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The Girl Who
Looked Like Marilyn
Chapter 5 of a Mystery Novel
by Claude Hall
A heavy truck had left some
serious ruts in the dirt
road after the last rain-maybe a day or two ago, maybe
weeks ago-and no one had bothered to grade the road
since. The pickup bounced around. I felt like a
tenderfoot purposely given the wrong horse...the one
they couldn't tame that was used in all of the rodeos.
After a few minutes of driving, I began to ache all
over.
There was no traffic on the road. Obviously, few
people wanted to go out to the reservation these days
and few people out there wanted to associate with
civilization.
En route to Arizona, I'd driven down from Colorado
through Window Rock in New Mexico, the headquarters of
the Navajo tribal government. Window Rock is quite
beautiful. A strange little park sits below the huge
rock with the hole in it that gives the place its
name. I intended to go back there in early September
for the Navajo Nation Fair just to see a powwow and
dig some of the tribal songs and dances. Unless, of
course, I had a job. If I found the Zanzibar Diamond,
I might just say to hell with the job and go back to
Window Rock anyway.
A half hour later-the going was slow and the day was
much too hot-I stopped and went around to the camper,
climbed inside and got out a bottle of club soda, took
a lime out of the icebox and cut it in half, poured
some of the soda into Nepi's bowl, then squeezed some
of the lime into the bottle and some into the bowl.
Nepi loved it. But then he likes almost anything
besides Spam.
Some cans and three or four books had been shook out
of place in one of the shelves. I didn't bother
putting them back in place; I'd have to do it again
later. Dust covered everything. Poor old Hemingway.
I didn't have air-conditioning in either the camper or
the pickup; I'd bought the rig used some months ago in
Brockport, New York, where air conditioning is about
as useful as a dead armadillo. The State University
of New York has a nice little college there in a
village alongside the old Barge Canal, now used only
by people in motor boats heading somewhere else to
fish or drink or both, and the village is quaint and
very pleasant with ancient frame houses topped by
small cupolas. I had held an adjunct assistant
professorship-one course, one semester, "Public
Relations Principles." I enjoyed teaching at
SUNY/Brockport; the students were very good and didn't
stage a riot or even a mild protest demonstration
while I was there. But since I didn't quite have my
Ph.D. in mass communication, the vice president of
academic affairs hired someone with a "terminal
degree" the next semester and Nepi and I had headed
anywhere elsewhere.
While in the camper, I changed into my Levis and put
moccasins on, without socks. I didn't want to waste
my KMET-FM tee-shirt, so I took out one I'd bought
several months ago in a Haight-Ashbury headshop in San
Francisco. It had a color photograph of Gene Autry on
the front and a picture of his horse on back. The
tee-shirt was appropriate for the present occasion.
It was too hot to stay in the camper. Nepi and I went
out and sat in the narrow shadow at the side of the
pickup. I sat on the running board to finish my
drink; he sprawled in the dust.
"Hope you don't intend to take that dust back into the
pickup with you," I told him.
In all directions, the distance stretched away to
nothing. Clumps of Spanish bayonet and waist-high
catclaw dotted the prairie. There were also some
cactus plants scattered about, none as gigantic as the
one in the square back in the town, but some quite
huge. The needles on the prickly pear carried a
poison. If one stuck you, it would fester up and hurt
for several days.
Ahead, the dirt road finally disappeared from sight
over a low rise of the prairie. Much further ahead in
the distance were some hills or mountains. They were
so far away they were purple. Years ago, I'd seen a
Remington painting like that and thought the man had a
problem with his color. But once you get into the
southwest you understand he painted it real.
Above the hills, a thunderhead was slowly forming.
Thunderheads often spring up and rain in the afternoon
in this country. Helps cool things down.
Unfortunately, that thunderhead would miss me by 30 or
40 miles if I stayed right here on my rump on the
running board.
Nepi growled softly.
"That's all you get," I told him and continued nursing
my own limed soda.
I wished I'd thought to ask Dance in the Mud how far
it was to the Wupatki Reservation and I wondered why I
hadn't screwed up the courage to ask about the guns.
