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"Murder
at the Busted Bird Cafe"
by Claude Hall
Chapter 16
We sat in my pickup in the dark about a block away
from the building housing the offices of the Society
for Critical Studies. One of the uniforms brought us
black coffee in Styrofoam containers before leaving in
the patrol car. The other waited in Sawyer's car out
of view a couple of blocks beyond the building.
"You were aware those papers were phony?" I said.
"No," said Sawyer. "Just aware that anyone can get
papers. And with papers you can obtain a warrant from
some judge or other. On the other hand, I didn't have
a search warrant, nor any valid reason to be there.
As I mentioned to you the other day: restrictions and
more restrictions."
"Remind me not to telephone you for help next time."
"What were you trying to do?" he asked.
"I've got to find Jo."
"You think the society had something to do with her
disappearance?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. Hell, I don't know. But Tricia
and her two associates seem to know a lot and I don't
and I wanted to learn what they knew."
Someone came out of the front entrance of the
building. From this distance and in the dark, I
couldn't tell whether it was Davidson or Sorrowful
Jones.
Sawyer and I waited for the lovely Tricia. We almost
missed her.
Her car went up the street and turned left on Van
Nuys. It looked like a gray Mercedes, though it was
difficult to tell for sure at this distance in the
yellow glow of the passing streetlights. But she'd
obviously dumped her rental car.
We stayed several blocks behind her on Van Nuys. When
she turned onto a side street, I speeded the pickup a
little and we were just in time to see her pull into
an apartment complex three blocks off Van Nuys.
I parked slightly more than a block away from the
complex and we sat in the dark, finishing the coffee.
She didn't stay long. Within 20 minutes, her car
pulled back on the street and, once on Van Nuys, sped
toward the Ventura Freeway. I lost her as she pulled
onto the freeway heading toward Thousand Oaks.
But Sawyer had already phoned headquarters and a
couple of unmarked cars were waiting to trail her.
I dropped Sawyer at police headquarters where his car
was waiting.
"Stay out of trouble," he said.
"Sure," I said. "By the way, when you tried to
scare
Davidson back there, you mentioned knowing all about
me. What have you found out?
"Classified," said Sawyer with a grin.
"That's what I thought," I said. "At least tell me
who you talked to."
"Dr. Lou Dorren."
"I was afraid of that. And what did my late friend
Dr. Dorren have to say about me?"
"You don't really want to know," Sawyer said. He
paused. "When did Dr. Dorren die? I just talked to
him yesterday."
"As soon as I see him," I said.
Sawyer's day was over. Mine was just beginning. But,
of course, I couldn't tell Sawyer that.
Half an hour later, I parked my pickup near Tricia's
apartment complex.
Unfortunately, the complex had perhaps a hundred
apartments and there was no Tricia Rizzo listed for
any of them neither on the mailboxes or doors. I
found the manager's office; he graciously forgot his
television program to talk with me...especially after
I handed him $20. But he knew of no beautiful blonde
living in the Nada de Nada Apartments. "And I would,
I think, know something like that."
I waited more than an hour. To the best of my
knowledge, she didn't return. At least, not while I
waited.
Perhaps the lovely Tricia Rizzo had pulled a ruse on
me. As Sawyer would have said, "Interesting."
By now, it was getting late. Traffic had fallen off
on this side street to a random car now and then
carrying someone home late from work.
But Sunset Strip would be just opening up for business
and someone might even be still hanging around in the
dim booths of Martoni's.
I was wrong about Sawyer's day. It wasn't over after
all. He was leaning against the bar at Martoni's
talking in whispers to Freddie DiSippio. An untouched
bottle of Perrier water sat on the bar in front of
him.
When Freddie glanced my direction as I came in the
door, Sawyer turned around to face me.
"She didn't live there, did she?" asked Sawyer.
"You knew that, didn't you?"
"I had someone run a make on that license plate on her
Mercedes. It's rented. But we found something
interesting on the car rental form; the name of J.
Carney."
"Could that also be fake?"
"Probably. Here's a local address for you anyway,"
said Sawyer and handed me a note. "A cop trailed her
to this place in Westlake. She stayed there just a
few minutes...just long enough to change clothes.
Right now, she's at the Palomino in the valley."
"There's nothing worse than a smart-assed cop," I
said. I took the note and put it in my pocket.
"Thanks."
"Except a smart-assed disc jockey going off half
cocked," said Sawyer with a grin.
Freddie handed me a Perrier.
"Can't I have a beer?
"No," said Freddie.
"How about a sandwich?"
"Okay on the sandwich," Freddie said.
"I've got to find her," I told Sawyer. "Not our
blonde bitch. I'm talking about Jo. They could kill
her, these creeps. Hell, she may already be dead!"
Sawyer put a hand on my shoulder.
