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"Murder
at the Busted Bird Cafe"
by Claude Hall
Chapter 13
Sawyer handled the situation a lot better than I
did.
Even though I had realized some while ago that
everything was not precisely kosher about the Society
for Critical Studies, and especially its boss lady,
her beauty still affected me.
I knew she was probably bad--really bad, if I may
bandy about a term that no longer has much
significance--but I didn't give a damned. Bad was too
loose a term, evil too heavy for someone that
beautiful. What a pity the English language can't
handle reality.
Tonight, she wore something between a gown and a
dress; it fell off one shoulder and was loose here and
tight there and sparkled softly gold and quietly
silver. I don't know much about women's clothes. I
can't even talk about them very well. But, with her
hair tied to one side and falling over that bare
shoulder like a golden rope, the overall effect was
stunning. A man had to grab for breath.
About half of the men in Martoni's were looking at
her, some trying not to be too obvious about it,
including a couple of the gays. All of the women, of
course, were looking at her. You could tell they
didn't enjoy this kind of competition.
"Tricia," I said, "in Mexia, Texas, somebody
would
have offered you a burlap bag just so you could get
completely dressed."
She smiled at me, but I couldn't translate whether it
was a "how you didn't call" smile or "don't you
wish
you were this person here" smile.
"Buddy, I'd like you to meet Tag Thyret. Tag is
trying to teach me about the record business."
"Tag and I know each other," I said. I reached
across
the table and shook hands.
Tag had worked for Star Records for several years. He
knew the business. My concern at the moment was that
he might be giving her the business.
"This booth is probably owned by Barry Farr," I said.
"But you're probably welcome to join the party."
"Thanks," said Thyret quickly before Tricia could say
anything. "But we just stopped by for a moment.
Tricia wanted to see what the other side of the record
industry was like."
"Ow," I said.
"No offense meant."
"Certainly not," I said.
There was a faction in the music business and probably
even more in the radio field who thought places like
Martoni's and Al & Dick's in New York and the myriad
watering holes coast-to-coast were a waste of time.
But Thyret knew and I knew that he wouldn't have dared
say something like that to the program director of
KIIS or KROQ.
Tricia and Thyret drifted away. Not out the door, but
doing a spin of the crowd. Thyret knew just about
everyone worth knowing. He introduced Tricia here,
spun her there, never staying with anyone very long.
"I see what you mean," Sawyer said.
"I don't remember making a statement," I said.
"The way you look at her is enough," he said.
"Did
you tell her I was a detective?"
"All I said was the police were interested in the
society. That's absolutely all."
"But she knew I was a detective."
"A very smart bitch," I said.
"A very pretty lady," he said.
"A very pretty, smart bitch," I said.
Thyret, for some strange reason, introduced her to
Wesley Bird. Not just "in passing," but with
slightly
more pizzazz...or is the correct word piazza? Maybe
pizza with anchovies?
Interesting, as Sawyer would say.
Tricia, however, seemed to know Bird already, although
she managed to hide it somewhat.
"Interesting, as you would say," I said to Sawyer.
"Are we still talking about sex appeal?"
"Not at this particular moment," I said.
"In this
business, you might know everybody, but some people
you wouldn't ordinarily profess knowing too well.
Wesley Bird was one of those people. Thyret has
Tricia talking to Bird over there by the bar."
"What kind of person is this Bird?"
"Your average, run-of-the-mill basic creep," I
told
Sawyer. "He does record promotion. An indie.
That
is, he works for any label that will retain him for a
given period. Some have him on retainer permanent.
Others hire him for three or four weeks on a given
single."
"Like Joe Izgro?"
"Ah. You've been studying?"
"Reading the files of the Los Angeles Times about the
record industry. Got the files downloaded to my
computer."
"Can you do that?"
"As I mentioned to you at some point in the past, I
work in a special unit. Some of the guys call it the
Tough Crimes Division."
"Joe got caught. He got off later. Then got it
in
the tail again. By then, a lot of record companies
had paid him off...settled out of court...afraid of
what he might say in court, so to speak. Bird over
there is a lot smarter or a lot more crooked. Hasn't
got caught. Word on the street is that he may be
connected."
"Like this Tony and Ben your friend Farr mentioned?"
"Same ilk. Different family. Ben's family
probably
has a better tree. Oak, maybe. Bird's family tree is
probably more like your typical swamp mangrove with
poisonous snakes draped artistically from every branch
and twig."
"Pretty vicious?"
