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"Huecos"
Chapter
14 of a novel by Claude Hall
The smells of Mexico are
seldom subtle and can often
be overwhelming. One day they are the warm odors of
refrito frijoles cooking and the next day the cold
stench of refuse from a ditch between scattered
adobes...a ditch filled with stale water long
overused, sewage, forgotten odds and ends of life.
All this, of course, depends to a great extent on
whether you're a romantic at heart or a pessimist and,
of course, your mood at the moment. Tonight I was
intensely aware of every odor-the rotten fish, the
soft perfume from a passing senorita, and the
frijoles, too, and some of them smelled as if they had
been burnt on the stove.
Quite frankly, I didn't know how I felt. I made a
spurious attempt to analyze my feelings because I have
always been curious about such things. But I soon
gave up. At one and the same time, I felt
lightheaded...almost giddy. Yet, my mind seemed as
sharp as that of a surgeon about to perform a serious
operation.
The cantina was not difficult to find. It sprawled, a
disarray of adobe bricks, down near the Rio Grande.
There was a sign this time alongside a kerosene
lantern hung on a pole: Papa Gallo. The noise of a
guitar and a guitaron came softly from the place, but
it was only a small musical sound that I heard here in
the street and I would never have been able to
identify the song. I did hear, however, the lovely
voice of a woman singing with the music and realized
that I was at the right place. Such a voice could
only belong to a very beautiful woman and that could
easily be the reason Zhito Garcia came here.
I walked past the cantina and leaned against a wall.
By now, the messenger Rodriquez should have arrived
and found Garcia. And, almost immediately, came proof
that this had happened. The music stopped suddenly.
There was a cacophony of voices, some just a little
loud, some just a little too sour. Then these, too,
died away.
It was pleasant waiting. The wood smoke that rises
over a village from the evening's cooking had drifted
away, leaving the stars with an unusual sparkle
tonight. The moon hung over the mountains to the
southwest of the village. I had a clear view of the
street. Then, the music from another cantina a few
yards further faded away, just as if the people inside
realized that something was about to happen out here.
Soon, the entire street was quiet. My own breathing
crashed in my ears. Surely everyone could hear me
where I leaned against the wall of the adobe.
In a moment...at almost any second...Zhito Garcia
would stroll out of the door of the cantina. He would
see me. Then his hand would flash down to his gun.
I waited for him in perfect calm. Almost coldly, in
fact, as if I were some big game hunter waiting for my
prey to come blundering from out of the brush. Thus,
I almost jumped out of my skin when a senorita tapped
me on the shoulder. I'd been watching the doorway to
the cantina, totally absorbed. She'd approached from
the other direction. I hadn't even heard the soft tap
of her shoes on the granite-hard dirt street. Or
perhaps I had ignored the slight sound as merely an
irritant, not danger. It was only later that I
realized how terribly dangerous she really was.
"The senior Garcia wants to know why you pursue him,"
she said softly from beneath a golden shawl that she'd
draped over her head; it hid her completely from me.
"That is, if you are the man they call the Ghost."
"And you? Are you the beautiful woman known as El
Tigre?"
She shook her head. "No one would dare call me
something like that to my face," she said. But I had
the strange feeling that she was lying and that she
enjoyed a nickname that reeked of danger.
I doffed my sombrero in what I hoped was a show of
polite manners.
"I do not pursue him," I told her. "I have merely
come here tonight in order that if he wishes to find
me, he shall not have far to look."
"He still limps, he says, from your bullet."
"An accident," I insisted. "Ask him to come into the
street and I will apologize for that."
"Perhaps he doesn't want to face the Ghost just now,"
she said softly.
"Why not? Certainly, he is not afraid of me. Earlier
tonight he chased me from a saloon in the middle of El
Paso del Norte."
"The Ghost ran from Senior Garcia?"
I could tell from the tone in her voice that she
hesitated to believe me. I also thought it a little
strange that the rather fictitious legend of the Ghost
had reached even among these low adobes a few yards
south of the Rio Grande. The west is like that; its
people love a story and in the many tellings around
campfires and in the saloons, the story often grows
until it has no relationship with what really
happened. Obviously, that had occurred with this
balderdash about the Ghost, whoever he was. For I
knew without question that no such person really
existed.
"It is no lie," I told her. "I was surprised to find
him in the Acme Saloon. I ran out the door and hid
across the street. Then I realized at that point that
we had unfinished business which needed to get
settled. Tonight suddenly seemed like a good night
for such a thing. The full moon weaves a certain magic
on someone like me. But when I returned to the
saloon, he had left."
She was silent for a moment, then one silvery white
hand brushed aside her veil and even in the faint
light that fell from the moon into the street I could
tell that she was, indeed, one of the most beautiful
women in all Mexico.
"Perhaps I can persuade him to see you," she said.
"I would be grateful," I said. "But curiosity
overcomes me...why would you do this sort of thing?
Literally, a favor for a gringo."
She was standing too near. I tried to move aside, but
the wall was at my shoulders. And she was extremely
beautiful. But only the kind of woman, in fact, that
a man like Garcia might worship. For I sensed there
was something quite deadly in her beauty. Her perfume
was something exotic; to breathe in that soft odor was
to lose your senses for a brief instant.
"Maybe curiosity has the better of me, too," she said
and, after a pause, added, "For the moment."
She gestured and without another word led the way
across the street and into the Papa Gallo as if she
knew that I would follow.
