Liberace was the highest-paid entertainer in the world, a man who wore a white virgin fox fur coat with a 16-foot train and was beamed into American homes every week. By the laws of his day, he was also a criminal. For most of his life, the most flamboyant man in show business sat in courtrooms on two continents, swearing under oath that he was not gay.
He kept winning. The truth never got the chance.
A prodigy in Milwaukee
He was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in 1919, and went by Lee. His father, Salvatore, was a factory worker filled to the brim with music. His mother, Frances, had been a concert pianist before marriage, and she was the practical one: the family budget, she argued, couldn't cover both the basics and music lessons. Salvatore wouldn't hear it. Being poor was one thing, but a life without music meant spiritual poverty. The couple fought bitterly over money, and Salvatore won.
Lee started playing piano at four. By seven he was studying at the Wisconsin College of Music and playing complex classical pieces from memory. He was a sensitive, fragile kid who hated getting dirty, so the other children called him a "sissy" and a "mama's boy." He stayed inside and learned to cook.
By ten, he had crushes on some of his male teachers, and he was terrified he was mentally ill. The medical establishment would have agreed with him. Homosexuality stayed on the American Psychiatric Association's list of mental disorders until 1973, and on the World Health Organization's until 1990. Being gay could cost a person their job, their home, their credit, their driver's license or their passport. Police could raid a home without a warrant, and an arrest could lead to forced psychiatric treatment and, if the "cure" failed, to an institution. In Wisconsin, hundreds of male inmates were forcibly sterilized between 1973 and 1978. So picture a ten-year-old boy in 1929, wondering if the next knock at the door was the police coming to take him away.
Fifty thousand a week
He made his hometown concert debut at 11 and soloed with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra at 16. But classical music felt too small for him, and by 21 he had a new goal: to become the world's greatest and most entertaining piano player. He pretty much did.
It started at the Last Frontier Hotel in Las Vegas, where his pay doubled by the end of his first week in 1944, to $1,500 a week, roughly $27,000 today. By 1955 the brand-new Riviera was paying him $50,000 a week. More than 35 million viewers in the US and 20 other countries tuned in to his TV show. Fan clubs signed up more than a quarter million members, and up to 10,000 letters a week poured in, and he read as many as he could.
The press couldn't get enough of his clothes. At a cocktail party for President Eisenhower, he mingled in a gray raw silk dinner suit with studs the size of silver dollars, then changed into gold silver lamé and black alligator shoes to play. Not everyone swooned. Faye Emerson, a columnist at the Washington Daily News, warned that if he wanted to avoid naughty talk, he'd better start "going to Brooks Brothers for his costumes instead of Christian Dior." Everyone knew what kind of naughty talk she meant.
The gloves come off
The first big scandal belonged to his brother George, a violinist on the show who was married five times. In 1952, a used car salesman named Harold Frank claimed he'd been sleeping with George's third wife, Jayne, and accused both Liberace brothers of a campaign of terror against him. His filing even claimed "her own brother-in-law brought her to me." George and Jayne fired back with a $1.2 million countersuit, but their marriage didn't survive. Jayne died in 1960, when a single-engine plane flying from Las Vegas to Van Nuys vanished. Nobody found the wreckage for nearly six months.
Liberace never hid. His Sherman Oaks mansion had a swimming pool shaped like a piano and a fountain that played music, and his Christmas lights caused traffic jams. Then, on July 18, 1957, two masked, hooded men attacked his 60-year-old mother, Frances, in the garage, then chased her into the kitchen and kicked her until she passed out. Nothing was stolen. Police saw no motive. But Liberace had just sued the gossip magazine Confidential for $20 million over a cover headed "Why Liberace's theme song should be mad about the boy." Inside, a writer named Horton Streete claimed Liberace had wrestled a young male press agent around a hotel suite. California banned that issue. In July 1958, Confidential settled, and Liberace's $40,000 was the most the magazine ever paid out. He gave whatever was left after legal costs to charity.
The most dazzlingly flamboyant man in show business kept going to court to swear he wasn't gay, and kept winning, including a record libel award in London. He had no choice: on both sides of the Atlantic, the truth was a crime.
Fruit flavored, under oath
In 1959 he was back in court, this time in London, suing the Daily Mirror. Its columnist William Connor, who wrote as Cassandra, had called him a "deadly winking snickering snuggling chromium plated scent impregnated luminous Quivering giggling fruit flavored mincing ice-covered heap of mother Love." Time said Connor had "the disposition of a rabid porcupine." He had watched an episode and a half of Liberace's show before writing it.
The case turned on "fruit," American slang for a gay man, and the stakes were real. Connor claimed he'd only meant a foolish clown. Liberace was grilled about scented lotions and aftershave, and whether he gave off a noticeable odor. Sex appeal, he answered mildly, belonged to Marilyn Monroe and Brigitte Bardot. Right before the verdict, a juror named Mrs. Jean Friend winked at him. He won 198,000 pounds, the largest libel award in British history at the time, and joked that the case made him "cry all the way to the bank."
The glass closet
In 1982, his former chauffeur Scott Thorson sued him for $113 million in palimony, which is like alimony for unmarried partners who lived together. The National Enquirer printed Thorson's story, and once again Liberace had to deny he was gay. The suit settled in 1986 for $75,000, three dogs and three cars. A year later, Liberace died at 67 in Palm Springs. Officially it was pneumonia. The real cause was AIDS, which he never treated and never disclosed, while the Enquirer painted him as a predator.
One biographer wrote that he lived "in a glass closet": hiding in plain sight, and doing it defiantly. The costumes were armor. When lawyers demanded to know what kind of man would go from "Ave Maria" to the "Beer Barrel Polka," he had an answer: for him, music was where the sacred and the profane found common ground. His fans, many of them grandmothers, saw a refined man who was good to his mother. What was so hard to understand about that?
