I cried. A woman who was in the show - because it was quite a large cast - came down, and she comforted me. She said, Honey, when you've been in the business as long as I have, you get kicked in the face so much that you don't even feel it. " I've never forgotten that. I was heartbroken, but I loved  and I was the youngest in the show. Then I got a telegram from Hugh Martin. Hugh Martin wrote The Boy Next Door, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, innumerable hits, The Trolley Song. The telegram said, would you like to come to France and join an act consisting of me, his boyfriend, and Hugh Martin? The idea was that Hugh Martin would play the piano, and we would all sing. There were very hip arrangements. Who, at 17, wouldn't want to go to Paris? I was in London after the war, where everything was rationed. You couldn't get eggs, and you couldn't get milk. So Paris was a dream. I went there. I ate steak for the first time in a long time. I had beautiful omelettes. I had strawberries and cream. It was just fabulous. I knew a little bit of French, but I learned more and more and more. Than, as we were going to leave on a so-called tour, Hugh Martin got an offer to write Ziegfield Follies, which never went on, but he was contacted and asked if he wanted to do it. He came to me, and he said, "It's something I've always wanted to do. I have to go back. " I said okay. He said, "But I'll set you up, and I'll give you some money, because I know you have none. " I didn't - I've never had a lot of money, ever. So I said okay. I had met two people, mother and daughter, who said, "We'll take you to Balmain and get you fitted for a dress well. " They were very rich. So they would go to Balmain a lot. They took me there, and they said to me, "Pick out two dresses that you want. " There's a very famous woman called Ginette Spanier, who was the head of the house of Balmain. I picked out two dresses. I went back for my first fitting, and I said, "These two dresses aren't what I picked. " She said, "You're only 17 once. These are the dresses you should have. " She was quite right. I chose ridiculous, sophisticated stuff. I did a short tour of Germany with a French group, where I would - they would say the program in French, and then I would translate it into English, to present the show. I came back, and I thought, I have to do something to help me get some money. So I better sing with a band. I met [?Belnari Ilda], his name was, who was a very famous band. We   7 played in Biarritz, in the casino. I wasn't old enough to go into the casino and gamble, but I could sing with the band. Every Friday night they had gala evenings. That meant you would go into one room, into a huge room, very high ceilings. Every Friday night was a gala. You used to have maharajahs and all kinds of rich people, a full suite of diamonds or sapphires or rubies or whatever. Then we would go to a nightclub, which was about two floors up, and we would play until there were no people. Sometimes it was 2. Sometimes it was 4. I had a ball, and I was learning about French food and how to cook it. Monte-Carlo - because I was at the Sporting Club in Monte-Carlo, which was very fancy. I just had the most incredible time. I met many, many people, many famous people. There was no-one around. It was Monte-Carlo unlike anything you see today. It was enchanting. It was wonderful. There was an area above Cannes, above Monte-Carlo, which is called Beausoleil. There was a woman - we would go there to eat. I tell you, the food was fantastic. I did six months, I think, and then I came back to Paris. I always made Paris my base. I was living in a very small hotel off the Champs des Elysees. At that time in Paris, there was James Moody, who I made my first record with. That took place in Paris. It was a song that James Moody had written. Had no words. It was just called Le Vent Vert, the green wind. I met Kenny Clarke, <span class="fullMatch" id="match_25">Kenny Clarke</span>. Then, musicians would come over, like Dizzy Gillespie. By that time, Kenny Clarke and I were hooked up. He had to go out of town. He had a job. That was very unusual. He said, "I have to go, but Charlie Parker is coming in. I'll give you a note. You can go to the airport with Charles Delaunay," who was head of the Jazz hot. By this time I was pregnant. "You go. You give Charlie Parker this note. " I said okay. We were so poor, we were living with another family in - oh, what's the name? - Pigalle, around Pigalle. We shared it with a saxophonist who was French and his wife and child and his in-laws. You had to walk up a round staircase. We lived at the very top. There was no money, but there was a lot of love. Janis, who was the wife, she could make a meal out of nothing. She was unbelievable. All she had were two little stovetops, whatever you call them.