"Sometimes, it may appear as if the police doesn't
give a damned or they've got their head up their ass.
Unfortunately, that's sometimes true," said Sawyer.
His voice got lower and sounded sad. "But your
girlfriend is not the first person kidnapped in this
goddamned city. We've had experience at this sort of
thing. Unfortunately. Maybe...just maybe...we know
what we're doing."
"I believe that, Hey You. But if you talked to Dr.
Dorren, the great legendary Texican, you know why it
doesn't matter and why I've got to keep trying."
"Screw Dr. Dorren," said Sawyer.
"I'll drink to that," I said. I picked up the
Perrier. We clanked bottles. I took a slug of the
water.
He took his bottle and looked over the mouth of the
bottle as if it were a gunsight.
"Stay out of the way, Buddy."
"Stay out of who's way?"
"Mine."
"I've got a better idea," I said. "You do the
staying
and I'll do the going."
There was no one of importance in Martoni's. Not even
Wesley Bird. Some minor radio guys sat in the booth,
talking, glancing at us now and then, wondering who we
were because Freddie DiSippio had deigned to talk with
us on a personal level.
"Dr. Dorren said you were crazy," said Sawyer in a
tone that indicated it was more of a question than a
statement.
"As you said a moment ago: Screw Dr. Dorren."
"Why would he say something like that, I wonder?"
"Mistaken identify?"
"Said he was your advisor on your Ph.D. program until
one day you started screaming and ran out of his
office and didn't come back."
"Just like old fuddy duddy Dorren to exaggerate like
that. I didn't start screaming. I started crying."
"God! Crying?"
"Beats hell out of screaming," I said.
"Should I ask why?"
"It had something to do with Todd Storz. All because
his brain exploded."
"Someone shot him?"
"No. He died because of his immense love for radio.
Kent Burkhart worked for him. Kent said one day Storz
just died of a brain thing. He was still pretty
young. I was writing something about it and got to
thinking about it and just started crying and couldn't
stop. The man had created some great things in radio
and he never lived to see them."
"You really must love radio."
"Russ Regan, Joe Smith, Jac Holzman love the music
business. I love the radio business."
Saying that last bit reminded me of Jo. I had to wipe
something out of my eyes. Sawyer understood.
"Dr. Dorren also said you were once in some kind of
special forces unit in the army and had gotten into
some kind of, as he put it, 'Japanese guru crap'."
"He does have a way with words," I said. "Actually,
it was Ni Ten Ichi Ryu. Have you ever heard of 'The
Book of Five Rings'?"
"Afraid not."
"An ancient Japanese Samurai named Miyamoto Mushasi
wrote a philosophy about a way of thinking. Or a way
of combat. Or strategy. Whichever."
"Is that how a self-claimed coward was able to handle
two killers this afternoon?"
"Mushasi once took on a guy with a sword and he had
nothing in his hand but a wooden pole. Whipped him,
too."
"A stick doesn't work too well against a gun, though,"
said Sawyer.
"I'm a professional coward," I admitted. "Goes back
to the Alamo. Very Texican and all that sort of
thing. I only fight when I have to."
"Us Mexicans are in for trouble," said Sawyer.
Freddie brought me a ham and cheese on rye and a glass
of milk and set the same thing before Sawyer. I began
to wolf the sandwich down. I felt that time was
running out. I needed to be doing something. I
didn't know what, but something.
"You think Davidson and Jones are killers?" I asked
between bites.
"Just an assumption," said Sawyer. "But in all
probability professional dog soldiers. Just as soon
kill you as talk to you."
"They seem dumb to me."
"That's because you're extremely bright--yeah, Dr.
Dorren also told me that--and they are dumb by
comparison."
"But...."
"They are not fighters, Buddy. They are killers with
the kind of mentality that only follow orders. Unless
extremely provoked. I recognize the type all too
well. You were lucky today. Don't take luck for
granted."
The sandwich was good. As Dr. Lou Dorren might have
said, something you could wrap your stomach around. I
finished it up quickly.
"How come Dr. Dorren talked to you?" I asked. "I
don't think he even talks to the dean of the school.
He's the most unavailable man in the world.
"I told him that I was a friend of yours," Sawyer
said.
"And what did he say to that?"
"Said to tell you to get your ass down to Austin and
finish up your Ph.D."
"Dr. Dorren does have a way with words," I repeated.
"So, you're not going to stay out of the way?"
"I can't," I told Sawyer. "You know that."
He finished his sandwich.
"I really don't want you tagging along on my coat
tails," he said. "You'll slow me down."
"Same here," I said.
"Be careful," he said.
"Same."
"And call me if you run across anything."
"Is that an order?" I asked.
"You damned right."
"I thought us Texicans won at the Alamo."
