At the height of his career, Hartack mesmerized the public with the iconic appeal of a miniature Elvis. His admirers flooded him with fan mail and swooned at his handsome profile. His swank new home in Miami Springs, his air-conditioned Cadillac, his Jaguar, speedboat, and big farm in West Virginia were duly noted. His eating habits, “outlandish combinations of foods (such as) pickles and ice cream, were observed with utter fascination, as were his sleeping patterns, dating behaviors, and hobbies—“waterskiing and a love for music that inspires the carrying of a phonograph and load of records from track to track.”
Hartack’s love-hate relationship with the media was also well-documented. Reporters who were forced to wait abominable amounts of time for an intervew were disillusioned by his tendency toward egotism, but those permitted within his personal circle found him to be fiercely loyal and generous. He was sharp and snappy, sarcastic and scrappy. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, his every quirk, comment, flare of temper, and burst of emotion was immortalized.
“He does indulge himself in the vilest of black moods, during which he…scowls and glowers at almost everyone, and is generally a trial,” Hirsch acknowledged. “However, when things are going right he is full of natural charm and discusses things intimately and frankly with even casual acquaintances.”
He was something else. RIP.