"Don't turn your back. Matter of fact, don't even get
within a hundred yards. Bird is as bad as they come."
"Could this Ben be big enough to get a hit man called
off?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But the word
is that one
guy in New York City may have once got a hit man
called off Crudman, who operates a tipsheet. The word
was that somebody had become quite put out about
Crudman and sent somebody to take care of him.
Someone pulled that somebody off the train between New
York and Philadelphia."
"Whew! As Russ Ross says, a crazy business."
"More than you could ever possibly know," I said.
"I
don't think an outsider could ever learn this business
and most of the people who think they're insiders will
never learn it. It's just too complex."
"Tell me, Buddy: Are you really part of this business
or, perhaps, merely studying it?"
"I'm definitely a part of it," I said.
"But some of my research the past few days turned up
the interesting fact that you're working on a Ph.D."
Tricia's Society for Critical Studies found that out,
too," I said.
We both looked at Tricia. That is, he joined me in
looking at her. Thyret had temporarily disappeared.
Tricia's hand was lightly resting on Bird's arm. She
appeared very intrigued by whatever Bird was telling
her.
"Interesting," said Sawyer.
"I somehow knew you were going to say that," I said.
"So, how's the Ph.D. coming along?"
"Another year or two."
"Texas is a good school."
"Yeah."
"Does all this fit in?" He jerked his head at
the
crowded room.
"Maybe. The Ph.D. is in mass comm. That stands
for
mass communications to you oil field workers."
"Mine is in criminal justice," Sawyer said.
"A Ph.D.? You're too damned young to have a
Ph.D."
"Unfortunately, I'm older than I look," he said.
"But
not as old as I act sometimes. Think I'll go have a
talk with Mr. Bird. Want to come?"
"Not me. I'm allergic to people like that."
"Me, too," said Sawyer.
He slipped out of the booth and headed over to Tricia
and Bird.
>From the expression on Bird's face, he evidently
thought Sawyer was a kid. But Tricia spoiled all of
that. I heard the word "detective."
Bird's shoulders immediately took a different tilt.
Some of the crowd decided they had tried hard enough
and long enough to get ahead for the day; Martoni's
began to empty out of all but the hard-core record and
radio people.
Thyret returned from the telephone or the men's room
or trying to get ahead and he was now trying to get
the lovely Tricia Rizzo back in tow. She, on the
other hand, wasn't eager to leave. Something that
Bird was saying at that particular moment was
absolutely witty and so very, very charming. She was
paying close attention.
Sawyer appeared to be only a minor element in the
conversation. He soon sneaked away and came back to
the booth. But Farr appeared just at that same time
with three people. He seemed surprised that we were
still there.
I got the message. Sawyer and I drifted over to the
bar.
Without even being asked, Freddie DiSippio sat a
couple of bottles of Perrier water in front of us.
"Buddy is on a diet," he explained to Sawyer.
"How come I have to be on the same diet?"
"You a friend of his?"
"Quien sabe?" said Sawyer.
"Then you're on a diet," said Freddie. He turned
to
me and asked: "Is he a friend?"
"Yeah. This is detective Jesus Sawyer. He's
with a
special police unit that's investigating the killings
at the Busted Bird. Hey You, this is Freddie
DiSippio, a master of the twisted lemon peel and
defender of the Coors faith."
Freddie examined Sawyer. "You're too damned
young."
"But I think I'm going to grow old rather fast hanging
out in a place like this," Sawyer said.
Freddie nodded. He decided to accept Sawyer. Without
Freddie's approval, it was difficult to get a seat in
Martoni's even if you arrived two hours ahead of
everyone else. All of the seats would be reserved.
"Were you aware," Freddie asked me, "that you
were the
major topic of conversation here the past couple of
days?"
"I could have guessed," I said. "What was
really
behind the killings at the Busted Bird, Freddie?"
"Your friend Bird says it was drugs. I find that hard
to believe."
"Me, too," I said.
"Some say you did it," Freddie said.
"Wash your mouth out with soap!" I said.
"Don't you
know this is a cop sitting here?"
"I'd investigate this sucker nine ways from Sunday,"
Freddie told Sawyer. "What's a man with a master's
degree in pubic hairs doing in a business like this
anyway."
"That's public affairs, Freddie. Public
affairs."
Sawyer began to enjoy himself for the first time all
afternoon. He folded his arms across the bar.
"Why would anyone want to kill Sherbert, Freddie? Did
that come up in the conversation?"