"My ancestors were inside the Alamo, gringo. I
checked. Yours were still in Missouri at the time."
I left him talking to Freddie almost in the same pose
as when I'd walked in. I wondered what Freddie knew
that was so interesting. It could wait until later.
Right now, I had to find Jo.
I handed the parking slip for my pickup to the valet.
He told me that my cellular had been ringing.
I slipped him a five dollar bill.
But the cellular didn't ring again while I was en
route to the Palomino.
The trip took a while. The Palomino, launched by
Tommy Thomas back in the area of World War II, had
been a country music hangout for decades. At one
time, extras working a movie could ride up the dirt
road and hitch their horse to the rail outside and
take a beer break. Today, all of Lankersheim
Boulevard is paved. But the clientele of the Palomino
probably hasn't changed. The club was used in a movie
about stunt men featuring Burt Reynolds. There was a
fight in the movie. The movie didn't lie. That has
been a recurrent motif in the Palomino throughout the
years. The question was: What did Tricia hope to
find in the Palomino? Was this a research trip on her
part? Or pleasure?
No, not pleasure. She wasn't the Palomino type.
There is no valet parking at the Palomino. You find a
place on the side or in the back and you walk around
to the front and try to get in. Some nights, like
when Hoyt Axton was performing there, it was
difficult. In the old days, Tiny stood guard on the
door. There's a story that one night some customer
got mad and shot him in the neck with an arrow and
Tiny went to the hospital and got it pulled out and
went back to work.
You don't find Tiny at the Pal anymore and I did not
find a blonde either. She had become a brunette.
I was disappointed to discover that the blonde hair
had been a wig. Women shouldn't be allowed to do that
sort of thing. If I ever decide to practice the
penultimate in masochism and run for president of the
United States, my ticket will include the law that
women can't wear wigs. Five years in jail, minimum,
if caught.
She was with two men at a distant table. All three
wore blue jeans and western shirts. The kind you used
to buy in a western wear place like Nudie's and now
could find in Sears and Montgomery Ward. On the two
men, the clothes looked out of place, but so did the
bandage you could see under the hat worn by Sorrowful
Jones. And Davidson's sunshades were a serious
mistake in the Pal. Tricia Rizzo, however, had hips
that made Wranglers look like Christian Dior.
I drifted away from the entrance, but stayed close to
the wall and out of direct view in some shadows.
The band was good, but no group that I knew. The lead
singer, a macho type wearing blue jeans and a leather
vest and sandals, thought he was the new Merle
Haggard. Fortunately, the old one hasn't retired yet.
The one thing I didn't expect was Wesley Bird in a
country music nightclub. In spite of the fact that
country music had recently become big business and
even Clive Davis, the epitome of non-country, was
putting out country music records, Bird was not the
type to indulge. He was evidently just returning from
a phone call.
Cellular phones had put a serious crimp in the intake
of pay phones in America's bars and honky tonks. With
the music industry, a cellular had become a status
symbol as well as a necessity. Without one of those
damned things stuck in your ear regardless of where
you were at, you weren't "taking care of business."
Bird had evidently sought privacy--or a quieter place
away from the band--for a phone call; his cellular
phone was still in his hand as he came back to the
table and took the empty chair. He placed the phone
into one of those all-too-cute belt pouches, the kind
worn by tourists.
For a moment, I thought about taking a chair and going
over there and joining the party. The expression on
Sorrowful's face would have been worth the ticket
price. On the other hand, they had probably picked up
a new gun or two. At the moment, I didn't feel like
dodging bullets.
Too, it had occurred to me that something was either
happening or about to happen.
This was only a feeling. A very strong feeling.
Instinctively, I looked around the room, staring into
the faces that I could see. I didn't quite know what
I was searching for. Some suspicious gesture, someone
not really listening to the music, people engaged in
more than casual conversation.
The band stepped into "Mr. Bojangles," but the lead
singer looked a little silly in the song; he was
imitating Sammy Davis Jr., not the original Jerry Jeff
Walker version. Charley Pride was welcome in the
Pal, not Sammy Davis Jr. Not when he was alive and
not now.
The applause was almost non-existent. The band
immediately swung into "That's All Right," which was
all right because of Elvis. Elvis would have been
welcome at the Pal and would probably still be alive
if he'd played the Pal instead of those Las Vegas
glitter joints.
Everything seemed to be kosher at the Pal. One guy
was having a little too much fun over at the bar, but
that was because he'd had a little too much to drink.
The only thing out of the ordinary was the table where
Tricia Rizzo and her two goons sat with a creep named
Wesley Bird.
And the scene really got creepy when Horace Vosberg,
editor of the music trade weekly Disc Times, walked
between a waitress and the guy at the bar toward the
table. Sammy might have been out of place at the Pal,
but Vosberg was like a sour lemon among peaches. I
would have bet seventeen donuts to a can of turtle
soup that this was his first visit to the nightclub in
spite of his more than two decades in the business.
