Ever since four blithe spirits from Liverpool turned the world upside down, the most visible pop singers have been those who have dealt with contemporary moods and issues. Simultaneously trend setters and chroniclers of an era, they sing of grass, alienation and oppression. The very names of those who have made it are slogans of rebellion: the Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, Wayne Newton . . . Wait a minute—Wayne Newton? Isn't he that big, baby-faced panda, that tenor with adenoidal arrest and the grin that seems to tell you he just made all-state halfback at Waycross High? Where did he come from?
Where indeed? His brother Jerry, the sharpshooting Doppelganger of their nightclub act, calls Wayne (chuckle): "Fig." However obvious, Fig Newton is appropriate. Newton's style is sticky, his humor is seedy, and he is wrapped in dough. He is also astonishingly successful. Beginning with that enduring blob of Teutonic treacle, Danke Schoen, he has two gold records to his credit. He gets as much as $75,000 a week in nightclubs and holds the alltime attendance records at the Royal Box in New York's Americana Hotel, Las Vegas' Frontier Hotel and Melodyland in Anaheim, Calif.
Comic Relief. For all its basic corniness, Wayne's act is shrewdly staged. He oozes sweetness while his brother Jerry makes sour wisecracks. Wayne bounces onto the stage singing Hello, My Baby, or some such wormy number. He then launches into saccharine favorites like Swanee, For Once in My Life and Kids, a patented anti-divorce song that, according to fan mail, has mended many a rending home. Lest the unsentimental throw up, naughty Jerry introduces some comic relief. "You're such a marvelous audience," Wayne coos, "I want to try something that we've never tried before." Jerry growls: "Who are you kidding? We do the same bloody thing every night." When Wayne slides into Danke Schoen, Jerry covers his eyes and moans, "My God, this is so sexy." He exudes disgust as Wayne plays a succession of instruments with ain't-I-cute aplomb. "I'd take off my coat," sneers Jerry, "but I'm afraid you'd play that too." The audiences lap, lap, lap it up.
Wayne, 28, and Jerry, 29, have been a sweet-and-sour team ever since they began playing benefits as youngsters in Norfolk, Va. The Newtons were forced to move to Phoenix because of Wayne's chronic asthma; there Wayne was president of his high-school student body. He and Jerry also had a daily variety show on station KOOL-TV, and in his senior year Wayne quit school to accept a five-year contract at the Fremont Hotel in Las Vegas. Thirty-six shows a week was rugged drill, but it enabled the brothers Newton to broaden and buff their act.
Filial Devotion. Wayne crooned on TV, on records, in nightclubs. Not that everyone was wild about him. As he recalls: "We had a lot of people insult us and tell us to get out of the business. In Las Vegas we even had people throw things at us."