I hesitate for a moment. It was extremely unwise to
follow her. Of course, it had been an act of raw
audacity to even venture into this strange place below
the Rio Grande. Then I noticed two men come from
behind a building down the street. They were soon
joined by three others. And, now, four. A quick
glance over my shoulder and I noticed three men in the
other direction of the street. None of them made any
movement toward me. Yet, there seemed to be a wall of
hard-faced hombres that I would have to pass through
if I went either direction.
It appeared as if I had little choice but to tag
along.
With more bravado than I actually felt, I again doffed
my sombrero and bowed low, first up the narrow street
that was hardly more than just a passage between the
buildings, then the other direction.
After that, I turned and followed El Tigre, a legend
in that part of Mexico, across the street and into the
cantina El Papa Gallo.
Several men, the kind you see as vague shadows in the
dark alleys of the world and not unlike those out in
the street in front of the cantina, leaned against the
bar at the back of the room. With a gesture of her
head, hardly more than a nod, El Tigre sent them on
their way. Only two remained and they moved, without
saying a word, as far from us as they could and leaned
with their backs against the rear wall of the cantina.
Both wore holsters with pistols; one held a rifle by
the barrel in his left hand as if prepared to swing it
as a club. The light of a chandelier with flickering
candles painted them with somber shadows.
Zhito Garcia sat alone at a table just to the right.
By now, I had no trouble recognizing him-the dark,
brooding eyes almost hidden under bushy black
eyebrows, the mustache that drooped at the ends and
made a frame for a mouth that seemed more ready to
snarl than smile.
He, like the two men against the far wall, seemed not
to notice me at first. But when El Tigre stepped
aside, placing me in full view, he glanced up and was
somewhat startled. He quickly looked in her direction
with a frown on his face. She merely turned and
smiled at me.
"The Ghost insisted on seeing you," she said to
Garcia. She seemed to be teasing him. Then El Tigre,
in that flowing manner which women sometimes have,
crossed the room and sat down in a chair almost at his
side. Both looked at me with more than just ordinary
curiosity in their eyes.
I felt foolish just standing there, the doorway at my
back. The first thing I learned when I came out west
was never to stand with your back to a doorway. I
shrugged, smiled pleasantly, walked over, pulled a
chair out from the table, and sat down.
"They call you the Ghost Who Walks," said El Tigre.
"Why, if I may ask?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," I admitted. Then,
because I thought it apt to be more pleasant, added:
"It may have started when I shot an Indian."
"You kill Indians because it gives you pleasure?" she
asked. "How many Indians have you killed, Mr. Ghost?"
"I didn't kill this particular Indian," I said,
smiling as well as I could.
"The Ghost," she said in English to Garcia, "wishes to
apologize to you for shooting you in the foot." She
followed that announcement with what I immediately
assumed was the same statement in Spanish, but quickly
decided that it wasn't.
If Zhito Garcia had frowned before, and his face was
the kind that seemed alien to even the mere suggestion
of a smile, his frown now was much darker...as if a
storm raged in his brain. He rattled off a stream of
Spanish that was obviously half cusswords.
El Tigre looked at me.
"He claims that you stole his horses and his gold,"
she said. She, too, failed to smile. "He says you
are the worse kind of bandito. And also a gringo on
top of that."
I suppose the smile vanished from my face. For it
suddenly dawned on me that from Garcia's point of view
I could be, indeed, considered the cause of the
conflict between him and me. When she spoke of it in
that manner even I had to admit that I seemed to be
the guilty one, not Zhito Garcia. Because I had,
indeed, stolen his horse and the horses of his men
that day months ago at the spring.
"That is somewhat true, I must admit," I said and I'm
sure that doubt appeared in my voice. The smell of
her perfume did nothing to clear my mind. It was a
strange, delirious odor somewhat, I imagine, of rare
flowers in a dense jungle. Tantalizing, but also
brutal on the mind.
"And that you and some savage Apaches later raided a
Mexican village, killed several women and children,
and stole all of the horses."
"No," I said. "That's not exactly true. No women.
No children. Anyway, it was only one Comanche and,
well, we did steal the horses, but...."
She leaped at my indecision.
"If part of his story is true, and you admit that this
is so, than why not the rest?" she asked.
I realized, suddenly, what was happening. She was
using an old psychological trick to throw me off
guard. I also realized that she had succeeded to some
extent!
I took a long breath before responding. Garcia sat
directly in front of me and I wasn't as worried about
him as I was the two men off to the left. There was a
strong possibility that my first shot would take down
Garcia. If you assume, of course, that I was faster
than he was. And, at the moment, this was an
assumption that I was eager to make. After that, I'd
have to drop to the floor and count on luck to help
bring down the other two men. I was, without
question, in a hell of a pickle!
I couldn't easily answer El Tigre's question. So I
smiled and tried to be as pleasant about the situation
as I could. However, I found it difficult to talk to
her.
"First, because it is a long story and the telling of
it is not for the ears of someone like you," I said,
summoning my courage. "I may, indeed, be part villain
in what happened. Maybe all villain. But it is much
too late now to worry about something like that.
Second, because it is a story whose ending can only be
decided by someone like Garcia. Or me. A tired and
quite boring story. And it is time, here and now, for
it to come to an end."
She lifted her shawl from around her shoulders and
placed it once again over her head, as if trying to
hide her face.
