'Would Diana and Dodi still be alive if it hadn't been for me?': How Paul Anka blames himself for the Princess's death
By Paul Anka|
On
Saturday, singer Paul Anka — who wrote the Frank Sinatra hit My Way —
told how he was adopted by the Rat Pack and saw a side to Sinatra that
was carefully hidden from the world. Today, in the second of two
extracts from his new memoirs, he reveals his fascinating encounters
with other famous names during his extraordinary 55-year career . . .
My way with the stars: Paul Anka says that he blamed himself for Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed's death
In fact, he started treating me as a kind of father figure, too — probably because I’d first got to know him as a child through staying at the Paris Ritz, then owned by Fayed Senior.
But news travels fast in that town, so I soon became aware that Dodi was heavily into cocaine, getting into skirmishes over unpaid rent, seeing the wrong kind of women and running around with a fast crowd.
I tried to advise him, but he was too young and wild to listen. Then, one day, he called to say: ‘I’ve got to talk to you.’
We met at the Ivy restaurant in LA, where he began with a long ramble — which always makes me nervous.
‘Paul, as you know, we go way back, our two families. I’ve known you all these years, and your family stayed at the Ritz . . .’
It turned out he’d come back from Europe recently and hadn’t declared he was carrying $150,000 (£98,500) in cash — which had promptly been confiscated.
‘I can’t tell my dad,’ Dodi wailed. ‘Could you just loan it to me for a week?’
Now, I don’t like lending money. But he kept pleading and saying it would be only be for a week, and somehow I found myself agreeing.
Dodi duly picked up the money from my bank, and a week later I tried to reach him.
By then he was in Australia, chasing an actress. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said when I tracked him down. ‘As soon as I come home this week, I’ll get you the money.’
And he did. It was a Bank of America cheque — and when I tried to cash it, it bounced. I couldn’t believe it!
I called him again. He was full of apologies and promised he was transferring funds to another account the next day — this time from a bank in London.
It wasn’t hard to work out that this was a bull**** story. I was livid. Checking around, I discovered he hadn’t paid his rent for months, he owed people money for jewellery, and was living way beyond his means.
Doomed romance: Dodi took up with Diana after his disastrous spell in LA
‘Mr Anka,’ he said, ‘you know I’m not supposed to give out information, but let me be frank — this guy’s been a problem. There’s not enough money in that account to cover your cheque.’
It was one in the morning in LA, but I called Dodi and yelled: ‘You’ll be here tomorrow — or you’re going to jail!’ My voice was so loud that my wife thought I was being attacked by an intruder.
The following afternoon, Dodi came round with yet more excuses. ‘You know what?’ I told him. ‘I’ve found out you’ve been doing this all over town, and you need to be taught a lesson. I’m going to call your father.’
‘Don’t call Daddy,’ he pleaded — but I did. And I told Fayed Snr I was right on the verge of calling the police.
The upshot was that Daddy sent his brother round to see me the next day with an open cheque book and an offer to ‘name any amount’. Of course, I only wanted my $150,000 back.
Then Fayed’s people shut down Dodi’s house, paid off all his bills, put him on a plane and carted him back to England.
A few months later, I was lying in bed, sleepily watching TV. Suddenly the programme was interrupted by a bulletin about Princess Diana dying in a car crash in Paris — with Dodi.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. I’d just got over the business of the loan to Dodi, and now this. But that hair-raising drive through Paris made sense, when I thought about it.
One of Dodi’s problems was that he was very paranoid. And he was especially paranoid about kidnapping, hold-ups and vendettas, always thinking that someone might want to kill him.
That’s why he always went fast whenever he got into a car.
When he got involved with Princess Di, all that anxiety must have increased exponentially because the paparazzi were on their tracks, day and night. It was always about speed with him. Fast, fast, fast.
Friendly terms: Paul Anka was a friend of the Fayed family after staying at the Paris Ritz which Mohammed Al Fayed owned
I drove myself crazy with that for quite a while.
In Las Vegas, almost any night of the week you could see Frank Sinatra in a public restaurant, holding forth at a table. Not Elvis. Not ever.
The idea of doing that scared him to death. He thought he had to be Elvis Presley all the time, and he wasn’t always sure who that was.