"Some people say he wasn't what he appeared to be."
"What would that mean?" I asked. "He was a
singer."
"Sure," said Freddie. "But what else was
he? That's
the question."
"What else could he be? A piano player?"
"Something to do with sabotage," said Freddie.
"Hogwash," I said.
"The question around here, though," said Freddie,
"is
why you're against sabotage, Buddy. Are you some kind
of secret agent working for the government?"
"Freddie! I didn't do it."
"Good enough," said Freddie. "If you say
you didn't
do it, you didn't do it. But who did?"
"You hear anything else interesting?" Sawyer asked.
"Mostly just junk," Freddie said. "Loud,
long,
beer-fed junk. However, there was one little theory
that was somewhat fascinating. It had the government
hiring the Mafia to do some of its dirty work."
Sawyer nodded. "Fascinating theory."
"Someone said he wouldn't put it past Vosberg to have
hired someone to wipe out Sherbert just to get even."
"Vosberg? That's ridiculous," I told Freddie.
"Some say they left you alive on purpose because
you're Vosberg's illegitimate son."
"You've been listening to too many gospel records,
Freddie. They've warped your brain completely out of
kilter."
"Ain't my theories," Freddie said. "I'm
just a
bartender with ears."
"I've got to come down here more often," said Sawyer.
"You know how to set a detective back on the right
track, Freddie. Thanks."
"How could he set you back on the right track? All
that was bullshit."
"Right. Some murders are clear and simple crimes of
passion or hate. Other murders are bullshit," said
Sawyer. "The clear and simple murders become boring
after a while. Another wife stabbing in Beverly Hills
by some celebrity. Just tedious work of finding
facts. It's the bullshit murders, however, that tax a
man's brain."
"Why would Vosberg want to get even with Sherbert?" I
asked Freddie.
"Something to do with Vosberg's wife. She's quite a
bit younger. And has them fancy free ideas. You
know? Then there's others say Sherbert had threatened
to go to the FTC because Vosberg was holding his
records back on the chart. In other words, instead of
using Kentucky windage, he was practicing some kind of
Oklahoma shuffle."
"I think I'll have another Perrier," said Sawyer,
finishing his bottle.
"A Coors," I said.
"No," Freddie said. "I've got orders."
"Who? I'm a customer. Don't I have
rights?"
"Nope. Jo said she'd sic Chuck on me if I so much as
let you even look at a beer. I'm probably in trouble
now just for giving you one of those artificial
beers."
Freddie handed Sawyer another bottle of Perrier and
then drifted down the bar to wait on a couple of disc
jockeys from Orange County who were trying to pretend
they were Los Angeles jocks.
Tricia was no longer in the room. Neither was Bird.
Thyret had evidently been dumped. He stood near the
end of the bar toward the bank of telephones in the
back. Farr was in heated conversation with the men in
his booth.
"Aren't you Muddy Coffee?" someone asked.
He looked like a reporter. You can spot one every
time. They all wear a feather in their cap even when
they aren't wearing a cap and they always carry an air
of importance, even though 99% of all reporters are
about as important as a dead cat. It is a well-known
fact that most reporters can't write a decent sentence
and those who can can't spell.
"Not in the slightest," I said.
"I was told he hung out here. You fit the description
a little."
"That's because of the serendipitous quasi and quite
artificial motif of Martoni's. Only birds of a
feather habitat this particular locale and none of
them can fly."
The reporter quickly grew a puzzled look on his face.
"You even sound like a disc jockey."
"No, I don't. I don't have a lisp. And I speak
the
King's English. Disc jockeys all speak either bottom
Jerry Wexler, the legendary record producer, or middle
Bill 'Rosko' Mercer."
"You sure about not being Muddy Coffee?"
"I drink Nescafé Classic instant," I said.
"If you see him, tell him I'd like to talk with him.
I can get him front page."
"Sounds sensational," I said. "Anybody
would love to
be in the National Inquirer or Globe."
"I work for the Los Angeles Times."
"Whups! Sorry about that."
"It's cool," said the reporter. He drifted away,
hunting for a byline.
"Buddy," Sawyer said, "describe exactly what
happened
that night at the Busted Bird."
"I've told you all that."
"No. In detail, as best you can remember.
Everything. Just as it happened."
I told him. He had me repeat a couple of things. I
did. The more I talked about it, the more I thought
about the way things had happened. I saw things a
little clearer. Maybe because I was sober now.
"Are you sure about the guy who brushed past you?