"No," she said. And although she said the word very
low, she spoke as if with authority. "I don't think
you're a ghost. I don't even find you amusing."
"No?"
I tried to see her eyes. But her head was now half
hidden in her shawl and her eyes were obscured in the
faint light of the cantina so that I wasn't able to
determine what she really meant. Words seldom tell
the full story. The eyes, however, seldom lie.
She merely shook her head.
"This battle is between me and him," I insisted.
"There is no such thing as a battle between you and
Senior Garcia, Mr. Ghost. What you stole from him,
you also stole from me," she said.
"You're partners?" I asked. This was something I
hadn't considered.
"El Tigre has no need for partners," she said.
"Then it was you, perhaps, who raided the Broke Snake
ranch and killed old man Hodgins?"
This brought a whisper of a frown across her pretty
face.
"At first," she said, "I thought you were a very brave
man. And probably a very capable man. You stroll
into this part of town where even the Mexican army
doesn't dare to come. But now I've began to think you
are only very foolish. My suggestion is that you
run."
"Me? Run? If I had any thought of fleeing, I
wouldn't have come here in the first place," I said.
And, for the first time, I began to wonder why I had,
indeed, come down into these low places along the Rio
Grande where death is less than commonplace and, in
fact, is almost a certainty for someone like me.
"Run," she insisted. "As fast as you can, Mr. Ghost.
Even so, I don't think you'll live to see the other
side of the river."
"What an absurd idea," I said. "I like this place.
The atmosphere appeals to me. I'm not quite sure
whether I like some of the people here. Some of the
people in this room might try something dangerous. I
wouldn't exactly enjoy that. Much, anyway. To make
sure they don't do something rash like that, let me
assure you right now that I'll shoot the first man
that breathes. That statement may include women,
too."
But all she said in response was, "Goodnight, Mr.
Ghost."
With that, she rose and walked quickly across the room
and sat down at a far table with her back to me as if
I were no longer of interest. As if I no longer
existed.
I stared at Zhito Garcia. He stared back at me.
Then, after ages, began to grin like some fierce
animal who has finally cornered its prey.
And yet, I swear, I felt no fear. I was excited, yes.
I could almost feel the adrenaline pumping through my
veins. But I was not afraid.
On the other hand, I knew that I had to do something.
And fast. It would have been stupid to just sit there
waiting for calamity to tap me on the shoulder. There
seemed to be only one avenue of escape. The front
door was guarded by a small army of Garcia's...make
that El Tigre's...men. However, the cantina, as was
typical, had a back door that perhaps opened on an
alley. I could perhaps be out that door before anyone
had time to draw their gun. I hesitated, realizing
that perhaps this was all according to some plan. But
not my plan. Maybe they wanted me to dash out that
back door. Maybe if I opened that door, I would step
into a hail of bullets.
Then a harsh burst of laughter erupted from my lungs.
Even to me, the suddenly explosion of laughter sounded
ominous. I have no idea where the laughter came from;
this situation was not exactly humorous.
The grin quickly vanished from the face of Zhito
Garcia. Even the shoulders of the lovely El Tigre
jerked as if a bullet had plunged into her back.
One of the men leaning against the far wall quickly
raised his rifle, but never brought it against his
shoulder; the other man appeared to be considering
places to hide.
El Tigre whirled to glare in my direction.
"Are you mad?" she asked quietly, her words like
chisels.
"Not even slightly irritated," I said. But, of
course, that hadn't been what she meant by the
question. My answer threw her face into creases as
her eyes widened and, suddenly, she was concerned with
me once again. She now began to suspect that I was,
indeed, quite mad.
"You dare to laugh in the face of death?"
"Ah, yes, you did mentioned death," I told her. "But
it was merely foolishness on your part. I'm not the
one who's going to die here."
"No one has ever called me a fool!" she screamed.
Now, her face was quite ugly...like that of a woman
older before her time...an evil old.
"Ah, but you're a fool to go up against the Ghost," I
told her. "When your Garcia...that baboon that sits
over there...dared confront me out on the hills of the
Huecos, there were six in all and he was lucky to
escape with his life. The others died, I'm sad to
report. A while before that, an Indian who tried to
surprise me also proved unlucky. I hope you have at
least a dozen of your men handy tonight. I would
especially enjoy some target practice."
She shouted some obscenity and leaped from her chair
and ran toward me, producing from somewhere a thin
wicked dagger and holding it high. I suppose she
thought I wouldn't shoot a woman. And she was right
about that. On the other hand, she was also mistaken
if she thought I would follow some form of Marquis of
Queensbury rules in one of these low and sordid dives.
I kicked a chair into her path that caused her to get
tangled up and fall.
However, I didn't have time to pay much attention to
her. Zhito Garcia, the instant El Tigre charged at
me, sprang to his feet and went for his gun.
The comanchero had been sitting in quiet rage for
several minutes. This rage had been building in him.
Perhaps the presence of El Tigre had kept him on a
lease. Now, all of that pent-up rage exploded. His
problem was that rage is never a match for cool anger.
He may have got off the first shot. I don't know.
But it evidently crashed somewhere off to the side.
My own bullet caught him high in the shoulder and spun
him around. He fell momentarily out of view.
By now, the Mexican with the rifle had it at his
shoulder and was just about to pull the trigger. I
flung a bullet his direction to give him something to
worry about without really taking aim and stepped to
the side only to confront El Tigre as she screamed her
way to her feet and threw her dagger at me. I dodged
the knife and kicked another chair into her path,
causing her to fall once again.