I used to be very brave. But these days I let a guy
holding a mere Uzi stare me down. If I had my
doctoral dissertation finished and that Ph.D. from Dr.
Stabbler, perhaps I'd be braver. And then, perhaps
not.
Why so damned many guns? And grenades? And rocket
launchers, mostly used?
While I was thinking about the guns, a car appeared
far up the road.
Nepi must have heard it a while ago.
"So that's what you were talking about."
It looked like a mirage at that distance. But it kept
coming and kept getting clearer and became real. It
was a dark blue Chevy S-10 Blazer with a swooping hawk
arrowing through a pale blue sky painted on the door.
With air conditioning, evidently, for when it stopped
alongside my pickup, she had to lower the window in
order to talk to me.
"You lost?"
Nepi barked.
"We are not," I said. "I was hunting for the
reservation."
"This is it," said Zanzibar Alvarez.
"I mean the teepees, the pueblo."
"You've seen too many movies," she said. "Great
shirt, though."
"I'm hunting for Walking Wind."
"Joe? What for?"
"Research."
"He doesn't have the diamond."
"Didn't say he did. But what were you doing out here
anyway?"
"You don't really want to know," she said.
I was so absorbed in the wistful quality of her face
and the way she ran her tongue over her lips that I
almost forgot to respond. Her lips were full and her
lipstick was very red and the contrast with the
paleness of her skin was breathtaking.
"There are a lot of things I don't really want to
know. But I need to know some things. There's a
reason for asking. Research. Right now, I'm going
around asking questions that may seem on the surface
rather inane-and probably are. If I were writing an
academic paper about it, I'd call it background
information."
"I hope you're not treating this whole thing as an
asinine academic project."
"I will ignore that not-so-subtly biased remark about
my chosen profession. Along with asking a whole bunch
of questions, I am making highly academic and astutely
empirical observations. Once I have all of the data
assembled, then I will treat the whole thing, as you
call it, as an asinine academic project."
"I came out here to get laid," she said suddenly.
"Scratch the question. I don't actually need to know
that," I said. "I'm not sure I'd want to know it even
if I needed to know it."
"You find out anything so far?"
"That there's a city ordinance against dogs running
loose."
She sneered with half a smile.
"Some detective."
"I'm not a detective, I told you."
"Well, you certainly aren't going to find Joe sitting
there."
"I suppose you know where he is?"
"Maybe. With Joe, it's sometimes difficult to really
tell. Anyway, you might not want to find him today.
I think he's eating peyote."
"Is Walking Wind a drug addict?"
"Not Joe. It's some kind of Indian religious rite."
"I think I still would like to see him."
"Okay. Your funeral."
"I wish you hadn't said that."
"Just a minute."
She put her blazer in gear and pulled it off the road,
stopped, killed the motor, and got out. "Let's go."
"I don't remember inviting you."
"You'd never find him without me. Hell, you can't
even find the reservation."
"Good point. You might find the conversation
interesting, too. I was going to ask him questions
about you."
"You're supposed to be hunting for a diamond, not
checking up on my reputation."
"It's all just research," I said.
I finished the bottle of soda, opened the door of the
camper and put it in a plastic trash bag hanging right
inside. I placed Nepi's dish on the floor of the
camper and shut the door.
"Aren't you going to lock your car?" I asked. "You
even left the window open."
"Out here?"
"Indians don't know how to hot-wire a Chevy, I guess."
"Everyone knows that blazer belongs to me."
"Nice to have a famous blazer," I said and crawled
into my pickup. She scooted Nepi over into the center
and he didn't appreciate that.
"You can sit in my lap," she told him.
He liked that very much. A warm lap with a great
view.
The pretty Zanzibar this afternoon wore a light blue
dress and her hair had been fluffed out into a tumble.
Blue goes very well with tumbled blonde hair. Her
lips were a savage red and her eyes, through some
makeup magic that women seem to know, were huge and
luminous.
I told myself I'd better keep my eyes on the road.
Carefully, we headed back the way she'd come.
By now, the thunderhead was larger in the sky, but
still far in the distance.