Apache haircut?"
"Is that what it's called? Anyway, it was like the
comb of a rooster. There were several of them who
looked like that. All of them were dressed weird."
"What do you mean, weird?"
"Baggy pants. Leather jackets. Like Fonzie, but
sort
of mod."
"Like a uniform?"
"Maybe. Or a costume."
"Strange," Sawyer said.
"I told you. Weird."
"I mean, we found no one dressed like that among the
bodies."
"They could have left?"
"The only question is: Before or after the
shooting?"
"Another Perrier?" asked Freddie.
"He's had enough," I said. I dropped a couple of
fives on the counter. "He's the designated
driver."
We left Martoni's.
Hollywood is not all that big. A matter of several
blocks near a slice in the mountains. A freeway cuts
through the mountains over to Burbank and the San
Fernando Valley. The most-striking feature in
Hollywood would be, I guess, the Capitol Tower where
Capitol Records is located, a round building that was
once called the silo by the people who worked in it.
Sinatra cut there, along with Nat King Cole and
Tennessee Ernie Ford. So did Glen Campbell, Woody
Herman, and Peggy Lee. At one time, record producers
like Lee Gillette, Voyle Gilmore, and Dave Dexter kept
those studios humming.
No sooner than we pulled onto Sunset Boulevard heading
west than I noticed the car behind us.
"I see them," said Sawyer.
"Them?"
"Two guys."
"Wearing leather jackets?"
He shrugged.
"I don't think so," said Sawyer.
"Can you shake them?"
"I don't want to shake them," said Sawyer.
"I want to
talk to them."
The car followed us down Sunset. Sawyer maintained
the speed limit. We turned right shortly after
leaving the Strip and pulled up a street that dodged
right and then left and ended after a few blocks.
When Sorrowful Jones and Davidson came around the
corner, they found Sawyer leaning against the fender
of his parked Chevrolet.
Davidson was driving. He stopped and quickly tried to
back up the narrow street.
But I'd already stepped from behind a parked car,
reached through the car window, and grabbed his shirt
collar and jerked him half out the window.
"Hi," I said. "Glad you guys decided to
accept our
invitation."
Davidson's hand reached for something. I was afraid
it might be a gun. I jerked his collar hard and his
head slammed against the car door jam. He wasn't
knocked unconscious, but he was left dazed. His
sunshades fell off into the floorboard of the car.
Sorrowful found himself suddenly looking at the gun
barrel of Sawyer's regulation .38 police revolver
through the other window. The revolver wasn't
actually pointed at Sorrowful; Sawyer had his arms
folded across the sill of the car window and the
revolver merely rested casually in one hand.
"I don't recommend any sudden moves," Sawyer said.
"Of course, not," said Sorrowful Jones. He kept
both
hands visible and still. They rested palms down on
the dashboard of the car. His craggy face, however,
remained placid.
"You guys wanted to talk to us?"
"Not really," said Sorrowful.
"But you were following us," I said.
"Protection," said Sorrowful.
"Sure glad to see you're worried about my health," I
said. "But I don't rightly understand why."
"I was following orders," Sorrowful said.
"To tell
the truth, I don't really have much consideration
personally one way or another about your health."
"Now that distresses me all to heck," I said.
"You guys have anything else to say?" asked Sawyer.
"No," said Sorrowful. "Afraid not."
"I was afraid you'd say that," I said.
"Let the man go," ordered Sawyer.
"Just one more bang?" I said.
"No more bang," said Sawyer. "Let him
go."
He stepped away from the car. His hand holding the
revolver felt to his side. But he watched Sorrowful
very carefully.
"Just when I was having fun," I said.
I turned loose of Davidson's collar. He shook his
head. He was still quite groggy. But he threw a hard
look at me. "I'm looking forward to our next
meeting."
"The idea doesn't excite me much," I said.
"Just the same," he said. "Just the
same."
Davidson started the car. He backed up. When he
reached the bend, he backed the car into a driveway,
turned, and was gone.
We watched until the car vanished around the bend of
the road.
"I'll drive you home," Sawyer said. "You
did pretty
good a few minutes ago."
"Whups. There goes my coward status right out the
window."
"You think you're a coward?"
"About as big as they come," I said. "I've
done
research on the matter."
"Interesting," said Sawyer.