Noises erupted suddenly in the street outside the
cantina. And two figures darted into the room from
that back door, men who obviously had been planted out
there to shoot me if I tried to flee.
Flee?
All of a sudden I was having more fun than I'd had in
months! This beat punching cows and branding calves
better than a plum pudding. And it certainly was
better than standing around waiting for Miss Winona
Hodgins to plant a bullet in me.
I calmly shot both of the men as they came through the
back door. Their screams added to the confusion. But
it wasn't me that was confused.
However, to add to the noise, I also began to scream.
My own scream, I hoped, was more like that of an
enraged banshee from someone else's nightmare.
The man with the rifle at the rear of the room looked
at me and a hard coating of fear fell over his face.
He flung his weapon aside and held up both hands, his
eyes revealing utter terror. I motioned with the
barrel of my gun and his companion crawled out from
under a table and also reached both hands toward the
ceiling of the room. Right then, I realized that
being the Ghost had a great advantage. Both of the
men were literally quivering in fear.
The lovely El Tigre, however, had no intention of
being scared or being polite. On her knees, screaming
in rage, she clawed through a handbag. I suspected
that the handbag either hid another dagger or, worse,
a pistol. Without being much of a gentleman about it,
I went over and kicked the handbag out of her hands.
It flew off into the corner of the room.
Zhito Garcia staggered back into view. It seems as if
I'd placed my bullet in the wrong shoulder; he now had
a revolver in his left hand and was trying to aim it
at me.
I shot him again in his other shoulder. He screamed
in pain and dropped his gun and just stood there
yelling obscenities at me in Spanish. I began to be
rather grateful that I'd never really learned the
language.
"Try French," I said. "I know a little bit of
French."
He continued to yell in Spanish, but now tears from
the pain in his shoulders interfered with his words.
He finally just sat down at a table and began to cry.
Another man came halfway in the front door. I only
shot him in the leg. He yelled and quickly
disappeared.
Meanwhile, the lovely El Tigre was crawling around on
the floor of the cantina in search of another weapon.
I went over and lifted her to her feet.
"You'll just get your dress dirty down there," I said,
but then I noticed that her dress was already
filthy-they never sweep the floors of places such as
this-and also ripped up the side. She had lost her
shawl. Her hair was in disarray. Looked like a
tumbleweed, in fact. The truth is, she wasn't that
pretty anymore. But I guess all women are a bit that
way. Get them in a pickle and some of the glamour
rubs away. That's because some beauty is artificial.
Real beauty has staying power.
She, like the comanchero Zhito Garcia, began to sprout
obscenities. That made her even less attractive.
I pushed her into a chair and calmly replaced a couple
of the spent shells with fresh bullets. Quickly, I
might add.
"I really don't like women who talk too much," I said.
I'm not sure she heard me over the spatter of words
that poured from her mouth, all in Spanish. But,
frankly, I didn't much care. I motioned the two
Mexicans out of the rear of the room and had them sit
down near Garcia.
What a cheery little group I had on my hands!
"What are you going to do with us," one of the
Mexicans asked.
"I don't know," I said. "But I guess I'll figure out
something in a while."
First, I went over and checked Garcia's wounds. They
were bad enough, all right. I cut his shirt away with
a knife and poured some tequila over his wounds and
then tried to bandage them up with the remains of his
shirt. The bandages were sort of makeshift, but okay
enough. Frankly, and I know this is rather callous of
me, at the moment I didn't much care whether he lived
or died. Garcia stopped crying and now just glared at
me. The pain must have been considerable, but he
didn't pass out.
"Anyone know any good songs?" I asked as I busied
myself with his bandages.
The quite gruesome El Tigre made a move to go get her
purse. I shook my head at her and smiled. She
paused, then sat back down at her table.
"I need to power my nose," she said.
"Naw, you don't. And anyway it wouldn't help much."
These words made her even madder. And she was almost
fuming red at the time.
"I'm going to cut your heart out and eat it," she
said.
When I laughed at her, she immediately calmed down.
Her face relaxed. Some, although not quite all, of
the tension flowed from her arms.
"The best way is barbequed over an open pit with
onions," I told her. "And lots of cold beer to ward
off food poisoning."
"You doubt my threat?" she snarled.
"No. I actually think you might try. But trying and
succeeding are two different things," I said. "Here I
am, in the actual lair of El Tigre. Her army is
without and within. Yet, I'm still alive."
One of the Mexicans made a suspicious move at his
table. It dawned on me that I hadn't even bothered to
unarm him and his companion. I sent a bullet into the
table near his elbow without even turning my head to
look completely at him. He suddenly became very still
and grew white in the face.
"My honor is at stake," she said, a momentary
expression of vagueness in her eyes.
"You have no honor," I said. "And, furthermore, age
and this kind of life you lead are quickly making you
ugly. They told me you were pretty...even lovely.
What a mistake they have made, eh?"
She grinned. It was not a pretty thing.
"You can not make me more mad," she said. "I'm quite
mad enough."
The Mexican at the table moved once again. So I shot
him in the hand. He stared at me as if he couldn't
believe what I'd done. He tried to say something, but
the words wouldn't come out, probably because of the
pain, so he just stared at me and breathed heavily
through his mouth.
