On his new album, Hope Springs Eternal, Farrell combines his piano playing with sax and answering machine messages from his days in the fight game -- boxers, promoters, con men, and gangsters, all leaving messages for the missing Mr. Farrell, who, at the time, some ten years ago, had taken a powder and gone to Puerto Rico. Seems there were some gentlemen who wished to do him bodily harm. If the backstory plays like a noir, the CD doesn't. It's much too immediate, too much of an experiment in sound to be summed up so easily.
"About five years ago," says Farrell, sitting in a booth at Lester's Diner on State Road 84, "I came up with this thought that music, by and large, is obsolete." It is a declaration that runs counter to Farrell's beginnings in the biz. "I was a pro from the time I was 12, sessioning with people who were famous or ended up being famous," says the 53-year-old, who grew up in Boston and left school in the eighth grade to pursue a career in music. "I worked with Sonny Rollins when I was 20."
He continued to make a living as a musician until the late '70s, though even then he realized that, musically and philosophically, he was moving away from his contemporaries. "I wasn't temperamentally suited to performing," Farrell admits, scooping up some home fries. "I'd be sitting in with a group, and they'd be doing one thing and I'd be doing something else."
Slowly, Farrell drifted away from music and into the shadow world. By the early '80s, he was living in Las Vegas, "doing some professional gambling, mostly on boxing." By the early '90s, he had gotten back into music, but on the moneymaking side, representing artists like blues-rocker G. Love. Then things got interesting. "In the midst of all that," he remembers, "I started talking to these Japanese wrestling promoters who wanted to do mixed matches, you know, boxers versus wrestlers." Also, as luck would have it, an acquaintance of his, retired heavyweight Mitch Green, was looking to get back into the ring. Farrell, still drifting, became a boxing manager and promoter.
In South Florida for a few days visiting old friends, Farrell brings to mind a high school English teacher on his way to a parents' open house. He wears a lightweight, dark-green suit over a black- and gray-striped shirt, his face framed by salt-and-pepper hair and eyeglasses. Sitting at Lester's sipping coffee, there is little in his manner or appearance to suggest that he can work more angles than a roomful of NASA engineers.
Farrell told Green that, if he wanted a big payday, there was only one way to get it -- fight Mike Tyson. After all, the two men had squared off before; once, in 1986, in Madison Square Garden, where Tyson had taken an uneventful ten-round decision. The second time was in 1988, when Green and Tyson mixed it up on a street in Harlem. Tyson hadn't been so lucky in the second fight -- he broke his hand. Farrell assured his fighter that people would line up around the block to watch Green and Tyson go at it again. There was only one problem: At the time, Tyson was serving a three-year prison sentence for rape. Farrell saw this as only a minor obstacle.
"I told Mitch, 'Look, we're going to go down to this minimum security prison" where Tyson was doing his time, Farrell recalls, flashing an impish grin. "We're going to set up a meeting with him. And I just want you to hit him. When he gets out, it'll be the only fight people will want to see. You'll make a million dollars." The scheme, though, never came off. "Mitch kept asking me how much Tyson would get for the fight. He kept saying, 'I don't want to give Tyson any publicity,'" Farrell sighs. "I said, 'What do you care?' You'll get a million dollars."
For the next few years, Farrell promoted fights for an assortment of old pros (including former heavyweight champ Leon Spinks), up-and-comers, and never-would-bes, in the process gaining a graduate education in America's dirtiest spectator sport. Boxing is a blood ritual, and not just in the ring: Crooked managers and venal promoters exploit young/promising/old/broken-down fighters for the pleasure of the suckers who flock to Vegas or Atlantic City for the big night or plop down millions in pay-per-view dollars. Occasionally, and then only among the best boxers, there is courage and nobility and even beauty -- you just have to look hard for it.