What was really strange, however, was the mere fact
that Vosberg was not only in the same room with
someone like Wesley Bird, but sitting at the same
table talking with him.
Bird had, evidently, been expecting Vosberg. He
jumped to his feet and quickly scrounged a chair from
a nearby table.
After introductions, the conversation became animated.
I watched for a while, wondering what possible topic
those people would have in common--the editor of a
music trade magazine, the head of some kind of odd
organization and her goons, and one of the worse
payola creeps in the record business.
If I could only listen in on their conversation!
Unfortunately, that was not only impossible at the
moment, but inappropriate. Impossible on the one hand
because I'm allergic to dodging bullets and I believe
implicitly that Davidson wanted to shoot me and
Sorrowful Jones might let him. Inappropriate because
I hoped I might learn more in the long run if I stayed
out of view.
But nothing else happened. Not so far as I could tell
from the shadows.
When the conversation ended and Vosberg left, I
thought he left in a state of discontent. Not anger.
He didn't seem to be agitated. However, I felt that
he wasn't completely satisfied with what had been
discussed at the table. Somebody was evidently giving
out orders and it probably wasn't him.
Bird, on the other hand, seemed to have won some kind
of major victory. He was trying not to show it, but
there was a thin smug smile on his face.
Davidson and Sorrowful, of course, did not change
expression. Davidson still hid behind those
ever-present sunshades; Sorrowful's face wore its
usual gullies and arroyos. I would surmise that dent
under the bandage probably hadn't improved his
disposition any.
Tricia's face was hard to read. I couldn't help but
believe she'd achieved her mission, whatever that
mission was.
Bird left eventually and somewhat reluctantly. His
good-bye to Tricia was warm, almost fawning. He
didn't bother to say good-bye to either Davidson or
Sorrowful. It was as if he refused to admit they were
even there.
When Bird turned his back, I noticed Davidson shift
his arm slightly, as if adjusting his shoulder
holster. For a moment, I thought he was going to draw
the gun. Bird's back probably would have made an
excellent target.
Bird's shoulders twitched slightly as he reached the
door, just as if he was nervously aware of Davidson's
thoughts. Then he disappeared through into the dark.
Tricia and her two stooges sat for a while. For
almost a minute, they didn't even talk.
When Davidson said something, Tricia snapped at him.
I could almost hear the words in spite of the loud
music of the bank. Her eyes flashed. Davidson
quickly looked away.
At that point, Tricia got up and stormed angrily out
of the nightclub.
Sorrowful took a deep breath, then he followed.
Davidson continued to look at the band, but I don't
think he heard the music. In fact, as the band ended
the song and left the foot-high stage in the corner of
the room, he continued to stare in the same direction
as if they were still there.
But he noticed me when I sat down.
"Hello, two eyes," I said.
When he grabbed for his pistol, I took an empty bottle
of beer and hit him over the head with it. He
immediately sagged unconscious over the table.
The guy who'd been having just a little too much fun
at the bar came over. I suppose he was coming to the
rescue of Davidson.
I shoved a chair in his way. He stumbled over it and
fell onto the floor.
Before anyone else could become involved, I reached
over and slung Davidson's arm over my shoulder. I
stood up. He was heavier than he looked, but I
started dragging him toward the rear door of the
nightclub.
"Drunk," I said.
The guy who'd fallen on the floor rolled over, propped
himself up on one arm. "Oh. Sorry."
"Quite all right," I told him.
It is not unusual to see someone being carried from
the Palomino. There are those who would tell you it's
part of the charm of the place.
Someone even opened the back door for me and asked if
I needed help.
I told him that I had the situation under control.
Whether I did or not was in doubt.
No one noticed us as we crossed the back of the
parking lot to my pickup; if anyone noticed us, they
certainly didn't bother us.
I managed to get Davidson onto the seat. Then I
walked around and tried to find some rope in the
camper. No rope. Not even a piece of wire. I did
find some Krazy Glue.
Oh, well. Now and then, a person has to improvise.
I put three or four dabs on each of his palms and held
them together for a minute.
His new gun was a .45 Colt.
I put that in the glove compartment of the pickup. He
wasn't going to need a gun for a long, long time. If
then. His billfold, I took and put it in the glove
compartment with the gun. For a moment, I thought
about looking in the billfold to see who he was this
time. But I didn't; I realized I didn't care who he
was or who he was trying to be. His shoes, I dropped
out the window onto the parking lot of the Palomino.
For a moment, I debated about the shirt; it gets
pretty chilly at night out in the desert. Then, I
decided what the hell and took a knife and cut his
shirt off and threw that out the window, too.