"Naughty, naughty," I said.
The other Mexican immediately raised both hands as
high as he could reach. And he kept them there even
when I told him that it didn't matter that much to me.
I thumbed the rest of the spent shells out of the
chambers of my revolver and calmly replaced them with
fresh bullets. I watched my little band of outlaws.
No one moved.
El Tigre glared at her soldier of misfortune as if she
considered him a weakling for having got shot.
Then she turned back to me.
"Even if you kill me, you will not escape from this
cantina," she said.
"Why should I escape?" I asked. "There's plenty of
tequila here...and maybe even a burrito or two if I do
some scrounging. Better yet, I may sent out for some
refrito frijoles. Some beans would taste pretty good
right now. Or, perhaps, maybe I'll just sit here and
watch the four of you die of starvation. That might
be interesting. Entertainment, you know. Or maybe
you'd like to sing me a song?"
"Sing for you?" She spat the words out as if they
were a curse.
I shrugged. "I had a feeling you'd feel that way.
So, I will sing a song for myself."
A guitar leaned against the bar of the cantina. I
only knew a couple of chords. And even less songs.
Furthermore, no one had ever accused me of having a
decent voice. Nevertheless, I holstered my revolver,
picked up the guitar, and began to sing. This created
a great deal of consternation within the cantina. Not
my singing caused this, but the fact that I had
holstered my gun and literally dared them to try
anything. The Mexican raised his hands even higher.
The comanchero Garcia grew much whiter in the face.
Even the eyes of El Tigre widened.
Outside beyond the front doorway, I heard a shout.
"Que pasa?"
"Nada," I yelled back, which was almost half of the
Spanish that I knew in spite of all of the efforts of
Small Wind during the past few months. But his
teaching at least helped me to understand what El
Tigre said next.
"El Ghost is un diablo!" shouted El Tigre.
I paused in my song about Old Dan Tucker long enough
to tell her, "Thanks. That's the nicest thing you've
said to me in several seconds."
Then I continued singing about this unusual man who
combed his hair in a frying pan and brushed his teeth
with a wagon wheel. I'd just finished the last line
that I knew-"...died with a toothache in his
heel..."-when three Mexicans came bursting in the
front door of the cantina. They tried to find me in
the dim light from the coal oil lantern. I flung the
guitar at them and went for my gun.
One of them got off a shot in my direction. The
bullet hit the guitar in flight and ripped it into
shards that flew about the room.
"Congratulations," I said. "You've just killed a
guitar."
I shot him in the hip and the other two Mexicans-still
trying to locate the direction of my voice-decided
they'd had enough of the Ghost Who Walks and fled back
out the doorway even quicker than they'd entered.
The Mexican wasn't badly hurt; a mere flesh wound. I
helped him to his feet and walked him over to the
table, guiding him by the elbow, to join his friends.
Then I holstered my gun again and went behind the
counter. Ah, yes! A bottle of mescal with a worm
floating around in the amber liquid. This would do
quite nicely!
Zhito Garcia already had a glass in front of him; with
both shoulders busted up he would have trouble
drinking the mescal anyway without help. I fetched
glasses off the shelf behind the bar for the others.
I poured each of them a glass full of the mescal and
motioned them to down it.
The three Mexicans were more than eager to oblige. I
had to help Garcia. He gagged once. Some of the
mescal spilled on his shirt, but his shirt was already
dirty and you couldn't tell.
"No," said El Tigre when I handed her a glass full of
the rather potent liquid. Her eyes blazed at me.
"Don't be such a party pooper," I said. I shoved my
gun barrel between her teeth and grabbed her by the
hair and pulled her head back. Then I poured the
mescal down her about as pretty as you please. A gun
barrel in your mouth probably helps in a situation
like that.
We finished the bottle rather quickly, but I found
three other bottles on a back shelf.
El Tigre, of course, quickly figured out what I was
doing. Pretty smart woman, I decided. But by then
there wasn't much she could do about it anyway.
And that is how I escaped from the evil clutches of El
Tigre and walked free from her lair down below the
border. You'll hear stories about how the Ghost Who
Walks shot his way through an entire army of
comancheros, killing half of them and laughing at the
rest. That isn't true. What actually happened was
that less than an hour later, I strolled out of the
cantina with three Mexicans, one of them limping
severely but not seeming to care, a fierce comanchero
bandido who had trouble walking in a straight line,
and El Tigre herself, all of us singing about Old Dan
Tucker combing his hair with a frying pan. While more
than two dozen comancheros watched, guns hanging at
their sides, astonished, we meandered up the street
arm in arm having just a whole bunch of fun all of the
way to the border where I said my "adios," the other
word that Small Wind had taught me, doffed my sombrero
in a wide sweep, heard someone yell out "boracho," and
continued on up the street to pick up my horse Tequila
and head home.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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September 19, 2005
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
Memories of my
youth (well, actually just my younger
days because I was already in my early 30s by then)
are probably better than reality. I do not, for
example, remember the dirt in the streets in Greenwich
Village. Nor the cigarette butts. I look at the
picture that I took of the entrance to the Café au Go
Go and the kids seems nice and all-American and right
out of some movie. And I realize, sadly, that they
were not. Drugs were already a major factor. You
ventured to the Fillmore East and the odor of cowshit
hit you like a hard sledge hammer. Cops must have
been paid off. Or perhaps they told themselves "what
the hell" and walked out and forgot about it. Or
maybe they liked the music. I was in Fillmore East
and didn't care for anything much.