(To be continued)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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Commentary
by
Claude Hall
August
4, 2003
Some, I knew...and of these I knew some well and a few
very well. I did not know Bill Gavin well and yet I
knew a great many who loved him, including John Rook
and George Burns, who organized the first Gavin
Programming Conference in 1967 in Las Vegas. This, I
could not understand for Gavin was not exactly a
lovable character. That tuff of beard. Those eyes
topping drawn cheeks. That imposing attitude. The
feeling you got around him that he was right and he
might let you think you were right at some point, but
never as right as he was. However, I personally
admired him...for he was, indeed, an admirable person
and I respected him as well for integrity virtually
without peer. His Gavin Report was read by an awful
lot of very good radio men and women and everyone I
knew believed it. Radio needed a Bill Gavin and he
was there for us all. Moreover, Gavin was a
gentleman. You realized this the instance you met him
and you knew it for a fact after you got to know him.
For these reasons--and others--we invited him and his
wife Janet with our compliments to attend the
International Radio Programming Forum at the
Century-Plaza Hotel in Los Angeles in the early 70s.
I can't recall who the emcee was at the awards
banquet--I recall that Don Imus performed his preacher
thing and gave out copies of his "bible" to everyone,
a collector's item plus, but Imus wasn't the emcee.
Bill and Janet were introduced from the stage and rose
hand in hand to a standing ovation. I've never
forgotten that moment; it was the kind of moment that
gives you a sense of belonging to a group of really
wonderful people. And rightly so. Bill and his wife
Janet, who was country music editor of the Gavin
Report until her death, were a wonderful aspect of the
radio and music world. I hope that history remembers
them well.
My wife said that the only thing Bill Gavin did wrong
during his entire life was to wait until after Janet's
death, when he had married again, to take his wife on
a cruise. This is one of the reasons I've had to take
my wife Barbara on seven cruises so far; she wasn't
about to have that happen to her.
As for the convention, it was quite unusual. I was
generally so busy that I had no time to attend any of
the sessions. To this day, I don't recall whether
someone tipped me off and I actually saw the incident
or I saw it later in a photo, but Joey Reynolds,
G1boney@aol.com, now the
overnight host on WOR-AM, New York, was a panelist in one
session and someone rushed from the audience to throw a custard
pie in his face,
a direct steal from Soupy Sales. I personally
thought
the stunt was a bit childish. Not even funny. But
others might have thought different.
Ah, but radio was FUN in those days. And this
particular convention had a lot of funny things going
on and the word funny in this case can be taken in
several ways. L. David Moorhead sat down beside me
in
the basement bar at one point and, noticing my beaded
brow, asked if I wanted some help with these
conventions. I said "hell, yes" and thus began a
close friendship that lasted until his death. He
played a major role in every convention I did after
that.
One of the funniest things that happened at the
convention, though it turned out sadly for record
veteran Morris Diamond, was when CBS Television News
called and wanted to attend the convention. With
cameras. On comps. I passed the word back to CBS
that I didn't mind them attending the convention as
long as they paid for registrations just like everyone
else. But all of this was just about during the
period when Jack Alexander, a newspaper columnist,
accused radio of taking payola. During his press
conference in Los Angeles, I sat with Jack for a few
minutes and decided he didn't know what in hell he was
talking about; it seemed that some obscure bluegrass
label had tried to get a record played on Top 40 and
couldn't and assumed you had to dance the payola tango
to get a hit. But this was also the period when my
telephone at the Billboard office was bugged, a
ludicrous situation since I was always on the phone
and it was all radio talk, not music talk. I remember
ABC Television News phoning once and asking me point
blank if I thought Bill Drake was taking payola. I
had previously been out to visit Bill at his apartment
at Marina del Rey and noticed two Cadillacs in the
building's garage. I told ABC News that while I
wouldn't put it past Bill to be able to drive two
Cadillacs at once, I just didn't think he could drive
three at once. And anyway he probably earned enough
money to afford three Cadillacs if he wanted them.
Thus, as you can imagine, I had a hunch and a half
what CBS Television News was really up to.
A major feature of that convention and others was a
cocktail party, strictly a social event, to which we
invited recording artists; this event opened the
convention the night before. And for this convention,
the cocktail party was in a huge open plaza in front
of the Century-Plaza and one-floor below ground level.
Great place for a party and there were at least
twenty major record acts there that evening, including
the Fifth Dimension who were very hot at the time.
