Dean Martin’s First Show After Burying His Son—He Said 4 Words That Made 2,400 People CRY
On March 29, 1987, the lights of the Bal’s Casino in Las Vegas shone brightly, illuminating a crowd of 2,400 eager faces. But this night was unlike any other in the storied career of Dean Martin, the legendary entertainer known for his charm, wit, and smooth voice. Just eight days prior, Dean had buried his son, Dean Paul Martin Jr., a 35-year-old fighter pilot who tragically died in a plane crash. The weight of that loss hung heavily in the air as Dean prepared to step onto the stage for the first time since the funeral.
A Heavy Heart
The casino management had debated whether to allow Dean to perform. Richard Patterson, the casino manager, expressed concern to his staff, saying, “He’s not ready. Nobody would be ready.” Yet, Dean insisted on going through with the show. “I need to work, Richard. If I stay in this house one more day, I’ll lose my mind,” he told Patterson. With that, they prepared for an uncertain performance, ensuring extra security and having a doctor on standby.
As the orchestra began to play the familiar opening bars, the audience buzzed with anticipation, mixed with a palpable sense of morbid curiosity. Would Dean crack jokes? Would he break down? Or would he even be able to sing? The crowd was anxious, knowing they were about to witness something deeply personal and potentially painful.
The Moment of Truth
When Dean finally walked onto the stage, he seemed a shadow of his former self. Gone was the trademark glass of scotch, and the usual mischievous grin was replaced with a somber expression. He looked as though he had aged two decades in just two weeks. The audience’s applause was hesitant, filled with concern and empathy.
Dean approached the microphone, but instead of launching into his opening number, he raised his hand, signaling for silence. The orchestra stopped playing, and a heavy silence fell over the room. “Wait,” he said, his voice cracking. “Before we start, I need to tell you something.”
The crowd held its breath, sensing the gravity of the moment. Dean’s voice trembled as he began to speak, “Eight days ago, I buried my son.” The words hung in the air, and several women in the audience began to cry. Dean Paul Martin Jr. had been the best man Dean ever knew, a golden-haired fighter pilot who had brought immense pride to his father.
Facing the Pain
Dean continued, his voice shaking as he spoke about the loss. “A lot of you came here tonight expecting the same old Dean—the jokes, the drunk act, the silly songs. I can’t give you that Dean tonight. I don’t know if that Dean exists anymore.”
Frank Sinatra, seated in the front row, was visibly emotional, tears streaming down his face. Dean reflected on the past, recalling how he could once go home after a show and talk to his son about planes and flying. “That Dean could pretend that nothing really bad could ever happen because he was Dean Martin,” he said, his voice thick with sorrow.
“But that Dean was wrong,” he added, looking out at the audience, his eyes filled with pain. “They found him in the mountains. They said the impact was instantaneous. They said he didn’t suffer.” Dean’s voice dropped to a whisper, “None of it made me feel better.”
As he spoke, the audience felt the rawness of his grief. A man in the third row buried his head in his hands, overwhelmed by the emotion in the room. Dean recalled the funeral, where everyone told him to be strong for his family. “I was strong,” he said. “I stood there at Arlington National Cemetery. I watched them fold that flag. I listened to them play taps, and I didn’t cry. Not once.”
The Weight of Regret
“I wanted to,” he continued, his voice breaking. “God, I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Do you know why I couldn’t cry?” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. “Because if I started crying, I’d have to admit he was really gone. And I wasn’t ready to admit that. I’m still not ready to admit that.”
Dean then pulled a small metal object from his pocket—a pin that belonged to his son. “Fifteen years ago, Dino gave me this,” he said, holding it up for the audience to see. “It’s his first pilot’s wings from when he graduated flight school. He was so proud that day, standing there in his uniform. He took these wings off his chest and pinned them on me. ‘Now you can fly, too, Dad,’ he said.”
Tears streamed down Dean’s face as he recalled that moment. “I’ve carried these wings in my pocket every single day for 15 years,” he confessed. “And now, I’ve still got them, Dino. But you’re not here to ask me about them anymore.”
