A Chance Encounter with Les Paul Turns Into a Lifelong Friendship

In the late 1980s, when I lived in Los Angeles, my landlord was a former country musician and radio star named Zeke Manners. 

He took a liking to me and we used to talk for hours. He was far more interested in my listening to his old war stories than collecting the rent.

Among his many songs, Zeke penned one called “Los Angeles.” It became well known after it was recorded by Les Paul. Subsequently, Zeke and Les had become good friends. 

Their friendship also included an intense interest in gadgetry. Zeke had an original “Octopus” eight-track recorder in his living room, just like the one Les had built. The machine was the size of large refrigerator. 

Before I moved to New York City, Zeke insisted that I meet Les Paul. I only knew Les by reputation. As a kid, I had a Les Paul Jr. guitar and had taken guitar lessons with the Les Paul songbook. I had watched Les and Mary on TV. When I got to the Big Apple, Zeke was good to his word and arranged for me to meet Les. 

We hit it off immediately. Les was disarmingly friendly and unpretentious, and a very funny man. We became fast friends and stayed that way until he died.

I began recording hours of interviews with Les and thought I had a pretty good understanding of his life. Then one night in 2003, he asked me to interview him before a music industry audience at Iridium, the club he played at in Manhattan.

I was prepared and knew the right questions. Before the interview began, Les whispered to me: “Frank, I know you know all my stories, but tonight I’m going to change the answers. Don’t let it throw you.” 

Before I could react, we were on the stage.

Les then proceeded to answer every question a different way than he had earlier. 

He changed the stories and facts. He totally threw me. It reminded me of something Orson Welles had once told me: “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.” From that point on, I never knew truth from fiction with Les, but figured he had earned the right to re-write history.

One night, I was in Les’s dressing room at Iridium and an older lady came in. He introduced her as Anita O’Day, the great jazz singer. He asked me to take care of her at the bar and escort her down to the stage when he called on her to perform. 

I honored Les’s wishes, but it was near the end of her life, and Ms. O’Day’s memory of events was very fuzzy. Les picked up the ball and recalled every detail. He carried the show beautifully, as always.

Through the years, I had a FAX machine in my small apartment. When it would go off in the middle of the night, I knew it was usually a message from Les. He seemed to never sleep, and often called all-night radio shows in the wee hours.

Toward the end, Les wore hearing aids — big ones. I will never forget him at a sound check ordering the sound man to make minute changes in the audio wearing those gigantic hearing aids. I always suspected Les could hear better than the sound operator.

It was at his 90th birthday tribute at Carnegie Hall that it hit me how important Les was. I had only known him as a friend before that. But suddenly he became bigger than life itself. From that point on, there were lines of kids asking him to sign guitars and give them autographs. 

One funny comment that sealed our friendship early on. I told Les that I had a Les Paul Jr. guitar and had taken his lessons as a kid. But, I said, I still can’t play. It didn’t work.

Les looked at me and snapped: “Frank, that’s because you have no fucking talent.”

He nailed it cold and that’s why I liked him so much and miss him to this day.