I mention these things to try to put the music world
that I knew then in perspective. Some songs had
literally been mine forever. "The Prisoner's Song,"
"Rose of San Antone," "Tumbling Tumbleweed." I
remember my mother, Eva Lee, singing "Goodbye, My
Love" over and over while ironing; I don't know where
she heard it. Later, when we lived in Sonora, Texas,
Al Dexter's "Pistol Packin' Mama" wore out a jukebox
at the city swimming pool; I was about 8 years old and
I still recall some of the lyric.
Without
question, I loved the new and exciting music in the Cafe au Go
Go in Greenwich Village. The entire village was a happening
place for
music. Anything creative. Once saw Shel Silverstein in the park.
And
even the legendary father of bluegrass Bill Monroe once
performed at an
area nightclub (I think it was the Kettle of Fish) and
graciously told
the audience to bring their tape decks if they wished. Woody
Allen,
too, was winding his way, polishing his skill, in the village.
And
roaming everywhere, unseen, was the ghost of Bob Dylan. Everyone
talked about him. You felt his spirit here and there.
The music of Greenwich Village was different and it
belonged to Greenwich Village regardless of where it
came from or how it got there. It was an odd music
scene. The Fillmore was pale by comparison. At one
point, I filled up my life on the music of Greenwich
Village. Once, jazz at the Jazz Gallery at 8 St.
Marks Place where you could pay $2 and sit in a cane
chair on the side of the room-Chico Hamilton,
Coltrane, Monk. Wonderful stuff. Sometimes esoteric,
always somewhere else. But a little to the west in
real Greenwich Village was my musical soul. Fred
Neil, Paul Butterfield and his Blues Band, Richie
Havens, and some odd groups that gravitated to the
area seeking, like me, a home.
I loved the music of then and, it's true, even before
then. Yesterday, I listened to some stuff of the
Kingston Trio and thought: "God, they were great!"
And they were. Still are. From this distance of
time. But music was changing in those 60s from folk
and jazz to something I called progressive rock, a
term that hung around a while but which has been
confused now by time and people. I'm convinced today
that some of these people who confused things never
loved music as much as I did. They might argue the
point. But I felt I was closer to the real things
happening in music than they were and what they
thought or may have thought mattered little to me. I
was the one who was right. Because I was there at
various "turning points" in music. I had earlier
heard "Blue Moon of Kentucky" sung live by Elvis
Presley on the fabled "Louisiana Hayride" over KWKH,
Shreveport; an old bluegrass tune written by the
father of bluegrass music, Bill Monroe. Changed
forever by Elvis, just as music was changed forever by
Elvis. His first song, as I recall, on the Hayride.
His first commercial release on Sun Records. A
musical turning point. I was pursuing a degree in
physics at the time at The University of Texas in
Austin; about that time, I switched my degree emphasis
to journalism. I hung out now and then in the dumps
that littered Sixth Street, mostly the Mexican places
such as Papa Gallo; I loved the music! I got an even
stronger taste of Mexican music when I worked on the
El Paso Herald-Post and sampled the music of Juarez
which ranged from small mariachi groups to big bands.
Barbara Hall,
Judy Collins, Claude Hall. When Barbara and I were still
dating, I introduced her to Mexican food at the Mexican Gardens,
137
Waverly Place, in Greenwich Village of New York City. And she
took me
to see a performance by the Weavers at Town Hall in Manhattan.
The
folk music scene was still around in the 60s and great acts like
Gordon
Lightfoot, Judy Collins, Joan Baez drew loyal, steady crowds.
Alro
Guthrie and others were just starting their careers. But the
times
they were a changing.
Work on Billboard magazine was perfect for me. The
writing was basically journalistic. The topics, as a
rule, exciting. I see a "music by" credit on a movie
and believe that I interviewed that guy somewhere
along the way. Probably didn't do him justice. Just
as I don't think, from this retrospect of years, that
I did Norman Petty justice when I interviewed him.
Only now, from these pinnacle of years, do I realize
the impact of Buddy Holly and Norman Petty on not only
popular music, but popular culture. Bobby Vee has
largely been my teacher in this regard.
Regardless, a few years after arriving back in New
York the second time, I was there that night at the
Forrest Hills Tennis Club on Long Island when Bob
Dylan did his folk thing on stage and after
intermission came back with a band armed with electric
guitars. Boos throughout the audience. Didn't stop
him. And it turned out he was right. Music was
changing for all of us. He didn't change it; he was
just changing with it. Country music had already
changed as Elvis left Ernest Tubb and others behind.
Now, folk music was changing. The Kingston Trio and
Judy Collins and others were also soon left behind.
Country music and folk and pop were not slaughtered.
Not really. But things definitely changed in music in
general and folk music and jazz and "How Much Is That
Doggie in the Window" were no longer important. I
think it was communications guru Marshall McLuhan who
said that as a new medium comes along, the old medium
becomes an artform. That was the way it was in music
to a great extent.
Certainly, a lot of ilks of music were evolving in
Greenwich Village clubs. True, country music evolved
toward rock primarily, I would suspect, in the
honkytonks of Texas and Louisiana. I've heard an
early run-through of Elvis doing "Blue Moon of
Kentucky." Yeah, one of those tapes that don't exist.
First part bluegrass; second part rock.