"The prince and the showgirl," I said.
"Good catch."
"You do these tricks on purpose?"
"One needs to get laid now and then. It's good for
the nervous system."
Her frankness made me uncomfortable. There are a lot
of things about women today that I don't like. I
tried to change the subject.
"Someone ought to pave these roads."
"Too many gringos come here now," she said.
"Right. The catclaw and the cactus are wonderful
tourist attractions."
"After awhile, if you went away, you'd miss this. The
vastness, the aloneness, grows on you. In New York
City last year, I felt very uncomfortable. There were
too many people and they kept bumping into you. You
couldn't move your elbows. You couldn't see enough of
the sky and it wasn't really blue. The air had been
used too many times and you couldn't breath. Too many
people."
"I'm not a gringo anyway. I was born in Texas.
Gringo is a dirty word in Texas."
"It isn't too nice in Arizona either. You don't sound
like a Texan."
"Been too many places since," I said.
The truth was that I quit being a Texan the day
Kennedy was shot in Dallas. I don't know why. I was
still a kid. But something Texan was killed in me
that day. Maybe it was the fact that Lee Harvey
Oswald had done it in Texas-from a library window, for
god's sake-and that a stupid Dallas sheriff on
television convicted Oswald without trial and Jack
Ruby came up shortly afterwards and shot Oswald in
front of the sheriff with the world watching on
television and Texas became suddenly for me as bad as
everywhere else in the world.
It's funny how all of my childhood fantasies had been
destroyed one by one by television. Newspapers and
magazines and books were okay; you could read and
still daydream and there were still heroes.
Television did not permit any dreams; it brought the
real world into your living room. War and death
became real. There were no heroes on television.
Television changed everything.
I am, perhaps, an archaic person. I can read and
dream, but if I see, I want to see it live; I can't
stand television and seldom go to movies unless they
are John Wayne movies. I also like Charles Bronson
and some Clint Eastwood films. I do not like Humphry
Bogart.
"Turn left at the next road," she said.
It took a while to get to the next road. Distance
means little in the southwest. People, places and
things are usually "out yonder" and "over yonder" and
"down yonder."
Fortunately, the road that I turned onto a few minutes
later was almost paved and easier on my back.
"Did you succeed?"
"At what?"
"Getting laid?"
"None of your business. You want to volunteer?"
"That's seems to be carrying female lib too far."
"In other words, it's okay for you to ask me, but not
okay for me to ask you?"
"Better, I think."
"Bullshit. That's male chauvinistic bullshit."
"I suppose you're right. Only a moment ago I was
accusing myself of being an archaic person. I will
probably never adapt to the modern world. Maybe
that's why I became a college professor. Most college
professors live in the past."
She scoffed.
"I sure hope you're good at finding diamonds."
"Me, too," I said.
Now we were heading virtually north. Prairies of
cactus and catclaw soon gave way to hills of cactus
and catclaw and then the hills sprang up into
mountains of cactus and catclaw. After a while, the
thunderhead fell over the sky and it began to thunder.
Lightning flashed tongues at the earth and at some
low stunted cedars that dotted the higher mountain
slopes.
"Better roll up your window."
"I like the rain," she said.
Nepi didn't. He abandoned the warm lap and sat
rigidly in the seat between us, head darting at one
flash of lightning and then at another.
"Stab said you were once married."
"Once again, the lofty Dr. Stabbler is wrong. I
shared a relationship for a year or so while taking
graduate courses."
"Where is she now?"
"I don't know. She got fed up with me. Said I was
boring."
"Are you?"
"Immensely."
Shortly afterwards, we reached a road that wasn't
paved, but certainly was a lot smoother. I drove
reasonably slow anyway; this pickup had to last me a
long time. The road was just barely large enough for
two cars to pass, but was a lot better than the
rubboard we'd been on.
"You're absolutely the slowest driver this side of
Phoenix."
"The other side, too."
The thunderhead rolled on to the east and the last
drops of rain fell to earth and the air was nice and
clear and cool here in the mountains.
"Left."
