Let My People Come (1976)

This episode contains graphic language and adult subject matter, listener discretion strongly advised.

When most people think of musical theater, their minds probably don’t jump to full-frontal nudity, simulated orgies, or a song called “The Cunnilingus Champion of Company C.” But in the mid 1970s, that’s exactly what was playing to packed houses in downtown Manhattan.

Now, unlike most of the musicals I talk about on this podcast, Let My People Come wasn’t a flop. In fact, it was a massive hit riding on a wave of shows that had come before it. In the late ’60s and early ’70s, musicals like Hair and Oh! Calcutta! had already been pushing boundaries, mixing the countercultural vibe of the era with nudity and sexual freedom.

But Let My People Come cranked the dial all the way up. And that was entirely the point writer Earl Wilson Jr. and producer-director Phil Oesterman were trying to make. Where those earlier shows had flirted with the idea of sexual openness, their musical dove in headfirst—sometimes literally. It was a revue-style show with sketches and songs that tackled just about every kind of sexual behavior and identity you could imagine—often simulated on stage, and most often by nude performers. There was no true storyline, no romantic subplot, just a bold and raunchy, but also earnest celebration of sex.

Norman Bergen:

“Let My People Come, to me, when I first got involved, it was like no, no trepidation. What I realized about it right away, it was street.”

This is Norman Bergen, a music director who worked on both Oh! Calcutta and Let My People Come.

Norman Bergen:

“Oh Calcutta was on Broadway kind of, I would almost say, trying to be glitzy in a way. Had big names involved and all these well known writers. This had nothing to do with that. This was down to earth kids in the street, openly gay. That was completely different from Oh Calcutta. So it was just bunch of people just doing, doing a show.”

And their show opened at the Village Gate Theatre in Greenwich Village in 1974 and became an off-Broadway sensation, breaking box office records. But when it tried to take things uptown to Broadway…let’s just say it didn’t go quite as planned. There was a lawsuit, creatives leaving the show, and constant changes that Bergen and his musicians could barely keep up with. Soon it became apparent that Broadway just wasn’t ready to Let My People Come. And so a musical that was tailor-made for the liberated spirit of the ‘70s and had conquered downtown for more than two years ended up crashing and burning uptown in just three months.

“Welcome to season two of closing night, a theater history podcast that dives into the stories of Broadway's famous and forgotten shows that closed too soon. I'm Patrick Oliver Jones, an actor and producer based in New York City. And this season, I'll be your guide as we uncover the mysteries of productions that never made it to opening night. Whether they closed out of town or during previews, you’ll hear firsthand from those involved in these productions, revealing just how unpredictable and unforgiving the path to Broadway can be.”

BROADWAY IN THE BUFF

In the mid-1960s, two friends from Texas arrived in New York for the first time. One was Tommy Tune, who would become an acclaimed song-and-dance man, choreographer, and director. The other was Phil Oesterman, who stayed more behind the scenes, working as a writer, director, and producer, and was a frequent collaborator with Tune back in Texas and in New York.

As they got to the city, Broadway theater was in the midst of a dramatic transition. It was moving away from classic stories like Man of La Mancha and She Loves Me towards more confrontational subject matter, particularly in its expression of sexuality. Hal Prince's Cabaret in 1966 set an early tone with its sexy Kit-Kat Club girls and Joel Grey's salacious Emcee.

In 1968, the rock musical Hair famously ended with a dance party featuring a nude cast. A year later, Oh! Calcutta! opened in the East Village at the Eden Theatre, specifically re-named for the production to emphasize it was a "legitimate show," despite its titillating sketches of sex and eroticism. This bold production quickly became a must-see, running for 704 performances before transferring uptown to the Belasco Theatre, introducing full frontal nudity to Broadway for the first time.

This sensuality onstage was just a reflection of the sexual revolution happening offstage. "Make love not war" became an anthem for a new generation, gay men had taken a stand at Stonewall, and Times Square was becoming more known for its sex clubs and prostitutes than for its musical theater.

It was against this backdrop that Earl Wilson Sr., an entertainment journalist and gossip columnist for the New York Post, wanted to write about the unseen realities of show business. Wilson Sr. had watched icons like Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis, Jr., often taking his young son along, who was so inspired by the music of this era that he would go on to become a musical writer himself.