'What if I hadn’t loaned Dodi the money? What if I hadn’t called Fayed? Would Dodi have stayed in LA? Would he — and Princess Diana — still be alive today?'
Paul Anka
When I first met him, he was still at his peak: an incredible God-like figure who had everything, including a great voice. In those days, he’d come over to Caesar’s Palace to see my show, then come backstage where we talked about music, girls and movies.
Then all of a sudden, he started growing out of his skin. He was changing right before my eyes, gradually becoming disfigured.
You can live with being a little overweight, but Elvis went way beyond that. His skin stretched to the point where you could no longer detect his original face.
Through that whole evolution, I’d sit with him and try to tell him: ‘Man, you’ve got to get it together — you can’t live this half-life. Get a hold of this situation or it’s going to pull you under.’
As he became more and more pathetic, he kept telling me how much the words of My Way — which I’d written for Sinatra — meant to him. I’d say: ‘Elvis, it’s not really your kind of song.’
Troubled: Paul Anka says that Elvis ballooned so
much that his skin stretched and you could barely make out his original
facial features anymore
Basically, Elvis destroyed himself. It got to the point where he’d only see me in his suite, where he had aluminium foil on the windows because he never wanted to see daylight.
So locked in the prison of celebrity was he that the person inside had shrivelled up.
And then there were the guns. For some reason, he particularly hated the singer and actor Robert Goulet.
Every time he was on TV, Elvis would simply shoot the television set. There were bullet holes all over the room. He was shooting at ghosts, and finally became one himself.
Let me tell you a secret about Dean Martin. Far from being a loudmouth boozer, he was a good guy who mostly drank apple juice, played golf, did his show, had a bowl of pasta, then went to his room to watch cowboy movies.
The character he created for the audience was so seamless and flawless that no one outside his inner circle ever guessed it was an act.
Sometimes, for the sake of his voice, he’d join Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jnr and me in a Las Vegas steam room. Then the humour would come out of him effortlessly.
When the masseur rubbed oil on his back, for instance, he had a way of sliding onto the floor — as if he’d just slipped off like an eel — that had everyone roaring.
Frank adored him. But Dean didn’t really hang out with the rest of the Rat Pack: he was a loner who followed his own drumbeat right to the end.
'Basically, Elvis destroyed himself. It got to the point where he’d only see me in his suite, where he had aluminium foil on the windows because he never wanted to see daylight.'
Paul Anka
But Frank tried to push him to go out with them, and Dean just got on a plane and went home. He didn’t want to do the Rat Pack two-step any more. He was old, he was tired, and it was a case of finita la commedia (the farce is over).
His 35-year-old son had died the year before in a jet crash, and Dean was really only half alive after that. From time to time, I still saw him at a little restaurant in Beverly Hills, California, sitting there with his false teeth in a glass of water.
I’d always ask: ‘How are you doing, Dino?’
He’d look up at me and say: ‘Just waiting to die, pally, just waiting to die.’
Contrast: Sammy Davis Jnr, left, was 'obsessed with porn' says Paul Anka, while Dean Martin, right, was a 'good guy'
In his heart of hearts, he wanted to be Sinatra — but he never knew when to put on the brakes. Take money, for instance. Early in his career, Sammy told me, he’d asked for money from the Mob. Then kept asking for more and more, so he was completely under the control of the boys.
Frank liked him and protected him as best as he could, but they had a major break-up in their friendship. Nothing to do with gangsters: Frank just didn’t like the fact that Sammy was into cocaine. Or that his ongoing ‘sexcapades’ had reached a new level.
It broke my heart to witness what happened to Sammy.
When I started performing in Las Vegas, he was a lovable and ridiculously talented singer and impressionist.
I SAW A PARADE OF CHILDREN GO INTO JACKO'S VILLA - IT WAS SCARY
No one guessed for a long time that Michael Jackson had a dark side — but I saw it pretty early on.
In 1980, I asked him to collaborate on two songs I was doing for a new album.
He readily agreed — even though he was also working on Thriller — and moved into my guest house.
I’d often see him there playing with my daughters in the Jacuzzi. You could tell he had a fondness for kids: he was very childlike himself.
Anyway, Michael and I started messing around with some songs, and I have to say I was impressed.
He not only had an incredible voice, but he was very tenacious and wildly ambitious.