I turned left and a few minutes later we pulled into a
parking space surrounded by tall cedars. The pickup
was in the shade and would stay in the shade for at
least another three hours.
"These are absolutely the best cliff dwellings in the
southwest," she said and opened the door of the pickup
and got out.
Since the pickup certainly wasn't as famous as her van
and it was just about my only possession in the world,
I reached over, rolled up her window and locked her
door, punched the lock on my side and got out and
dropped the pickup keys in my pocket. Nepi didn't
like being left inside with just a crack of a window
for his nose, but a sign on a post clearly said: No
pets.
There were only a couple of cars and a large yellow
school bus in the parking lot.
"Business is not exactly booming today."
"You visit many cliff dwellings?"
"Montezuma's Castle off Interstate 17, Walnut Canyon
off Interstate 40, Mesa Verde up in southwest
Colorado."
She laughed derisively.
"Tourist traps."
"They're all national monuments."
"This one isn't. This one is not on any map."
"On purpose?"
"There's still a big tribal debate about the Wupatki
cliff dwellings being opened to the public. Some
Indians are against doing so."
"And one of them would be Walking Wind?"
"Yeah. Joe would be the big chief on that all right."
"Do tribes still have chiefs?"
"Yes. And with the Wupatki it's still hereditary, to
a great extent. But Joe is not the real chief. I
guess you'd call him the young buck making most of the
trouble, though. He enjoys making trouble."
"Sounds like a very interesting person."
"Some people think so."
A narrow flight of steps led down from the parking
area. She went ahead. At a level several feet below,
some young people sat on a rock wall and waited.
They'd brought along a Coleman ice chest and a couple
of them were sipping at cans of Pepsi. Another person
dressed in a white shirt, kaiki slacks, boots, and a
white Stetson with a beaded headband nodded at
Zanzibar. He was very, very Indian and had a
beautiful dark cast to his face and was very, very
old, but looked in better condition than I did.
"You back?"
"Tourist in tow," she said.
The old Indian offered his hand to me.
"Welcome to the Wupatki hereditary home. Anyone with
Zanzibar, gringo or no, gets special treatment. That
means we won't scalp you today."
"Thanks."
"Watch out tomorrow, though," he said and laughed.
"This is Bill Solkowski," Zanzibar said by way of
introduction.
"Solkowski? The Indians are in real trouble."
"Call me Cactus," the Indian said. "The Solkowski
comes from my great grandfather. We don't talk about
him on the reservation."
"Fair enough. I'm Smitty. Last name's Smith. And
I'm not going to tell you my first name."
He grinned at Zanzibar. "This gringo must have an
Indian somewhere perched on his family tree. He's
okay."
"I not so sure yet," Zanzibar said. "Joe
still...gone?"
"Gone's the right word. Walking Wind is well named."
He looked at me. "You find her diamond yet?"
I shook my head.
"But I really admire your smoke signals communication
system. Everybody seems to know more about what I'm
doing than I do."
"Word gets around, all right."
"No sense trying to talk to Joe today," Zanzibar said
to me.
"Might as well take this gringo on the tour," Cactus
told her.
"You want to see a real cliff dwelling?" She placed
heavy accent on the word "real."
I was cornered. Now I would have to spend some of my
carefully-hoarded funds. And Miss Female Lib probably
wasn't female lib enough to insist on paying her own
way.
"Sure." I reached for my billfold.
"No charge," Cactus said. "You're among Indians."
Then I noticed that the others were, or could have
been and I guess were, Indians.
"From the high school in Globe," Cactus said. "More
of a pilgrimage than a tour today."
The students looked at me shyly, trying to appear as
if they were not actually looking at me.
Zanzibar gestured with a thumb at me.
"College professor," she said.
That made the students even more nervous.
"Would you like a soda pop?" one of them asked.
"I surely would," I said.
"I'll share his," Zanzibar said as the high school
student started to withdraw two from the crushed ice
inside the Coleman.
Zanzibar took a drink out of the can and handed it to
me. I drank deep from it. In spite of the recent
shower, the sun was now warming up the rim of the
canyon and the Diet Pepsi was good.
