Growing Up Brady: I Was a Teenage Greg, Special Collector's Edition (27 page)

Amazingly, the record sold reasonably well; and despite our
potential for damaging eardrums, more albums were scheduled.

This time, it was decided that a new producer was in order,
someone different, someone hip, someone who'd help the Bradys
grab their rightful place atop the pop/contemporary charts. Soon,
Bobby Sherman's producer, the man responsible for inflicting
such hits as "Julie, Do Ya Love Me" and "Easy Come, Easy Go"
upon the American public, was brought in and asked to make us
shine. His name was Jackie Mills, and we were certain he was
gonna be our ticket to stardom.

Then the problems hit.

Almost from day one, Mr. Mills openly bemoaned the fact that
he was producing our new record instead of Rod Stewart's or the
Rolling Stones'. He was publicly ambivalent about working with us,
and throughout the project he expended very little energy.

Next, Mr. Mills and the higher-ups at Famous Music got together and decided that one sure way to sell albums would be to cram
a lot of already popular song titles onto both sides of the record.
They scanned the Top 40, and almost immediately our new album
was saddled with such wildly inappropriate songs as "Baby I'm-a
Want You" and "Me and You and a Dog Named Boo." (Susan
Olsen's suggestion of "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" met with a
red-faced rejection.) Worst of all, though, was our extraordinarily
awful rendition of "American Pie." Ouch!

Anyway, the point here is that even though the "Brady Bunch"
kids were fast becoming a bona fide (if cheesy) musical group,
nobody had any concept about what this newly formed musical
family should be. What direction? What songs? What signature? We
needed a leader but were too young, naive, and excited to complain. We were sure that our ride toward superstardom had begun,
and we weren't about to get off.

Meet the Brady Bunch was released, and while it never got any
radio airplay, it did manage to sell reasonably well. My guess is that
it was mainly because our pictures were on the cover; word of
mouth would be too optimistic. Two more albums were scheduled; and so as not to relive my "0 Holy Night"-mare, I immediately began spending all of my free time taking voice lessons.

The Kids from "The Brady Bunch" and The Brady Bunch: A
Phonographic Album were recorded, released, and sold pretty
well. Now, we were told, it was time to grab our tepid success by
the balls and explode it into full-blown Bradymania!

The Bradys were going on the road.

You guys are gonna go far you are really, really,
really fabulous!

-Tony Orlando, after seeing the live
Brady Kids concert tour

Okay, the records were selling, the TV show was bigger than
ever; and come hiatus time, we "Brady Bunch Kids" sequestered
ourselves in the Paramount dance studio for weeks, and concocted a live concert act that we were sure was gonna blow the roof off
the pop music business. We hired a couple of Vegas veterans, Ray
Reese and Joe Seiter, who, we were told, could make anyone look
good onstage. They were set to direct us, choreograph us, and
help us select appropriate songs.

Good idea. These were talented, compassionate guys with a nice
sense of how to transpose us TV Bradys onto a live stage. Then we
agreed to let our moms get together and make our costumes by hand.

Bad idea. Bad, bad idea! Guided by their own fashion taste, our
moms managed to stitch together costumes that were ugly even
by 1970s standards. Everything was created in stretch polyester,
with beads, flowers, and fringe flying all over the place. On some
numbers, we'd even add straw hats, canes, and white patentleather boots. We looked like Up With People on crack.

Our first gig was in Las Vegas, at Caesars Palace, performing on
a TV awards show hosted by Ed Sullivan. We were invited to sing
the closest thing we ever had to a hit, "Time to Change" (a song
from the "Brady Bunch" episode where Peter's voice is changing).
We took our place onstage alongside an incredible array of stars.
Sonny and Cher performed, then Lily Tomlin, Danny Thomas, and
of course the multitalented Edwina the Elephant.

Rehearsing the
act. (© Karen
Lipscomb)

Road Warblers

Meeting Ed
Sullivan.
(Barry Williams)

We were next. Ed introduced us, we took the stage and proceeded to spend the next three and a half minutes doing our rudimentary sidesteps and kickball changes while carefully skirting the
numerous piles of Edwina residue which now dotted the stage like
land mines.

We got through our number, survived, and actually did okay.
The crowd responded warmly, and for the first time we knew
about the instant gratification of a live audience. It felt great. We
were excited that we'd done well, amazed that we hadn't embarrassed ourselves among genuine big-name talent, and more excited than ever to get our show on the road.

And that's exactly what we did.

We played state fairs. We played twelve thousand-seat arenas.
We co-headlined with the Fifth Dimension. Tony Orlando and
Dawn opened for us. But the biggest thrill of all was to come faceto-face with our fans.

That sounds like a corny show-business cliche, but what you've
gotta understand is that for years, from 1969 through 1973, we six
Brady Kids had simply worked on the Paramount lot and gone
home everyday. I mean, we knew that our show was a hit, and we
did get hundreds of fan letters each week; but somehow none of
that ever translated into giving us any sense at all of just how enormous the Brady Bunch had become.

But now, in front of us were thousands of screaming, handclapping, foot-stomping, singing, dancing fan-atics, and for the
first time, all six of us were unavoidably smacked in the face with
our heretofore unrealized stardom.

The crowds were extraordinarily receptive to our act. Their
reaction was extremely gratifying, over the top, and at times
more than just a little scary. Everywhere we went, people were
excited by us. Everywhere we stayed, crowds tailed us unmercifully. Everywhere we hid, we were sought out.

I remember the six of us being rushed by an especially riledup arena crowd in Oklahoma and escorted away by a big team of
security guys, who formed a sort of flying V in front of us and
basically steamrolled over any human who got in our way.
Cowering behind them, we kids still got mauled, losing handfuls
of our groovy fringe, our jackets, and even locks of hair to the
hands of the admiring mob. Finally, we broke free, scooted
down an interior hallway, and laid low inside a janitor's storage
room.

Safe at last ... or so we thought.

The security team split up and ditched us, believing that our janitorial hideaway would prove inconspicuous enough to remain
unexplored by Brady-seeking fans.

They were wrong, and almost immediately we began hearing a
group of fans headed down the hall toward us. Silently we held
our breath, hoping they'd pass by, but when a knock at the door
was followed by eyeballs peering under its crack, all was lost.

"Hey, Bradys," we heard cringingly, "come on out. We know
you're in there-we can see your feet!"

Ugh ... Our white patent-leather Beatle boots had given us
away. We were doomed. But Susan Olsen wasn't ready to give up
just yet. "It'th not uth!" she yelled out under the door. "It'th really
not uth. ... The Bradyth are behind the thtage!"