But witnessing shows he couldn’t take his son to, like a burlesque where the star fully disrobed, Wilson Sr. reacted with shock and dismay. To him, this was the end of show business, "giving the secret away" with nothing left to entice an audience. His book, The Show Business Nobody Knows, became a tell-all of the scandalous realities of the entertainment world, chronicling everything from bedroom scenes in films to naked backstage encounters.

A SON GROWS UP

Later in 1971, the same year his father's book hit the shelves, Earl Wilson, Jr. premiered his first musical Off-Broadway called A Day in the Life of Just About Everyone, which he also starred in. Well, the show opened and closed in a week, leaving the composer out of a job and looking for work. He soon took a club gig in Houston, Texas, where he was introduced to Phil Oesterman, who was opening a new venue called the Theater of Love.

Oesterman was searching for bold and fresh new shows, and Wilson mentioned the musical he'd written, so Oesterman asked to hear it. And within a few minutes, Oesterman figured out why the show didn't work and invited Wilson to come back that summer to work on a revised version with him. That collaboration led to a much more successful run for Wilson’s musical there in Houston.

Here is Wilson on the Be Our Guest podcast, recounting what happened next:

Earl Wilson, Jr:

“ And a few months later, one day I get a phone call, and it's Phil. And I say, ‘oh, where are you? In Houston?’ He says, ‘no, I've come to New York.’ I said, ‘what are you doing in New York?’ He says, ‘I'm doing a show.’ And I said, ‘what show?’ He said, ‘the one you're going to write.’ And I said, ‘I beg your pardon?’ And he said, ‘I want you to sit down right now and write the most outrageous song about sex that you can think of. I'll call you back in half an hour.’ Click.”

Well, he thought about it and remembered a psychologist he’d met while in Houston. She was a few years older and had opened him up sexually. It was an awakening that transformed him from a “square, average kind of guy” into someone more open and free to explore his own desires. So he began writing a song about that experience, using expletives that people just didn’t put into lyrics. The end result was “Come in My Mouth.”

“Run your fingers through my hair

As you force my mouth to open wide

Don't you just love it there

As I drink you deep inside?”

Oesterman loved the song and said it will be the 11 o’clock number in the second act, and Wilson thought he was joking. But Oesterman was very serious, and kept convincing Wilson to write an opening number, a gay number, and song after song. Within a few months, they had about half a show completed. This back and forth became indicative of the kind of yin and yang collaboration they had—a blending of distinctly different energies. Oesterman thrived as a free-spirited artist, while Wilson was grounded more in practicality and structure. And as writing continued, the next step was finding a cast.

INVITING PEOPLE TO COME

Oesterman secured an audition space at the Village Gate, a well-known nightclub and concert venue. They placed a single ad in the paper, and the response was overwhelming. Hundreds of non-union actors, many from out of town and fresh off the bus, showed up, all eager for their shot at being on a New York stage.

They eventually whittled it down to 14 young actors, who agreed to work for no pay on a show that might never see the light of day. Rehearsals began in the summer and fall of 1973, and they weren’t your typical rehearsals with a script in hand. Instead, these were "encounter sessions," similar to what was used for A Chorus Line. Several times a week for about five months, the cast openly discussed their lives, their upbringing, and especially their sexuality. Wilson took detailed notes, transforming these intimate conversations into the very lyrics of the show's songs. This unique, personal approach was central to Wilson and Oesterman's vision, aiming for something far removed from what they saw as the "horribly out of touch" and exclusively heterosexual smugness of earlier sexual revues like Oh! Calcutta!

Now, the idea of nudity wasn't actually part of any initial plan for the show—at least not for Wilson. It wasn’t until about halfway through rehearsals when Oesterman approached him with the blunt realization that in order to make this show work, there’s going to have to be some nudity. Wilson was shocked by the idea and even doubted if any of the cast members would go for it. Oesterman's reply was equally direct: "You're going to have to find out. They won't do it for me, but they might do it for you. I leave it to you to figure it out." So one day, with his parents out of town, Wilson decided to hold a rehearsal at their apartment.

