 
Wayne's World by Michael Malone Hardest working man in show business? James Brown was granted that distinction by, well, James Brown. But for all his sweaty writhing, guttural yelps, and interstate police chases, JB shows all the bustle of the Maytag repairman when compared to Wayne Newton. Yes, Mr. Las Vegas, who has played live to over 30 million people - Middle-American tourists in polyester, zoot-suited hipsters, and Boca-based octogenarians alike - and has performed over 25,000 shows in Las Vegas alone, gets our vote.
"I really can't remember when I wasn't singing," says Newton, from his office in Branson, Missouri. Engaging and articulate, with hair as black as the midnight Vegas sky and teeth as white as Siegfried & Roy's tigers, Newton clearly enjoys discussing his childhood. "I remember the Grand Ole Opry came to Roanoke, Virginia, where I grew up. I was so inspired by the look on people's faces in the audience, seeing how happy they were, that I said to my parents, 'That's what I want to do.'"
And do it he did. Wayne's first paying gig was at age five and, a year later, he performed on a daily 6:00 a.m. radio program, singing and playing steel guitar, the first of 13 instruments he went on to master, before trekking off to school. Soon to follow for Wayne and his brother Jerry were stints in the Opry road show, and a performance for then-President Harry Truman.
The son of a housewife and an auto mechanic - or, in Newton's words, "a body and fender man" - Wayne would stay in Roanoke until age 9, whereupon his bronchial asthma forced his parents, both of Native American heritage, to move the family to Arizona. But Newton's Virginia upbringing would always stay with him; his pastoral Sin City spread, its 52 acres inhabited by Arabian horses, wallabies, peacocks, and penguins (yes, in Vegas), bears the name "Casa de Shenandoah."
"We're all getting older," says Newton, whose health and vigor belies his 57 years. "I called my advisors in and said, 'I really think we have to build a younger fan base.' I'd seen contemporaries like Tony Bennett do it successfully, while several others were not as successful. We figured the best way to appeal to this audience was through television and motion pictures."
The king of kitsch honed his acting skills and earned parts in Vegas Vacation, sparking a flame in Clark Griswold's wife, and in the James Bond film License to Kill, among other movies; along with small screen work on "Roseanne," "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air," and "L.A. Law." Indeed, this was no longer your father's Wayne Newton; he not only packaged and sold himself to a younger audience, but assumed something of a cult status among the demographic as well.
It was on "L.A. Law" that Newton met producer David E. Kelley, who was preparing to launch a program about an undersexed and undernourished Beantown lawyer who hallucinates and wears short skirts. "David told me, 'We have a new series called 'Ally McBeal.' I won't explain the show to you, because you probably won't understand it, but I'd like to write a segment with you as a shock jock,'" relates Newton, who won both critical and commercial acclaim as the Howard Stern-inspired radio host, and generated a plethora of publicity in the process.
"I enjoy it immensely," he says of his second career. "I think it's because I've spent my whole life being Wayne Newton. I can get all my hostilities out and not go to jail for it."
It was Newton's close relationship with his daughter that helped him relate to his new fan base. Newton's first marriage terminated in 1982, when Erin was 6. "Her mother and I finally called it quits," he recalls, "and I moved into a house down the road. I visited Erin for a few hours and was getting ready to leave. She told me to wait just a minute and disappeared, then came back with her suitcase. Her mother said, 'Where are you going?' Erin replied, 'With my Dad.'"
And so Newton assumed the role of Mr. Mom. With the help of a Catholic nun brought in to assist with domestic duties, he tried to give Erin the most normal childhood possible as the sole offspring of Wayne Newton: feeding her, driving her to and from school, and dealing with the moods and phases a child inevitably goes through. "The tabloids were writing about my illicit love affairs in the Shenandoah," he relates with a chuckle. "Had they only known that it was me, a nun, and my six-year-old daughter ... It certainly would've ruined my sexy image."
Of course, fatherhood wasn't all smooth sailing. Newton, who remarried six years ago, remembers driving Erin - just entering the "difficult" age of a high school freshman - to school, and Erin inserting a tape of The Artist We Still Call Prince in the car stereo. "Erin's never been an early riser," he relates, "and she was kind of grumpy. The lyrics on the Prince tape were, let's say, not some of his more acceptable ones. I didn't say anything. I just ejected the tape, rolled down the window, and threw it out."
Wayne mentions the cyclical nature of music and life, and how Erin, an interior designer living just a few blocks away from the Newton estate, now begs Daddy to take her to see some of his contemporaries when they come to town, bands like Chicago, the Bee Gees, and the Eagles. While Newton is selling his act to her generation, "she's coming around to my music," he opines.
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A half-century after first performing on a radio program, Newton revisited the medium as shock jock Harold Wick in a guest appearance on "Ally McBeal." That came about as a result of Newton's attempt to redefine himself, to sell Wayne Newton to a younger audience, targeting a demographic group that includes his 23-year-old daughter, Erin.