I remember thinking that he had
an absolutely ruthless streak. So probably I shouldn’t have been
surprised that when Thriller came out, and became a smash hit, I
couldn’t get Michael back to the studio to finish our songs.
The tapes from our sessions together ended up just sitting in the studio while I kept trying — and failing — to get him on the phone.
Then, the next thing I knew, Michael sent one of his people over to sneak in and steal the tapes. I was aghast — and I certainly wasn’t going to let him get away with this.
In the end, it took weeks of threatening him with legal action before I got them back. But I knew then this kid was headed for trouble.
Quite a while later, I saw him again in Vegas, when he stayed at a villa next door to mine at the Mirage hotel.
And I’m afraid I was a witness to the parade of kids going in and out. Scary.
He wouldn’t let anyone else into the place. The maids and other hotel staff would come to me and say: ‘We can’t even go in to clean; and if we have room service for him, we’ve got to leave it outside.’
When the management finally prised Michael out, they found broken glass, perfume bottles and rotting food everywhere. The Jacuzzi had bubble-bath pouring out of it and the place was an unholy mess.
It took tens of thousands of dollars to renovate that villa. And Michael was never allowed back.
In 1980, I asked him to collaborate on two songs I was doing for a new album.
He readily agreed — even though he was also working on Thriller — and moved into my guest house.
I’d often see him there playing with my daughters in the Jacuzzi. You could tell he had a fondness for kids: he was very childlike himself.
Anyway, Michael and I started messing around with some songs, and I have to say I was impressed.
He not only had an incredible voice, but he was very tenacious and wildly ambitious.
Before the bust up: Jacko and Paul Anka
The tapes from our sessions together ended up just sitting in the studio while I kept trying — and failing — to get him on the phone.
Then, the next thing I knew, Michael sent one of his people over to sneak in and steal the tapes. I was aghast — and I certainly wasn’t going to let him get away with this.
In the end, it took weeks of threatening him with legal action before I got them back. But I knew then this kid was headed for trouble.
Quite a while later, I saw him again in Vegas, when he stayed at a villa next door to mine at the Mirage hotel.
And I’m afraid I was a witness to the parade of kids going in and out. Scary.
He wouldn’t let anyone else into the place. The maids and other hotel staff would come to me and say: ‘We can’t even go in to clean; and if we have room service for him, we’ve got to leave it outside.’
When the management finally prised Michael out, they found broken glass, perfume bottles and rotting food everywhere. The Jacuzzi had bubble-bath pouring out of it and the place was an unholy mess.
It took tens of thousands of dollars to renovate that villa. And Michael was never allowed back.
Even then, Frank, Dean Martin and I knew that whenever Sammy performed, there’d be a bunch of porn stars in the audience and backstage. His obsession increased over the years.
In 1972, when Sammy and I were both working in the UK, he told me one night: ‘After the show, I want to run a movie at this private movie house.’
So along with my wife and some old friends, we went down some stairs to a screening room. There we were, with our bags of popcorn, the lights went down, and on came . . . the hard-core porno movie Deep Throat. Everybody was in shock.
'Over the 30 years I knew Sammy Davis Jnr, I witnessed him slowly killing himself.'
Paul Anka
By then, he was married to Altovise, who’d been one of the dancers in his show — though he was also seeing another dancer, Lola Falana.
It was his sordid infatuation with Deep Throat star Linda Lovelace, however, that I found beyond belief.
At first, she shared his bed, with Altovise’s consent. Then Altovise and Linda’s husband started joining them for foursomes.
As time went on, Sammy’s kinky sex habits got even kinkier. Frank knew; we all knew. Ole Blue Eyes was hardly a prude, but even he found Sammy’s new porno fixation disgusting — and didn’t forgive him for years.
Sammy’s view was: ‘S***, I’m only living once — I want to do what I want.’
He’d tell me how cool it was to be involved with different women and guys. ‘Hell, man, no restraints, no hang-ups,’ he’d say.
When he died in May 1990, the death certificate said throat cancer — but what really killed him was wanting too much of everything.
ADAPTED
from My Way by Paul Anka, published by St Martin’s Press on April 9 at
£20.99. © Paul Anka. To order a copy for £16.99 (inc P&P), tel 0844
472 4157.
Outspoken: Paul Anka tells of his memories of his time with the Rat Pack and Michael Jackson among other stars
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