Earl Wilson, Jr:

“And I greeted everybody in the nude. I opened the door and then as they entered, I said, ‘This is the day, folks, we either do this or we forget the whole thing, because it doesn't work unless we have some nudity in the show.’ So they started to walk into the room and some immediately took their clothes off. And some said, ‘I will never take my clothes off. My parents, my religion, I don't, I'm not proud of my body. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.’ So we went in and we had an 8 or 10 hour rehearsal until the early morning hours. And I sat at the piano, nude, playing, and I watched them go through the journey of: ‘I can't, I can’t. I guess maybe I have to. How am I going to do this? Oh, my God, I got to do this.’”

It should be noted that while most of the cast was comfortable with nudity, there were still a handful who remained clothed, even partially, throughout the production. But like I said, they weren’t paying the actors at this point, so the show needed money, and it was now time for a backers audition.

MONEY, MONEY, MONEY

Oesterman decided the best place to hold this investor presentation was in the Wilson's spacious nine-room apartment, specifically their huge living room. But first, Wilson had to convince his mother, which meant telling her exactly what the show was about. He was hesitant at first, but she assured him she was a "big girl" and could handle it. After listening to, though, she agreed his father probably shouldn't be on the guest list.

So, one evening, they hosted a group of professional theater investors—industry contacts they didn't really know personally. And these attendees clearly expected something sophisticated, like Hello, Dolly!, arriving in minks and tuxedos. But instead, they got Let My People Come: A Sexual Musical with a young, amateur cast singing some rather startling songs.

“Cunt, what an awful word is cunt

No word could be more blunt

Sounds like a little runt

That doesn’t have a front

What an awful word is cunt…”

The investors sat there dumbfounded and shocked, completely unsure how to react. They didn’t laugh. They didn’t applaud. And when the last song was sung, they all just got up, put on their minks, and left. No one offered any money or expressed any desire to invest.

But there, in the back of the room, sat Wilson's mother, enjoying her fourth vodka. She motioned him over and, to his surprise, told him it could be a hit show. She found it wonderfully funny, yet serious, dismissing the other investors as "crazy." Then she asked how much money they needed to get the show going. Still in shock, Wilson replied they needed $10,000 (which would be about $75,000 today). Now, though she didn't have that much to give, she could contribute $3,000 and insisted on being treated like a real investor.

Wilson then went back to Oesterman about raising the remaining $7,000. As it turned out, Oesterman owned a flower shop in Houston called The Flower Children. He went to the bank, secured a $7,000 loan by claiming it was for a new freezer, and—as you can probably guess—the freezer was never purchased. Instead, he invested that money directly into the show. So with the $10,000 secured, Let My People Come was able to begin performances at the Village Gate on January 8, 1974.

LET MY PEOPLE OFF BROADWAY

But getting the word out was the real challenge. So they brought in Saul Richman, a seasoned publicist known for his work on Broadway, who had an old-school yet unorthodox approach to PR. He proposed a radical idea to confront the uptown critics, fearing they'd either be too snooty to venture downtown to the Village Gate or would simply tear the show apart. His unprecedented plan was to bypass them entirely: don't invite them, and never officially open the show.

Instead, Richman suggested they invite feature story writers and interviewers, people who could cover the show as a cultural phenomenon rather than critique its content. So he secured a remarkable deal with Women's Wear Daily, the absolute gospel of the fashion district. He arranged for them to photograph nude actors—a first for their publication—knowing that if the garment industry embraced the show, they'd have a hit. The strict agreement was that Women's Wear could only write a feature story, not a review, and they agreed.

Earl Wilson, Jr:

“So they came to watch the show and the interviewer/the reviewer came to Phil and I at the end and he said, ‘I absolutely despise and loathe this show.’ And Phil said to him, ‘Well, that's your prerogative, sir, but we know you cannot write a review.’ And he says, ‘I know, I don't know what I'm going to do.’ And Phil said, ‘I have a suggestion. Go stand at the exit, pick 10 people from the audience at random, ask them what they think, and we will accept anything they say because they paid for their tickets.’ He didn't mention to the guy that to get out of the theater, you had to pass through the actors who were standing naked to shake your hand.”