Something entirely different, however, was evolving in
Greenwich Village. The greatest music place for me
was the Café au Go Go.just down the street from the
Bitter End. Never smelled cowshit there. Not even
once. There were other places, too, where musical
experimentation was taking place. I'd caught the
Blues Project with Al Kooper a couple of times, as I
recall, in the Phone Booth on the upper east side of
Manhattan. And the Seeds and Lothar and the Hand
People in a place called, as I remember, the Circus
that soon folded up and went away. You also had
places like the Café Wha. But I found myself most
often in the Café au Go Go. Here, Paul Butterfield
and His Blues Band. Here, James Burton. Here, Richie
Havens. Here, the Paupers one night stomped on the
Jefferson Airplane visiting from the West Coast.
Here, Fred Neil. Here, Blood, Sweat and Tears both
one and two. Here was where the Cream first performed
in the states.
One night I was shooting the bull with someone back
stage and he quickly raised a hand and disappeared out
front to catch some music by James Burton. It was
that kind of place. Even the musicians, many of whom
were to become big, came there to hear music. And
backstage was a place where you could hangout until
the good music arrived.
I hope you don't mind if I drop some more of these
memories on you for a week or two.
Raechel
Donahue, mizrae@netvip.com
"I'm sorry it's been so long since I've written, but I got
caught up in a project in Cleveland which, unfortunately, just
went under...but I'm still here for the moment...I just returned
from a trip to the Amazon where I was shooting some footage on a
small solar village and school in the heart of the
jungle.....See attached photo of me with local camera crew,
Rodrigo. Just read 'Huecos' and laughed my butt off. Check out a
chapter of 'The Ropes on my site
www.raecheldonahue.com--I'll
be adding some stuff about the Amazon later today. 'The Ropes'
just came out a month ago...golly, publishing is a slow
business, especially for people like us. For those of you who
aren't aware, Mizrae is a legendary West Coast radio
personality. Shame of you if you don't know that.
OTHER MATTERS
The Rabbitt Report dated 9.13.05 states:
After four hugely successful nights at London's Royal
Albert Hall and weeks of speculation, Cream has
announced three shows at Madison Square Garden in New
York City. The October 24-26 shows are reportedly the
only U.S. dates for the legendary rock group
comprising Ginger Baker, Jack Bruce and Eric Clapton.
Kim Simpson,
KSimpson@law.utexas.edu: "Three things:
First, I'm a fan of yours. I just earned my Ph.D. in
American Studies last month at The University of Texas
at Austin (you went there, right?). My dissertation
is a cultural contextualization of commercial music
radio formats in the early seventies ("Hit Radio and
the Formatting of America in the Early 1970s").
Needless to say, I combed through the trades from that
period and your radio coverage in Billboard was a
godsend (not to mention "This Business of Radio
Programming"). I honestly wonder if I could have
pulled this off if you hadn't done such top-notch
work. I discovered your website fairly late in the
game and it's great too. A belated, heartfelt thank
you for all you've done and are doing. Second, I'm
turning my dissertation into a book and would like to
incorporate more detailed information about the radio
industry, tip sheets and trades, and key people like
yourself. I can do this now without the academic
restrictions of a committee and the bureaucratic red
tape that gets in the way of conducting personal
interviews for dissertations. Anyway, how would you
feel about me asking you some general questions? I
could email the questions to you and you could answer
them at your leisure. Third, I'm pretty sure I know
who the three men in that photo are. They're (l to r)
Terry Kirkman, Russ Giguere, and Larry Ramos of the
Association. See the album cover I've attached:
Kirkman, Ramos, and Giguere (l to r) are in the
foreground. Judging from other pictures I've seen of
the group, I imagine the picture's from '67, the year
Ramos (who used to be with the New Christy Minstrels)
joined up. Having had two monster hits in '66 with
'Along Comes Mary' and 'Cherish', they certainly would
have been considered important. Thanks again (I'm one
of the handful of American males named Kim). PS: Oh
yes-one more thing I'd like to ask you. I've been on
a hunt for those blue, mimeographed Gavin Reports from
the late sixties/early seventies so I could simply
read through them. It's been a bit of a wild goose
chase. Would you have any idea where I might be able
to find a collection of those?
From a
Billboard terrace photo that I shot in the 60s, to the cover of
a CD...the Association with six members (my photo featured last
week
had just three people and they were a bit younger than the men
pictured
on this CD). Their big pop hit was "Cherish." But Bobby
Calendar, the
young man who picked music for Murray the K, flipped the single
and
WOR-FM played "Requiem for the Masses." This tune was probably
the
first FM hit record of any note. Murray had, of course, been
playing
the Beatles. But "Requiem" was probably before "Strawberry
Fields
Forever." Regardless, "Requiem" received enormous reaction and
Murray
the K began tailoring his show in that direction, i.e., the
birth of
progressive rock. I should have remembered the Association
picture.
Photo of CD above provided by Kim Simpson.
How could I refuse? The persons I'm recommending he
contact.people I believe would have decent, legit
information. Jerry Wexler, Chuck Blore, Bud Prager,
Barry Hansen (Dr. Demento), Ted Atkins, Kent Burkhart,
George Wilson, Bobby Vee. And: "I have email
addresses on a few others that might be of interest to
you, including Artie Ripp who was involved with
Woodstock but is a bit peeved with me because I called
him a 'shuck and jive' artist. Ted, incidentally,
used to have a phenomenal memory when it came to
records and George had and still has a tremendous
ear."