A Moment of Connection
Dean’s vulnerability resonated deeply with the audience. “I didn’t want to come here tonight,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “Everyone told me to take time off, to grieve, to heal. But here’s the thing nobody understands: I don’t know how to heal from this. I don’t know how to grieve something that’s impossible. My son wasn’t supposed to die before me. That’s not how it works. Parents aren’t supposed to bury their children.”
His voice rose with each sentence, pouring out the pain he had kept bottled up inside. “I came here tonight because I don’t know what else to do. Standing on a stage and entertaining people is the only thing I’ve ever been good at. And if I can’t do this, then what am I?”
The audience was spellbound, witnessing a man who was no longer performing but rather sharing his heartache in real time. Dean took a deep breath, trying to regain composure. “So, here’s what I’m going to do,” he said quietly. “I’m going to sing tonight. I’m going to sing every song on that set list. And I’m probably going to forget some of the words because my brain doesn’t work right anymore. And I’m probably going to cry through most of them because I can’t seem to stop crying now that I’ve started.”
He looked down at the pilot’s wings in his hand. “But I’m going to sing them for my son because he loved hearing me sing.” With trembling hands, he pinned the wings to his lapel, struggling to do so three times before finally succeeding.
A Shared Experience
Dean looked back at the audience, his eyes filled with sincerity. “If you came here tonight for the old Dean Martin, I’m sorry. He’s not here anymore. He died on March 21st in the San Bernardino Mountains with his son. What you’ve got instead is just a father who misses his boy so much it feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest every time he takes a breath.”
As the orchestra began to play “Everybody Loves Somebody,” Dean’s voice was rough and raw, a stark contrast to the smoothness that had once captivated millions. His tears flowed freely as he sang, and for the first time, the audience wasn’t just listening—they were connecting.
A man in the audience stood up and began to sing along quietly, followed by his wife and then others. Soon, the entire audience was singing softly, not as part of the show, but as a collective expression of empathy and shared grief. Dean stopped singing, allowing the audience’s voices to wash over him.
When the song ended, there was no applause—only silence. Then, someone in the back started clapping slowly, a solemn acknowledgment of the moment. The entire audience joined in, and Dean stood there, his head bowed, accepting something he had never received before: not admiration, but understanding.
A New Beginning
After performing for another 73 minutes, Dean didn’t take a bow. Instead, he simply said, “God bless you all for being here tonight with me,” and walked off stage. Backstage, Frank Sinatra awaited him, and when Dean broke down in tears, Sinatra held him tightly.
“I can’t do this anymore, Frank,” Dean sobbed. “I can’t pretend everything’s okay. I can’t be that guy anymore.” Sinatra encouraged him to be authentic, to embrace the real Dean—the man who loved his son more than anything else.
Dean continued to perform for 18 more months after that night, but he was forever changed. The swagger was gone; the jokes became fewer. Audiences no longer came just for entertainment; they came to witness honesty, to see a man bearing his soul.
Dean Martin performed his final show on March 7, 1989. When asked why he retired, he simply stated, “I did what I came to do. I said goodbye to my son in the only way I knew how. Now it’s time to go be with him.”
A Lasting Legacy
Dean Paul Martin’s pilot wings remained pinned to his father’s chest every day until Dean Martin died on Christmas morning, 1995. They buried him with those wings still attached, a poignant symbol of the bond between father and son.
For those who witnessed that fateful night at the Bal’s Casino, it was more than just a performance; it was a moment of profound connection and vulnerability. Dean Martin, the entertainer, had transformed into a grieving father, and in doing so, he gave his audience permission to feel their own pain.
The story of Dean Martin’s first show after burying his son is a powerful reminder of the complexities of life, love, and loss. It teaches us that even in our darkest moments, we can find strength in vulnerability and connection. In the end, it wasn’t just about the applause; it was about the love that transcends even the deepest grief.
