Amateur Night In New York: Triumph and Terror at the Apollo

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"I want that baby," Arthur crooned on, uselessly, because not even Ralph Cooper could save him from the avalanche of jeers. Given the chance to stop, shake it off and start all over, he walked back to the spotlight like a man on his way to the gallows.

There was no hope, and he knew it. As sheer terror turned his voice into a strangulated croak, the sound of mocking laughter joined the catcalls. The last and most feared of the Apollo's resident indignities was but seconds away.

Then it came -- the shriek of a siren so loud it silenced even the crowd's mocking roar. Arthur reacted like so many others: he turned into a rock. His eyes glazed, his mouth opened, his hand gripping the microphone like a cigar- store Indian, the young man needed a jolt to make his feet carry him to safety. In the wings, Cooper shrugged. Since his siren had not worked, he had no choice but to send in the clown.

If failure has a human face, it is undoubtedly the Day-Glo visage of the Apollo clown, Wednesday night's equivalent of old vaudeville's hook around the neck. Feet flapping, arms flailing, trousers billowing, horn honking, he capered onstage to the immense delight of all but his mute victim. Arthur took one look and ran like a rabbit. Downstairs, he tried to be positive: "Tonight, well, I guess I wasn't good enough. But I'll be back."

Glad-handing Steve Cruz had a better night. He tied for third place and won an invitation to return for the monthly finals. "It really was my night. I sang at the Apollo, and they liked me," Cruz said over a Dixie Cup toast. "Tonight I really was the One and Only Steve Cruz. Tremendous!"