Starting the pickup, I drove across the valley and
caught a freeway that led over to the San Diego
Freeway.
In the old days, Sand Canyon was sparsely settled. A
ranch or two; Cliffie Stone, a legend in the Los
Angeles music business as both a music publisher and
the manager of Tennessee Ernie Ford, used to have a
small ranch out there. There were a mine or two
further along. But today it's all development; houses
piled almost on top of each other.
There are, however, a few lonely roads left that run
off into the distance north and east into the low
hills and rocks that reach for the sky.
Davidson regained consciousness as I parked the pickup
a couple of miles up a dirt road. I cut off the motor
and the lights, reached over and opened the door on
his side and kicked him out into the dark.
All I had was a battery-operated fluorescent lamp. I
placed it on the fender of the pickup and waited while
Davidson regained himself. He didn't know what I'd
done to his hands. He was still groggy and not
totally alert; the problem with his hands confused
him. Too, the light was semi-directional. I stood in
the shadows at the edge of the broad flow of light; he
was out there like on center stage. And he'd fallen
almost into a cactus. The funny thing was his
sunshades had not fallen off.
He struggled to a sitting position.
"Dammit!"
I didn't say anything. I confess to feeling
compassion for him. There are people who can deal out
pain like a cook serving pancakes; they do it more or
less efficiently and as effective as necessary and
probably suffer no remorse either during the procedure
or later. I'm not that kind of guy. I hope.
However, I was desperate. Somewhere in or near Los
Angeles was a young rock'n'roll would-be star who was
probably feeling very hurt, very lonely, and very
desolate. Disc jockeys suffer from egotism to some
extent and some to a great extent; it takes a lot of
ego to turn on a microphone and believe that there are
people actually listening to you and most of them are
eager to hear what you've got to say. Because of the
ego, you sort of tend to take everything for granted.
A few days ago, in all of my culturally non-biased
glory, I would have told you that I didn't take women
for granted. But the real truth was that I, along
with just about every male disc jockey in the United
States and Canada, probably took all women for
granted. They were, after all, our natural right.
But after her kidnapping, I had begun to realize that
Jo had gotten under my skin.
No, maybe it was more than that.
To tell the truth, I'd grown rather fond of her and
used to having her around. More fond than I really
wanted to admit to myself and something I would never
admit to anyone else. Except Sawyer. Maybe.
I wondered how he was doing with his investigation.
Freddie DiSippio knew an awful lot of gossip about the
music business and the people. Not just those who
thronged into Martoni's for their daily or weekly
injection of "showbiz." Just about everyone.
Because
the record business, per se, is a rather small
industry. Jo had been right about that. The main
music capitols were New York, Nashville, and Los
Angeles. And everyone stayed in touch through the
almost mythical grapevine of gossip. Half of the
gossip consisted of put down and some of the put down
was vicious and quite a lot of it had little to do
with reality. The other half of the gossip was also
somewhat biased. But so was everything, when you got
right down to it, about the entire music business.
Davidson said a few more dammits as he tried to get to
his feet.
Thinking about Jo, I leaned forward and kicked him
into the cactus.
Davidson screamed. If you've ever been stuck by a
cactus needle off of a prickly pear cactus, you know
why. Worse, the needles carry some kind of minor
poison. He would really be hurting tomorrow.
He scrambled out of the cactus on his knees, crying.
Make that wailing. Sounded like a coyote.
With my right boot, I nudged him into the cactus
again.
This time, he was definitely crying as he rolled on
his side to escape the cactus needles.
He couldn't see me in the shadows. But, with wide
eyes, he tried.
"What...what do you want?"
"I want some information. No bullshit. Just
information."
"Coffee? Max Coffee?"
Davidson would never learn. He still thought of me as
dead meat and himself as the butcher. That was a
mistake.
"Buddy Coffee!" I said and shoved him into the cactus
again.
The cactus needles must have caused him unimaginable
pain. When he tried to move, he blundered into more
cactus needles. After three tries, he remained still,
blubbering like a baby.
I grabbed a foot and pulled him out of the cactus.
"We need to talk," I said. "What is your
name?"
He appeared ready to tell me everything I needed to
know, but had trouble getting the words out.
"Herko. Wal...Walter Herko."
"And Tricia's real name?"
"Karen Velline." His breath was ragged.
"If that lady has as many wigs as she has names,
mankind is definitely in trouble," I said. "Now, I
want to know about Jo.
"I don't know anything about a Jo."
"A petite blonde whose real name is Travoti."
"She...she's safe. That's all I can tell you."
When he saw my boot move forward, he began to cry
again. Between the blubbering, I heard him say, "It's
the truth! The truth! I didn't do it."
"Okay. Tell me everything that you do know. I
insist."