And maybe I'd conned Bobby Vee, rvelline@aol.com,
a
neighbor, into going. So, there was a lot of record
glamour at the occasion. And here came Linda Mason
of
CBS Television, hot to trot. Well, I enlisted the
help of about five of the best-looking radio men I
knew. I can't recall their names at the moment and
maybe that's just as well, but they could have easily
been movie stars. And they were damned good, although
that's not exactly what I mean. One would escort
Linda Mason to one major record act, introduce her,
take her to another one, introduce her, then introduce
her to the next radio guy. They didn't give that poor
girl a chance to ask anyone anything serious. Result:
The next day when Joe Smith at the keynote session
mentioned payola, she didn't even have her camera
turned on. And word had spread by then among a great
number of people to watch out. So, she ended up
talking only, so far as I know, to Morris Diamond who,
he later stated, was quoted out of context. And he
was the basis for her later hour-long special on
payola in the recording industry, a very poor special
that was literally hogwash and especially huge hogwash
in light of what goes on today. Nevertheless, Morris
was effectively ruined as a record man. What a pity.
He was actually a very nice person to the best of my
knowledge. He sued CBS and I was called as a witness.
But he lost the case.
Several things happened at that Los Angeles convention
that damned well were not funny. At every convention,
we operated a sort of command post, usually in a suite
of rooms high in whatever hotel we were in. Don't
know if you knew Bob Walker, the deejay who worked in
San Francisco at one point and who was into marshal
arts. He is the only man I've ever met who got
arrested for jogging, but that was because he was also
exercising his wrists, he said, as he ran with those
two pieces of bamboo linked together with a cord (he
was actually arrested for possessing a deadly weapon
and in Bob's case they probably were; as for me, I
would have seriously wounded myself with those
sticks!). A promotion man from Philadelphia came to
the convention just to slug Buzz Bennett, a program
director, in the nose for reasons that I do not know,
but which he did in the bar lounge of the hotel before
everybody. The hotel immediately came complaining to
me about the ruffians I'd attracted. I quickly
checked and neither were registered and told the hotel
that they weren't my ruffians, per se. Whew! When I
mentioned this stuff to Scotty Brink, a man of
phenomenal memory, he pointed out that the
Philadelphia promotion man was Johnny Bond. To this
day, I don't know why Johnny Bond slugged Buzz
Bennett.
Anyway, the rumor was also out real strong at the
convention that someone was going to punch Bill Drake
in the nose, if not more so. I got Bob Walker to
hangout in the command post just in case. To the best
of my knowledge, Drake was never slugged. However,
record man Ben Scotti cornered the general manager of
a Chicago radio station in the hallway upstairs and
was going to powder him. Scotti had played pro
football, guard, with Philadelphia and at another time
with the Giants, as I recall, and was definitely
capable of powdering just about anyone. But I managed
to get him off the guy by conversation about football.
Scotty Brink comments: "I remember that convention
quite well. I don't know who planned to hit Drake,
but they either had to be real tall or would have had
to stand on a chair to do it. Ben Scotti not only
accosted Lew Witz, WCFL, but also threatened Sebastian
Stone. Come to think of it, Ben did one hell of a lot
of bullying in those days. Other than that, though, I
thought it was a swell convention."
Conventions! Ah, what great radio lore! And these
revisionist guys today think they know everything.
Hah!
Bill Kingman at Lake Tahoe, NV, tahoe61@juno.com:
"It's 1961. I'm the 19-year-old deejay doing the
all-night shift at middle-of-the-road KOWL 1490 on the
south shore of Lake Tahoe. There is no other station
on the dial at Tahoe, thus KOWL has a captive audience
and a license to print money 24-hours daily, 100%
sold-out. My shift is 8pm-4am (yes, 8 hours) 6 nights
a week, Mondays off, but--wow--$125 a week (my rent is
$75 a month including utilities)! And, deejays pick
and program their own music, their own chatter. It
also involves clearing the UPI teletype for hourly
rip-and-read newscasts. KOWL's modern studios are
inside Tahoe Harrah's beautiful new casino exactly at
the Nevada-California state line, on U.S. Highway 50
curving the southeast quadrant of Lake Tahoe.
