Fryeing the Candidates

"They call me Tricky Dickie," he says, cheeks puffed out and slitty eyes shifting back and forth like a street-corner con artist. "But I can't imagine why. I've got 70% of the popular vote. I've got two good arms, two good legs and two good faces--and I intend to take them to the public!"

Impressionist David Frye has dozens of good--and bad--faces. In an election year that is not exactly fraught with levity, his tone-perfect mimicry of Richard Nixon and other political figures is the most devastating topical humor on TV.

Welcome Question. "The thing I admire about politicians," says Frye, "is their magnificent ability to be asked questions on TV before millions of viewers and then to so obviously skirt the issues. Nixon doesn't really dart his eyes about, but I do it to show the way his mind is working. Imagine him being asked his views about NATO." Abruptly Frye's voice drops into the familiar singsong baritone, and his arms flop up and down like a marionette's: "I'm glad you asked me that question. I'll tell you exactly what I think of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. I think the same of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization as I do of the Southeast Asia Treaty Organization. And you all know what I think of that, and I hope I've made myself clear."

Hubert Humphrey's act, says the mimic, is more like "a little old lady jumping up and down with excitement." In a precise, hinged-jaw imitation of the Vice President, Frye exclaims: "When I wake up in the morning, I say 'Whoopee!' When I go to bed at night, I say 'Whoopee!' And I want to say I'm proud as Punch to be running for the presidency of the United States! Under Lyndon Johnson I ran for other things--coffee, sandwiches and cigarettes. Nobody's going to call me 'Minnesota Fats' any more. But I could never turn my back on Lyndon Johnson. A year ago, we exchanged friendship rings. He wears his on his left forefinger, and I wear mine proudly in my nose."

Mixed Clips. By themselves, Frye's monologues are only passingly humorous. But, seemingly coming from the very mouths of his characters, they take on a kind of ear-twitching incongruity that can make every utterance hilarious. On Johnny Carson's Tonight Show, Frye convulsed the audience by dubbing mixed-up voices onto the sound track of various film clips: one moment, Lyndon Johnson was on the screen speaking in the gravelly voice of Nelson Rockefeller; the next, Humphrey was speechifying in the rumbling tones of Everett Dirksen.

What makes Frye's parroting doubly effective is his uncanny ability to look as well as sound like his characters. Beaming beatifically and peering over a pair of bifocals, he is L.B.J. incarnate: "I come here as a simple barefoot boy from Texas who has become your king." Flicking his tongue like a lizard, lurching back and stabbing the air with a pencil, he is the mirror image of William F. Buckley: "Mayor Daley is the kind of guy I'd be proud to call Daddy." Face twisted into a toy-bulldog pout, he becomes George Wallace: "I have a majority of the uncommitted voters. I also have a lot of the voters who have already been committed. These ah ma people! I'm heah to say that I'm sick and tard of looters and rioters. Last week they burned down ma library in Alabama--both books, one I ain't even colored yet."

About to Move. Born in Brooklyn, Frye (real name: David Shapiro) was a salesman for his father's office-cleaning firm until 1963. He auditioned his act before nightclub managers several times, but no one was interested until he added Bobby Kennedy and a few other politicians to his repertory of showfolk imitations. Now a regular on the talk-and-variety-show circuit, he has logged a dozen appearances in the past three months alone.

Working with recordings and TV newscasts, Frye labored for more than a year perfecting his impersonations; now, like a trumpeter who must practice to keep his lip in shape, he spends two hours a day contorting his voice and face before a mirror in his Manhattan apartment. Whenever he plays a small nightclub with meager dressing-room facilities, Frye works out in the men's room before walking onstage. It helps "to get into character"--and sometimes into trouble. During one nightclub engagement, he was standing in a men's room stall rehearsing a dialogue between James Mason and Liberace. A patron overheard the voices and accused the manager of running a gay club. Today, at 32. Frye has an income that will probably top $100,000 this year. He is scheduled for pre-election appearances on the Ed Sullivan and Dean Martin shows, so Frye figures he has finally arrived. "I'm about to move," he says triumphantly, "out of the men's room and into my own dressing room."

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