Well, the interviewer shook their hands and made his way out and found ten audience members speak with, and their reactions were overwhelmingly positive. They expressed excitement and were eager to return with friends, saying they hadn't had so much fun in the theater in a long time. And with that, Richman’s plan worked. It only took about a month before they started selling out. And soon, the show was featured across the pages of Playboy magazine and the New York Times, all without a single official review. Well, kind of. Four months into the run, here’s what Time magazine had to say:

“Like an adolescent son of Oh! Calcutta!, Let My People Come is aggressively and amiably smutty, carrying a message now old enough to seem almost quaint: roughly, grope your way to sexual freedom. For all its nudity, it is probably the least erotic musical since Oklahoma! But without reviews that is a fact that voyeurs will discover only after they have paid their money at the box office.”

And pay their money they did. After just four months, the show had grossed more than $275,000 (that’s about $1.8 million in today’s dollars) and was breaking box office records at the Village Gate with sellout crowds most nights. There was cast album is in the works, along with road companies in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Houston and Toronto. And then that summer Pinnacle Books published a book telling the unlikely story of this hit production.

As the run of Let My People Come continued, the creative team needed to find a sub to fill in for their music director, Billy Cunningham, from time to time. And through a mutual friend, they found arguably the best person in New York for a show like this: Norman Bergen.

Norman Bergen:

“I was the musical director of the original run of Oh! Calcutta! from 1969 till actually we moved on to—it was off-Broadway, then it was on Broadway, and I did that entire run.”

So Bergen was no stranger to nudity or graphic scenes onstage. He was intimately familiar with the unique demands of a show that pushed boundaries, not just physically, but also in its live musical execution. It was under Oesterman's supervision that Bergen would step into a larger role.

Norman Bergen:

“Phil was very active as the director. He was there all the time and doing things. I was doing whatever I was doing to his guidelines. So I started by subbing, but subbing so often and Billy Cunningham was not doing well health wise. So I'd start doing the show more and more and more and more and until I eventually took over.”

But he wasn't just music directing. Bergen was also conducting and playing piano for every performance, with essentially a small rock band alongside him. They ditched the usual orchestral black attire, opting instead for a more comfortable, relaxed look, like t-shirts and jeans. The music itself was also much different than Oh! Calcutta!, which was a highly specific, tightly-timed production that even included pre-recorded music and band breaks.

In contrast, Let My People Come was basically a non-stop music revue that flowed constantly, creating a looser, freer, and (pardon the pun) a more fluid experience. This vibe shift gave the show a chance to feel different every night, adapting to the energy of the actors as well as the audience. And the Village Gate, with its history as a legendary jazz and folk club, proved to be the perfect venue for this vibrant musical revue. It brought in a younger, hipper set of New Yorkers and even celebrities like Dustin Hoffman and drag queen icon Divine.

Now, I'm sure you're wondering, just as I did, what exactly went on backstage? I mean, this was the 1970s, and the cast is naked on and off stage, so I asked Bergen how much of that sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll attitude was going on behind the scenes?

Norman Bergen:

“Well, we did, because of some people—maybe the promiscuity—we lost some people eventually later on, which I remember one cast member in particular. I remember knowing that and going to the hospital to visit him and everything. But generally these, they knew that they had a job, they had a contract. It was a real show with a real producer. And so, you know, these were professional actors.”

THE SHOW BECOMES LEGIT

Further credibility came to this professional production in 1975, when the show was Grammy-nominated for Best Cast Album. It was up against one other non-Broadway musical, The Rocky Horror Show, as well as the Sherman Brothers Broadway debut of Over Here! and Stephen Schwartz’s The Magic Show. Though it ultimately lost to Raisin, the nomination underscored its success. Oesterman then began to consider the show's future beyond Greenwich Village, especially since it was already doing so well in other cities and countries.

Norman Bergen:

"It's kind of unbelievable, but Phil Oesterman came up with a brainstorm one day. Turned out to not be the best brainstorm in the world, but because we were doing great. We're a hit. We're at the Village Gate. It's never gonna. Never gonna open. It's never gonna close. And Phil told me one day, he said, I'm thinking of taking the show to Broadway. And I was really excited about it. I said, oh, this is great. How cool. What a cool idea. Not even thinking it through, and apparently he did not either.”