Directly across the street is Harvey's Wagon Wheel
Gambling Hall and Saloon. Both establishments feature
live entertainment 24 hours in their piano bars and
lounges, plus Harrah's has just opened their 700-seat
South Shore Room theatre-restaurant which features
superstars like Red Skelton, Jack Benny, Johnny
Mathis, Nat King Cole, Louis Prima & Keely Smith, and Kay
Starr, always two shows nightly, seven nights a
week, year-round. One of the rotating 40-minute acts
across-the-street at Harvey's Stage Bar (stage is
about the size of your car, in the corner of a room
with hewn-beam ceiling and creaky floor) is The Newton
Brothers--Featuring Wayne & Jerry. The act is
mostly
country. Younger brother Wayne, however, is only 19
(like me) and he cannot remain on the gambling
premises between shows per Nevada law which mandates
age 21 as minimum. So, Wayne wanders across the
street and up the stairs to hang-out with me during my
deejay shift. What a big guy, built like a football
star. He completely fills the doorway. Wayne loves to
pick records from thousands of 45s and albums in
KOWL's library on the wall behind me and we have fun
many nights playing and talking about them on the air!
A year later, in 1962, I'm playing Wayne's catchy
first minor-hit single 'I Still Love You' on the
obscure George label and I'm trying to relate my
acquaintance to listeners. But it is a another year
before Wayne hits gold with 'Danke Schoen' on Capitol
Records, and later 'Red Roses for a Blue Lady'.
Somehow, we didn't stay in touch. Now it's 1971, and
I'm in the business hallway at Harrah's where Wayne is
the current sold-out headliner in their big South
Shore Room, noted above. Wayne walks by. He stops
and does a classic Laurel & Hardy double-take: 'WAIT!
I know you...BILL!!!' Little did I know of his
talent in 1961...we're the same age and I couldn't
legally see his show!"
"Danke Schoen!" I goofed in a recent Commentary
regarding the spelling. Wayne Newton might forgive
me, but it's Bear I'm worried about.
I asked Don Keyes, keynote@comcast.net,
for his
perspective on old man Bart McLendon, Gordon's father.
Whatever Don wishes to say, I'm going to let him say
it, plead for more and even more, because the man is a
treasure house of radio lore. He writes: "Down deep
in the inner recesses of my mind there is a little
room where I store really neat words that are only
used infrequently. I have spent several minutes down
there shuffling thru my private stock of words to find
one that would best describe B.R. McLendon. After
dusting one off and polishing it up I feel that I can
present it to you. That word is 'irascible' and I
don't think I've used it in a long time. But that
describes him quite well. Obviously, that word has a
negative connotation and I don't wish to leave it at
that. Mr. Mac, as all employees called him, had a
great feel for finance. He had no grasp at all when
it came to programming or promotions but he didn't
need to. He had Gordon for that. He and Gordon would
often get into spirited discussions about business and
Mr. Mac was a great source of fiscal propriety which
served as a countermeasure to some of Gordon's
outlandish programming and promotion ideas. They
loved each other dearly and candidly, I feel that B.R.
was a great sobering influence in their partnership.
He was a snappy dresser and always looked like he had
just come from the men's department at Neimans or
James K. Wilson. During the nine years that I was
National PD he would come in every morning, tend to
business and then go to lunch with Dorothy Manning,
our secretary-treasurer, and then go play golf not to
be seen again until the following morning. All
McLendon managers were vice presidents of the company.
Since I was in a staff position at one point, I was
named vice president-programming. Glenn Callison,
our
chief engineer was vice president of engineering.
Naturally, this was a family-owned corporation and
there was zero stock ownership...just neat titles. I
think I was about 26 when named a VP and I thought
that was pretty cool. One day while talking to Bill
Weaver, who was manager of KILT at the time, he was
kidding me about my promotion to VP. He said to me,
'So now you're a McLendon executive, eh?' I responded
in the affirmative and he said, 'Well, You're not
until B.R. has had a piece of you, only then will you
be a McLendon executive'. I chuckled, not really
knowing what he meant. But I sure found out later
when the old man jumped my case for something or
other. Then, I knew what he meant. And that's a
whole 'nother story. The late Billie Odom, Gordon's
long-time executive secretary, once referred to Mr.
Mac as the world's greatest stack blower and she was
right. Fortunately, it was rare for me to travel with
Mr. Mac and that's just as well. He was the rudest
person with waiters that I've ever seen and many times
I wanted to slide down under the table until the meal
was over. I could go on, but I feel I've captured the
essence of the man. When he died Gordon sent me
B.R.'s Masonic ring since I was a Mason at that time.
The ring itself wore out a few years ago but I still
wear the 2.4 carat stone in a new setting and it
serves as a constant reminder of some remarkable men
during some equally remarkable times in radio. I was,
and am, a very lucky guy."
