Remembering Fred Parris

Around midnight, as Friday was slipping into Saturday, I put on the recording of that magic moment in New Haven history. I heard, yes, “Sha-doo, shoo-be-doo…”

This was the perfect way to commemorate it all, the amazing life of Fred Parris. He and the rest of the Five Satins continued to sing, with Fred in the lead: “In the still of the night, I held you, held you tight…”

“I remember” is a refrain of that song. And yes, I do remember the special moments I shared with Fred Parris — moments I’m recalling as I mourn his passing, announced Friday. He was 85.

Do you remember too? How many people these days know that song? I guess I have to ask, because the New Haven Register, my alma mater, on Saturday carried the news about the death of this New Haven native, icon and local hero, in a short column on page A11. Are you kidding me?

I remember first meeting Fred in the summer of 1980 when I was a young reporter for the Register. I had been assigned to write a lengthy feature story on the history of the Five Satins. Not being a native New Havener, I didn’t know much. But I learned plenty.

My story began: “A quarter of a century ago, the Five Satins were born on the street corners of Dixwell Avenue and in the bathrooms of Hillhouse High School, where they gathered to harmonize.

“They had no thought of making musical history. Even when they recorded ‘In the Still of the Night’ in 1956 in the basement of St. Bernadette’s Church in New Haven, they couldn’t imagine that that song would sell more than 10 million copies, becoming one of the most popular single records of all time.”

Fast forward to that summer’s day 42 years ago, when Fred invited me to his parents’ home, an apartment in a high-rise in downtown New Haven, so he could reminisce. Although the other original members of the Five Satins had long since left the music business, he was still touring frequently with his latest band.

The younger Fred Parris didn’t merely have talent; he had ambition and drive. In 1953 and ‘54 he made repeated train trips to New York, seeking out record company representatives, telling them he had a band (then called the Scarlets) back in the Elm City. One of the company guys told him to cut a test record.

Fred’s persistence paid off. One day a record company rep called the Parris home and told him to bring his group into a studio in New York. The result, “Dear One,” recorded in 15 minutes, made it onto the charts across the country.

But how to follow it up? In 1955 the Scarlets became the Five Satins (Fred liked the Velvets’ name and Satins was the next best thing) as they signed with a new record company.

Still unable to afford a New York recording studio for an extended session, Fred made a deal with another local kid named Vinny Mazzetta, who played jazz saxophone. Vinny knew the priest at St. Bernadette’s Church in the Morris Cove neighborhood of New Haven and got the priest’s permission for the Satins to go into the church’s basement and record a few songs. In return, the Satins let Vinny play a sax solo on one of those songs. It was “In the Still of the Night.” And Vinny nailed it!

These young guys didn’t know that that date — Feb. 19, 1956 — would become a big day in the history of rock music.

I asked Fred in our 1980 interview why that song had endured as one of the most requested radio station standards for decades. He laughed and said, “It beats the hell out of me! But I sure am glad.”

He told me he wrote the song in 1955 in the early morning hours of guard duty for the Army, while he was stationed in Philadelphia. He said “my girl” inspired him to write that song. “I was so much love with her.” But he added: “She left me and went to California. I never saw her again.”

However, Fred never got tired of singing that song, and his audiences always called on him to sing it. In October 1983 I heard him sing “In the Still of the Night” at Toad’s Place in New Haven. “I was nothing but a teenager in love when I wrote this song,” Fred said before singing it. “I took those words in my head and my heart and wrote them on a piece of paper.”

The Toad’s crowd loved it, of course.

Through the years Fred was always willing to take my calls, answer my questions and give me all the time I needed. In 2006 he married a wonderful woman. Emma Parris is as kind as Fred, often sending gifts to my home: a Five Satins pen, a Satins cloth bag and one of the CDs Fred recorded in his later years.

Fred forever loved to perform, even when his advancing age sometimes made it difficult. In July 2013, on a sultry summer’s night with temperatures in the high 90s, I watched him sing at Hamden High School. He had earlier greeted me backstage, as friendly and personable as ever. But he acknowledged the shows could be wearying. He was then in his late 70s.

That night, after several songs, Fred started to sway, and not in a good way. Stagehands rushed forward with a chair and he was carried off stage. I was relieved to see him in the lobby, sitting upright in a wheelchair. The medical crew that had responded convinced him to go to the hospital. He had become dehydrated.

But Fred wasn’t done. He kept doing occasional shows for his fans. Then in 2020 he and Emma invited their many friends to a double birthday party for the two of them. They booked the American legion Post 88 on Dixwell Avenue in Hamden for March 21.

This was when Covid hit Connecticut. Fred and Emma were heartbroken but they had to postpone their big night. (I was upset too; I had been honored to be on the list of people invited.)

In July 2020 Fred and Emma were still quite worried about contracting Covid. I spoke to them over the phone as they sat in their Hamden home. They were continuing to anticipate that double birthday celebration but knew it would have to wait until at least the following year. Acknowledging the preciousness of time, Fred told me, “I’m no kid.” But Emma quickly said, “He’s a young guy at heart!”

Looking back on his life, Fred told me, “It would really make a nice movie. I’ve had people approach me about it. I just never got around to it.”

Emma interjected, “Sometimes my husband will say, ‘Not now.’ And I tell him, ‘Fred, you’ve got to take advantage of it now.’”

That movie still hasn’t been made — somebody should do it! — but Fred and Emma finally got to have their birthday party, last August, at a restaurant not far from St. Bernadette’s church.

This was the last time I saw Fred. He had slowed down considerably since our previous in-person meeting but as ever he was smiling, polite and friendly when I greeted him. There was a long line of well-wishers behind me.

Thanks for the memories, Fred. Oh yes, I remember.