Neither Oesterman nor Wilson had ever done a Broadway show, so they were largely unprepared for the massive undertaking of moving the production to Times Square. Nevertheless, Oesterman, now largely in charge of daily operations, began making drastic alterations in early 1976. He reordered songs, took pieces apart, and introduced entirely new elements. Slowly, the show transformed from the free-wheeling revue he and Wilson had collaborated on into Oesterman’s more stylized showpiece.

Wilson was definitely not happy with this new direction. What made matters worse was a lawsuit against him and the creative team in late May 1976. MCA Music claimed that one of the show's songs, "The Cunnilingus Champion of Company C," too closely resembled "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” and was therefore a copyright infringement. Here’s a sample of the song and see if you can hear some similarities:

“He was the cunnilingus champion of Company C

Diddly-squat, diddly-squat, lickity-split

He’s in the army now

Who’s in the army now?

the cunnilingus champion of Company C.”

Shortly thereafter, Wilson had finally had enough. He objected to Oesterman's changes, feeling the show had become "vulgar" and was no longer the show he envisioned. So he requested that his name be removed from the upcoming Broadway production. Oesterman expressed regret that he felt that way but obliged his request, while still maintaining that he did what he thought was right for the production.

Let My People Come closed at the Village Gate on July 5th, 1976, and began previews at the Morosco Theatre just two days later. And like Off-Broadway, it never officially opened, continuing previews all summer long. This time, however, most of the original Village Gate cast was gone. Oesterman opted for a much more dazzling ensemble, including well-known drag performers and models.

Norman Bergen:

"Definitely glitzier. One of the guys and his lady friend, it was Sterling St. Jacques, who was the adopted son of great actor Raymond St Jacques. And he had his dance partner Pat Cleveland, who was actually a very successful model. I mean, you would see her in ads—thin, very thin. And so the two of them were kind of featured at one point maybe in a dance number, something like that. So it was glitzier. I remember Sterling wearing like his name. He looked like his name, sterling. So Phil started going more in that direction thinking, ‘oh, we're on Broadway now. We have to glitz it up some.’"

But in so doing, the very essence of the show transformed. While the explicit sexuality remained, the overall vibe shifted dramatically. That raw, relatable energy of young kids in the street was lost, and the original concept no longer resonated. The show became grander, more aligned with Oesterman’s idea of what a Broadway show should be. For example, a larger, more orchestral band, even incorporating a cello. But audiences seemed unsure what to make of this new bigger version, and Oesterman seemed unsure as well. So he kept tinkering and fixing, and was giving Bergen new show lists that would rearrange the song order, which meant manually cutting and pasting new scores together.

Norman Bergen:

"So we'd come in, you know, much earlier, you know, to organize it. But that was not the only day that happened. I know that. I said, ‘Oh, Phil wants to change it again.’ Yeah. So he kept trying different things, and you'd go, ‘Okay, that didn't work. Let's try it this way.’ But we're not helping. We're not making it better. And we could say in hindsight, maybe the Village Gate production just put it on Broadway, but I don't think that was the answer either. I think the only answer was staying at the Village Gate. That's what I think. And I think that's probably what most people realized. And it's possible Phil himself realized that as well, and then there was no turning back. Like what do you do now?”

LET MY PEOPLE GO

The show was selling well enough going into the fall season, though not quite the hit show it was back at the Village Gate. But then in late September, Oesterman had a much different problem when he lost one of his cast members. Sterling St. Jacques had been accused of stealing some jewelry belonging to a former girlfriend. His lawyer had been trying to reach a deal with law enforcement for about a week. But then suddenly, cops show up backstage during intermission, surrounded by a surprised and naked cast, and arrested St. Jacques onstage after allowing him to put on a robe to cover himself. Another cast member had to fill in for him the rest of show.

St. Jacques was eventually released without bail and scheduled for a court hearing in early October. But little more than a week later, the cast was surprised once again—this time by a closing notice posted backstage.

Norman Bergen:

“It was sad and very disappointing, and it was a surprise. Yeah, because we just assumed, oh, it's a hit show. We'll start drawing crowds, but on the Broadway theater, being at that level, he'd have to be doing better. Better than we were doing.”