>From Michael Lucas in Austin, TX,
mjlucas@austin.rr.com,
who has a voiceover firm at
michael@lucasvoiceover.com:
"I am sure enjoying your
radio stories featured in Larry Shannon's Radio Daily
News. Larry is a hell of a guy and I'm glad I had a
chance to work with him briefly in Fort Worth in the
mid-70s. BTW, my favorite Ernie Kovacs bit is where
he had the whole set built at an angle, the cameras
were mounted at a corresponding angle, so that the
viewer didn't know that things were off-kilter. Then,
during the course of the skit (I don't even remember
what it was about), he would pour liquids and drop
things. Of course, to the viewer, gravity was
haywire. The liquids were running off an angle,
things didn't drop straight down...it was wacky!
Someone (Look, Life or TV Guide) did a feature on how
that was done and we sure were relieved to know that
all was right with the world, after all. Keep up the
good work. Between Larry, Chuck Dunaway and you, I
get to re-live my 25 years in radio each and every
week. Thanks for the memories."
>From Ted Marvelle, shazam@mvdsl.com:
"Just a personal note. I just today came across evidence
that you are indeed still live and kickn' after all these years.
Way back in the day when I was jocking and you were
Mr. Vox Jox, your mentions helped me move along to
better things more than once. I remember, but you
well may not, a couple times, while I was laboring at
KBIG in LA, getting together with you at your place
(perhaps with Jimi Foxx) for a drink or two. Vox Jox,
and Billboard for that matter, were never the same
after you moved on. I listened to Don McKinnon when he
was in San Diego...and he WAS the very best disc
jockey I ever heard. I was just through with the Navy
and he's to blame for me becoming a radio guy. Him
and Bill Wade, who later started a radio school.
Later, I worked with some of the best...like Bob
Elliot (K.O. Bailey) and many others of the early
Drake years. I truly enjoyed your poem, many memories
and some tears. If I could write like you, I'd finish
my Great American Novel, now merely a novelty."
Ah, Ted. Good to hear from you. And if I could just
convince a book publisher that I'm as great as I would
like to be, you and I could swap Great American Novel
tales...you know, the tale where we became overnight
successes.
Ted mentioned Jimi (né Gomes) Foxx, one of the
descendants of Portuguese who settled early in San
Diego. Jimi once mentioned to me that his family
owned 31 rental properties in the San Diego area.
With the explosion in property values in California, I
would surmise that Jimi is probably fairly well-to-do
these days. I would also surmise that he still
remembers his radio days programming Ten-Q, Los
Angeles, quite fondly.
Bill Mouzis, BMouzis@aol.com,
sent me a note a while
back about "The History of Rock'n'Roll," the
phenomenal special produced by the legendary Ron
Jacobs. I wrote back: "I felt honored that you
included me on your mailing list for this note.
Great, great, great special! I used to kid Ron about
the error on Elvis. 'Blue Moon of Kentucky' was
actually the first release on Sun Records. Sam
Phillips (at dinner one evening in Nashville with his
two sons and his mistress and Paul Ackerman of
Billboard) mentioned that he paid Dewey Phillips (no
relation) $5 to play it in Memphis and persuaded a
woman jukebox programmer to put it on a route in
northeast Texas. And I, right after it came out, paid
for a 45 rpm single in an blues shop down in the alley
by the Commodore Hotel in Austin, TX. Heard it first
on the live Saturday night 'Louisiana Hayride' show
over KWKH, Shreveport. Persuaded a disc jockey named
Red Jones, who had a 'Country Cavalcade' two-hour show
on KVET, Austin, to play it and he had to buy a copy,
too!"
Even the Reuters obit of the death of Sam Phillips,
Sun Records, this past week mentioned the first
release of Elvis Presley as "That's All Right."
But
it wasn't.
Well, as many of you know, you don't kid Ron Jacobs,
whodaguy@lava.net, the
ruling media guru of the
Hawaiian islands. I have a hunch that you didn't kid
with Bill Gavin either. Regardless, Ron never
changed
the special. But he was kind enough years and years
ago to send me three hours of the program. I've had
to move a few times over the years; just hope those
reels are still in some box in this house. Sadly,
I've lost so many things along the way. But I was
just thinking that Ron ought to put that special on
CDs and make them available to the public. Lou
Dorren, xytar@yahoo.com,
would be the perfect person
to do it, too. I would think that public and college
libraries would be a good market for that special.
And what a great, great special it is. Just FYI, Ron
has a book out about KHJ and you can reach him at the
e-mail address above. Good book.
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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