Jo was being held captive at an apartment in the
valley in one of those apartment complexes not too far
off Van Nuys. He didn't know the address. But the
apartment was number 16; he remembered that.
"It has to do with her old man. That's all I know."
It wasn't all he knew. I was positive about that.
But I didn't have a lot more time to waste.
Just to be polite, I thanked him.
"You aren't going to leave me here?" His voice
carried a tone of desolation.
"It's best you don't return to Los Angeles," I said.
"Las Vegas is off that direction about 250 miles.
When the sun comes up, I recommend you go that way."
"We still have to talk," Davidson said.
"You're asking for it. You really are dumb," I said.
(To be continued)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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Commentary
by
Claude Hall
August
24, 2003
I had trouble remembering his name. And this is odd
because I really liked him and had great respect for
his ability as a phenomenal public relations man. He
helped me a lot during my early days on Billboard in
New York City. His name was Milt Rich and he was
small and like some puppy you used to have as a kid.
The only client I'm sure that he had was Bob Keene.
Captain Kangaroo. Regardless, I'm quite positive that
it was Milt who set up that first meeting for me with
Bill Randle who in those days was doing an hour daily
radio show on WCBS-AM in Manhattan in addition to his
regular radio show on WERE in Cleveland. Milt had
that unusual knack of making you think it was your
idea to do something on one of his clients. Did he
also represent Arthur Godfrey? I do not know.
However, it was probably Milt who arranged for me to
sit in one day on the Arthur Godfrey radio show at
WCBS. Godfrey, by now, was being phased out. His
radio show wasn't long for the world even though jazz
singer Joe Williams was a regular. It was a
"live"
music show with a group of musicians that, as I
recall, were more of a band than an orchestra. I felt
the feeling of "let's get it over with" from Godfrey
and it wasn't about me, it was about the show and
about life. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the show and
being with him and today think of it as sort of an
honor. He was more than just a legend by now; he was
literally a god. I've heard stories about Godfrey
from both Bill Randle and L. David Moorhead. They
knew him personally. Moorhead said that Godfrey had
been forbidden to fly because of high blood pressure
or something medical. So, Moorhead went along as
"pilot of license" and during the flight Godfrey
noticed an oil rig platform off the coast of
California and buzzed it, causing workers to leap into
the water. Moorhead had a lot of explaining to do.
But Godfrey didn't like them drilling offshore,
spoiling the environment; I just wonder what he would
say now about G.W. Bush and Alaska.
Anyway, it was Milt who gave me a good sense regarding
public relations. I know there were a few who were
great at promotion stunts such as P.T. Barnum and
then, too, we have Ivy Lee and Edward L. Bernays, the
fathers of modern public relations (my wife Barbara
once had a question about something and she phoned
Bernays and talked with him; talk about female
audacity!). Bennett Cerf also published some great
stories about promotion stunts. It should be noted
that I'd taken a course at the University of Texas
under Alan Scott, author of one of the early college
textbooks regarding public relations. In the 50s,
however, public relations was not yet a science and
far, far from being the art form of today. Although I
did conduct a couple of conventions and a nationwide
promotion for Billboard, I didn't become really adept
at public relations for the magazine until we shifted
headquarters of the magazine to Los Angeles. Every
radio person who showed up received a personal tour of
the magazine, regardless of how busy I might have
been. I had done this in New York City, too, but by
the time we moved to Los Angeles, we were receiving a
constant flow of radio disc jockeys and program
directors through the office. Many from abroad. I
tried to make them all feel at home with the exception
of a creap called the Mojo Man who showed up with a
15-year-old girl in tow. I'd heard about him. I got
him out of that office fast!
Some further "education" regarding public relations
came to me from Carl Terzian out in Los Angeles, one
of the very best I ever knew. Once, he invited me to
a luncheon speech by Dwight Case, then president of
RKO Radio, before, as I remember, the Rotary Club of
Los Angeles. In those days, it was largely a turnout
of men. Carl refused to take credit for anything that
day, but that is one of the things that makes public
relations unique and why it can be so extremely
effective. Anyway, those of you who've met Dwight
know he's good and this particular day, like WWII hero
Joe Foss, he's talking more than speechifying. During
his talk, he mentions that his son has "never heard
his father talk and, well, he's in the audience today"
and then Dwight asked his son to stand up so everyone
could see him and, of course, it brought down the
house. Dwight could do no wrong after that.
George Wilson had/has the ability to capture an
audience like that. It was Chicago. A convention of
the National Association of Broadcasters. George had
two "girl Fridays"--I remember that one was named
Marti Neirbass--and they were both with him and I seem
to remember that one of the ladies was writing his
talk by hand while we sat in the audience even as the
event got underway before more than 1,000 upper-level
broadcasters. The occasion was a panel of five radio
presidents and George was fairly new as head of
Bartell Broadcasting. The guy who was introducing
each of the presidents, I don't remember, but then he
wasn't worth remembering. Your typical smart-ass.