So on October 2, 1976, Let My People Come played its final show on Broadway, with a record-breaking 128 previews. Only Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark has played more previews, but at least that musical debacle opened.

Almost all of the cast would never again perform on Broadway, and Wilson never wrote another Broadway musical. Oh, and in case you’re wondering about that lawsuit. MCA Music initially won a settlement against the show for that song, but Wilson and the team appealed that decision. And in 1981, the US Court of Appeals overturned that decision, stating that there was no evidence of actual or potential economic damage caused to MCA and that the award of damages was “inappropriate, excessive, and an unjustifiable windfall to the plaintiff.” So at least Wilson got his song back.

The back cover of the Let My People Come cast album says that Wilson and Oesterman were working on another show called Spirit, but I could not find anything about this new musical. And given their rift over Let My People Come and its changes on Broadway, my guess is that they never finished it or cut ties with one another, so it never went anywhere.

But Oesterman did go on to work with Tommy Tune again, though, in four other Broadway shows. His final production was Urban Cowboy, for which he wrote the book and gave Jenn Colella her Broadway debut. But tragically, Oesterman passed away in July 2002, before that show's pre-Broadway engagement in Florida later that fall.

And a big part of his legacy is certainly his work on Let My People Come. Sure, some audiences probably came to the show, whether on or off Broadway, just to stare at the naked actors and giggle at sex jokes. But the show ended up offering much more than that. There were surprisingly touching songs and sketches about intimacy, women’s rights, gay life, lesbian love, and it was all presented as fun and healthy and important. Wilson and Oesterman created a show that could certainly be enjoyed by those who had fully embraced the era of sexual liberation, but it also proved just as appealing to those who were tentative—maybe shy or conservative or questioning—yet open enough to learn, at a safe distance, what all the fuss was about.

Oesterman once told Playbill that starting in 1969, a big focus of his work was on gay parental acceptance. And while Let My People Come had plenty of camp, satire, and shock, Bergen highlighted one particular moment in the show:

Norman Bergen:

"I really liked the music and probably the best song. There were a couple of really heartfelt, really well written songs. This was all Earl's work. 'I'm Gay' was the one song that was very moving and inspiring."

The song “I’m Gay” is about a young man coming out to his parents—something that may be more commonplace now, but was certainly scandalous back in the 1970s.

“I’m Gay”

Dear Mom and Pop, how do I tell you?

I never thought I'd ever find the nerve

Dear Mom and Pop, don’t wanna hurt you

Pain is something you don't deserve

How many times did I lie?

How many nights did I cry?

There's no other way

I’ll just have to come right out and say, I’m gay”

One of the guys singing that song is Joe Jones, and in an interview he talked about the audience reaction to this song: “The response is always good. I think that's because it's an upbeat song. It's not an apology. It's a proud statement. The song was especially significant for me the night my parents were in the audience.” So while the show may not have found a permanent home on Broadway, it definitely found a place in the hearts of those who just wanted to find love and be loved for who they are.

“For a full list of all the resources and materials used in making this episode, you'll find a link to that in the show notes. Closing Night is a production of WINMI Media, with me, Patrick Oliver Jones, as writer and executive producer. Blake Stadnik created the theme music. And Dan Delgado is editor and co-producer not only for this podcast but also for his own movie podcast called The Industry. Much appreciation goes to Norman Bergen for sharing his experiences with Let My People Come and to the voice talents of our very own Dan Delgado. Join us next time as another show makes it way to closing night.”

Norman Bergen:

“I remember someone who worked in the box office. You'll know who it is. A red headed lady who everybody, that everybody became friendly with her. They just liked her because she was also an actress, Cassandra Peterson. Now you do you know her?...She became very famous under a different name: Elvira. Oh, yes, but she was, she was just Cassandra to us, but really nice woman and, you know, young, young lady who was auditioning for shows and she was working in the box office, I think weekends, so we'd see her every once in a while. ‘Oh, Cassandra, how you doing? What's new?’ You know, so we had Elvira in our box office while we're doing Let My People Come, but we didn't know that. Neither did she.”