I should explain about the Artie Ripp comment. I go
back with Artie to an article I wrote in SoundMakers,
a one-shot magazine I edited for Billboard long before
Rolling Stone hit the scene, about Kama Sutra Records.
You'd have to see the pictures I took and read the
article to understand my comment, but it was not meant
with malice. I was very pleased not only with the
article, but the photos. I just meant that Artie and
his buddies were quite colorful, a statement that
could be said about many of the people in both radio
and the music industry that I admired and even some
that I didn't. Regardless of my opinion pro or con,
Artie Ripp was associated with Woodstock and thus he
will live in history long after I'm history. So, I'm
going to recommend a few people for Kim Simpson; a
book without them wouldn't be quite appropriate, in my
opinion. Anyway, as best as possible, it's up to
people like you and me to keep the record straight.
There are those out there who're attempting to rewrite
radio history. Bunch of nuts.
I once recommended a foreign film called "Rain" in
Commentary and I thought George and Jackie Wilson were
going to sue me for the refund of their rental fee.
So, I suppose I'd better do a copout on this TV series
that I'm going to recommend for you. My son John
Alexander Hall, esq., brought the complete series
boxed set over on one of his trips a couple of months
ago. My wife Barbara and I watched it an episode at a
time. Loved it. In fact, we're presently viewing the
entire series over again. It's called "Firefly" and
was created by Joss Whedon. Science fiction. In
fact, we used to call this stuff spaceopera. Another
copout: I've been a science fiction fan since high
school. So I'm prejudiced a bit; love the stuff! If
you don't feel like seeing the series, a Firefly movie
called "Serenity" will hit the movie houses in a week
or so. You could give it a try. And I just hope 20th
Century-Fox decides to continue the TV series.
Several "threads" were left hanging.
George Pollard,
gpollard@ccs.carleton.ca: "Just
thought I'd let you know the final version of
'Searching for Bill Hicks' is posted. It's not much
different from the penultimate draft you may have seen
a while back. I decided to sit on it for a bit. Took a
lot of bumps with this one. Usually, I can take the
bumps, but not this time. Getting old, I guess. So,
I'm thinking it's best to let the hubbub ease.
Nonetheless, feel free to circulate the url as you
wish. Thanks, again, for the encouragement."
The URL is:
http://www.rpmmusicweekly.ca/searchingforbillhicks2005.htm
John Hall,
johnalexhall@gmail.com: "Say you made an
error in your comments about me in your Commentary for
this week. I do not go to record meets looking for
Grateful Dead concert CDs. I go looking for Bruce
Springsteen, Beatles, Led Zep, Neil Young and all the
rest. Most of the Grateful Dead material that you
have heard is stuff that the band has released on
their own label. This is a growing trend. Plenty of
performing artists are releasing their own product.
Right now, I am waiting to receive a concert from 1974
from King Crimson from their own Discipline label.
Since major record companies no longer really care for
most of the interesting older groups, it makes sense
for such groups to release such stuff themselves over
the internet."
I wasn't going to mention about Tom Noonan's real
problem, but the news was circulated rather
extensively this past week by his friends. And Tom
has, to paraphrase a certain TV show, "more than the
average bear." Anyway, I wrote Tom,
tenoonan8@aol.com, and he
wrote back: "Thanks, Claude,
very much--I am receiving emails from a load of people
but I have found out that I have to have my bladder
removed fairly quickly as it is full of cancer. In
the meantime, I have checked into the hospital three
times since last Wed., was operated on Wed. & Sat.
night and just got discharged last night from my 3rd
visit. I am in no pain whatsoever--which is good and,
hey, whatever has to be done has to be done so I'm
ready for the next big step. Appreciate your thoughts
and prayers. Thanks a mil."
In a blanket letter Friday to a whole bunch, Tom
stated: "After all of that, I get the news that they
(the doctors) are probably going to have to remove my
bladder altogether--so I will become a BAG MAN in
reality. How do you like that? ha ha. That
operation will probably be in the next 2 or 3 weeks
and will take place in the hospital on the UCLA campus
in Westwood. So, that's the full update as of today.
While I am not looking forward to this 'procedure', I
am not fearful of it either--what must be will be. My
daughters have been sensational to me throughout & my
sister and brother in law, who live in Yonkers, NY,
will probably fly out here to take care of me when I
get discharged. They say the hospital stay after such
an operation is 7 days and 2 to 3 weeks recouping at
home. My sister, who is truly great, will, with her
husband, stay in my condo with me for that period of
time and I should be fine. No sweat. I do appreciate
all of the offers for rides, etc. (and I will utilize
some if it becomes necessary) but for now, I am fine,
feeling great, no pain and just want to get this all
done and over with, as you can understand. Had a
great luncheon with George Chaltas the other
day--Alexenburgs are coming out here this November for
Thanksgiving, am in constant touch with Steve Resnik,
and Les Silver has been my ride home each time from
the hospital. And my sister in law lives right near
me here in Torrance as does my granddaughter, Brittany
& my nephew Brett & my niece Kate, so I am surrounded
by great people, all willing to help, plus my
brother-in-law and another niece and her husband, and
another sister in law--all living in Torrance. So
please don't worry, stay well yourselves, stay happy
and stay busy. Love to everybody."
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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