And when it came time for George, smart-ass did a
putdown you wouldn't believe. Now George was dressed
in a suit and tie and looked sharp. But the
introduction was about someone in bluejeans and
sandals..."a former disc jockey and program director
who now has to wear a suit." The guy finished his
putdown and George walked out to the podium and stood
there for a moment before stating, "Yeah, but I'm not
wearing any shorts." Huge uproar of both laughter and
applause. And George was the hit of the afternoon.
The best public speaker in radio, in my opinion, was
Jack G. Thayer, who rose from disc jockey to president
of NBC Radio. In some cardboard box around this
house, I probably still have a copy of his speech. It
was the same speech every time. Of course, I only
heard him talk six times, so he might have given
another talk once somewhere, but I doubt it. He
changed the joke now and then and the anecdote now and
then, but basically it was a speech that you could
classify as about "God, motherhood and apple pie."
And he got a standing ovation every time. Even when
he talked once down in Australia at one of the
conferences organized by Peter Davidson and Kevin
O'Donohue when they were with 2SM, Sydney. Of course,
Jack had a headstart on something like a speech
because everyone liked him. He had that gift because
he was always "on your side."
So, after a day's grilling, including a lunch that was
basically a question and answer session, I've been
given a teaching position at the State University of
New York at Brockport. Mostly journalism. And both
the journalism program and the public relations
program were floundering. Matter of fact, the public
relations program barely existed and as for teaching
journalism, there were 15 manual typewriters available
in the library on campus, but one of them was busted.
Believe it or not, that first semester, I taught
journalism by hand. All of the assignments in class
were handwritten. I swear. And not every student had
access to a typewriter, so most of the out-of-class
assignments were also handwritten. Dr. Fred Powell, a
noble soul if there ever was one, was desperately
trying to put through the paperwork with the state
government to obtain Compugraphic equipment for a
teaching lab. Meanwhile, I discovered there were five
Apple 2es in a storage room of the Communications
Department. Plans were to make these available to
students in the department, but the still-boxed
computers had been there a couple of years. I asked
if I could use one in my office until they found the
room, etc., for the computers. I'd taken a course in
Basic at Phillips University, so I knew vaguely how to
use an Apple IIe. Soon, I discovered there was a
small lab of such computers in the basement of a
nearby building, but they were used mostly by local
kids for games. I asked if I could use the computers
for a class three times a week and they said okay.
And the second semester of that academic year, early
1985, at SUNY/Brockport, I began teaching journalism
on Apples. The students caught on fast after I wrote
a manual on use of the Apple IIe for writing and word
spread about the campus and soon there wasn't any time
or computer available for local high school kids. By
the time I left SUNY/Brockport to move to Las Vegas,
there were four computer labs scattered about the
campus, all Apple IIes, and, yes, we had a designated
journalism lab with Compugraphic equipment and all of
the equipment stayed busy. The Apple IIe is ancient
history now, of course, but I loved that thing. I
found it especially useful when it came to public
relations for I could do individual letters to people
about as fast as I could change the addresses. I
wrote a program in Basic for automatic letters, but
never got around to de-bugging it. Now, they've got
such programs. For envelopes, too. But in the old
Apple IIe days, I was operating in pretty high cotton.
I had learned the letter technique while working in
public relations at Phillips University where I was
also studying for a master's degree. The university
had been given some wheat land in Kansas and sold it
for cash to use for operational expenses. Selling
that land was a no-no. The family that had given the
land to the university expected the university to reap
the profits from that land for years, not sell it.
And there was one very angry lady up in Kansas who had
muscle all of the way to the White House. Well, I set
about sending her notes on an old IBM letter processor
that I learned to use. And I sent her copies of news
releases. Took about two years, but she ended up on
the Board of Trustees of the university. One guy near
Tulsa, ended up asking his "good friend, Claude" just
where we'd met because he couldn't remember. We had
never met and never did. My program started with
notes about the university and got to letters, etc.
One aspect of public relations is keeping people
informed about your specific purpose. I would also
mail out copies of the news releases that I wrote to
important individuals because I was aware that not
everyone reads the newspaper and I wanted them to have
that information.
Ah, yes, there are many facets to public relations.
And it helps, of course, if you have some theoretical
communications skills to back up what you know and
what you do.
Many people in radio manage publicity, an aspect of
public relations, quite well. Marty Grove was very
good during his WMCA days in New York City. Now and
then I see him talking about movies on CNN and I think
Marty is still working for the Hollywood Reporter, but
I knew him back when he was at WMCA doing publicity
and WMCA was a Top 40 station programmed by Ruth
Meyers, a former employee of Todd Storz, one of the
fathers of Top 40 radio. Somewhere in the house I
still have a news release from WMCA regarding the
death of, as I recall, Paul McCartney. Written by
Marty Grove, I believe. I couldn't remember the name
of the inventor of the hoax, although I'd met him a
couple of times and heard the story. I e-mailed Joey
Reynolds for the guy's name. The "news" of Paul's
death did not start with WMCA, according to Joey
Reynolds, G1boney@aol.com,
now the overnight
personality on WOR Radio in New York City. "The
person you are speaking of is Lou Yager, who was not a
deejay. He started the rumor that 'Paul Is Dead' from
the 'Sergeant Pepper' album. Robie Young from WABC
picked up on it and ran with the ball. Lou was an
intern at WIBG and made Life magazine as a student
from Hofstra with this theory."
My son Andy, the poet, thinks he knows more about
music than I do. He says it was the "Abby Road"
album
by the Beatles. Regardless, you had to play the
record backward to get the message and it raised some
devilment literally around the world at the time.
And, as I said, I have that news release from WMCA.
Maybe someone reading this will know the real story.
Or have a viewpoint.
That Beatles stunt, of course, didn't make them
famous, but I remember one of the stunts that helped
early Elvis gain some national publicity; he bit the
finger of a girl reporter down in Florida.
Without question, one of the things that made Sid
Bernstein famous was promoting the Shea Stadium
concerts by the Beatles.
Joey also reported that "On Blackout Thursday, Sid
Bernstein (promoter who brought the Beatles to
America) signed his deal with Ted Turner to film his
life story based on his book. We were coming back
from the River Palm restaurant in New Jersey
celebrating at lunch when we hit the Lincoln Tunnel
and there was suspiciously light traffic after 4 p.m.
so I turned on WOR Radio to hear what was going on and
realized there was no toll or EZ pass so I drove thru
the tunnel several times free. It felt real good.
Later when it got dark I sneaked up the stairs at 1440
Broadway where WOR is located on the 23rd floor and
talked and listened to the callers all night on the
radio. The best was when I said to a Staten Island
person that the power would be restored pretty soon,
but it doesn't matter since there are only two
Itallians and a goat living there; she called Dr. Joy
Browne and squealed on me the next day."
FYI, Sid Bernstein just received his first check from
Ted Turner for the movie of his life they are filming
for next season. He is 80 something and slept through
part of the New York City blackout in Joey's car after
that lunch Joey mentioned. Great guy, Sid. I don't
know anyone who doesn't like him. He not only brought
the Beatles to Carnegie Hall twice, but later to Shea
Stadium twice. Said he lost money (because of the
high cost of security) on that first Shea concert, but
the baby crib the Beatles bought his first child more
than made up for it. I was at Shea. Never heard a
note. Fifty thousand little girls screaming.
Tom Watson, jtwatson@flash.net:
"Hi, Claude! I am
now with Clear Channel in West Palm Beach, Florida as
PD for their A/C. The position did not exist that I
was hired for...they created one for me just to get
me into the company. My personal e-mail address the
same and I also now have a Clear Channel e-mail...
tomwatson@clearchannel.com.
We spent today at the
beach...water temp was 87 degrees....I just LOVE it
down here!!!! It is like being on vacation 24/7!!"
david facey, davefacey@yahoo.com,
"Subject: Re: Carl
DeSuze, Bob and Ray, etc., etc. No, these names are
not listed to chastise. Just as an intro to my own
radio world with WBZ in Boston and several smaller
stations in the N.E. area. Your poem could easily
have been written for a number of our local radio
voices, the program directors and GMs who 'enabled'
them and then fired them. Such tributes and memoriams
are all too few in this now 'sanitized', often
sterile, and mostly juvenile medium we loved. When I
saw your mention of 'Marconi's' device, I was
reminded that many locals claim not only that
Marconi's first broadcast came from Cape Cod, MA, but
that a year or two later, the first voice over radio
was broadcast from Marshfield MA. Made me wonder what
happened to that video tape you mentioned of 'The
History of Broadcasting'. with all of its firsts? Is
it in any museum? If so, please let me know where to
find it. If not, how else could one get to see it?
Your poem is being put on disc so that it won't get
lost. Love to be able to do the same for that tape.
Thanks for the lift."
The only place that anyone might find the video tape
"The History of Broadcasting" produced by Dr. Tom
Durfey, a former disc jockey called Tommy Carl who
always bragged about sitting in with Joey Reynolds on
his show in Buffalo, would be in the library on the
campus of Oral Roberts University. That is, I
certainly hope they have a copy. Lord, but Buffalo
was a long time ago, eh Joey? Wonder what ever
happened to Sandy Beach, another name I recall from
Buffalo radio.
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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