"We've got a long walk," said Cactus. "You kids can
leave the ice chest here. From here on, the ground is
sacred."
As we started down a further flight of stone steps,
the high school students kept their distance behind
me. Obviously they were afraid they might catch a
serious dose of higher education.
The steps had been set with care; the stonework had
been completed only within the last year or two. The
steps continued down and passed between a narrow cleft
in a giant rock the size of a large house, then over a
small rock bridge which passed across a stream that
fell in a series of small waterfalls off the face of
the cliff above us.
For a while, we were in shadow and it was cool and
pleasant. Then a level part of the trail led us out
into the sunshine again but a soft breeze fled up the
canyon and I felt comfortable.
At one point when the trail was narrow and fell off
several hundred feet below us, Zanzibar took my hand
and that was comfortable, too.
Suddenly, after passing through a grove of sagebrush
along the winding trail, we reached the end. A solid
rock wall faced us. This stonework had not been made
by man, but carved by nature over thousands of years.
We were surrounded by scattered broadleaf yuccas and
low sagebrush.
"Very useful plant, the yucca," said Cactus. "The
ancient ones beat the leaves to separate the fibers,
then made baskets, ropes, mats, sandals, and even
clothes from them. In the spring, they ate the milky
flowers. In the fall, the fruit of the yucca is like
a cucumber, but tastes something like a melon. The
roots of the yucca yield a soap which they used on
their hair."
The sagebrush had greened from a recent rain.
Normally, the sagebrush is a dull color and not very
useful. Now, however, its earthy odor assailed you.
The smell was good.
Zanzibar was no longer holding my hand. In fact, she,
too, now seemed to be avoiding the possibility of
catching higher education. Her eyes darted about like
the eyes of a bird watching for some huge snake.
"What happened to the cliff dwelling?" I asked Cactus.
"Some developer move it to Lake Havasu City to join
the London Bridge?"
"Look up," Cactus said.
Above me was a cliff dwelling that made the famous
Cliff Palace in Mesa Verde National Park look like a
Brooklyn tenement.
An awesome hole in the gigantic cliff face nibbled at
the sky. Deep in the bowels of the hole, stone houses
crouched here and there, sometimes without much plan,
sometimes against the walls of the inside of the hole.
The houses appeared to have grown haphazardly over
many years. Some were two and three-stories high.
They looked like tiny doll houses from here, but the
overall effect made you feel just as small.
"The cliff is sandstone dating back to the Cretaceous
Period some 78 million years ago. Wind and water
eroded the wall of the cliff at some point, creating a
natural hole which allowed the ancient ones to move in
with teepees and eventually build rock houses."
Most of the vast chasm was shrouded in shadow. Here
and there, the sun painted many of the dwellings in
shades of brown and yellow. Some of the dwellings
were painted a shade of red. This magnificent myriad
of colors was superimposed amidst a vast sandy cliff
and above the cliff the contrasting blue of the sky
made everything look even more awesome.
"We believe this is the hereditary home of the
Wupatki," Cactus said, speaking gently and in a tone
of reverence toward the high school students, but
including me as if I were merely a student, too. "Our
own archeologists are still studying this site, but
the people who lived here were called the Anasazi.
It's a Navajo, actually Spanish, word meaning ancient
ones.
"We call them the Anasazi. But we don't know what
they called themselves. Nor the language they used.
"Some say the word really means ancient foreigners
and that we Apaches are not related to them. Only the
Navajo and the Hopi. This is not so. Old, old
legends spoken only by a few and only in the Wupatki
tribe-a man such as my grandfather's grandfather-tell
us they were our blood brothers."
He looked at me.
"Would you like to lead the way?"
"Sure. Where's the elevator?"
"Here," said Zanzibar. She touched a small cleft in
the face of the rock.
"I'm afraid you'd better lead the way," I told Cactus.
"I'll go," said Zanzibar.
She placed one hand in the cleft and reached up to
another one and started up the face of the rock. The
clefts were just large enough for a hand or a foot.
In almost no time, she was far above us and to the
left. One of the high school students was already
beginning to climb up.
"This kind of entrance offered protection against
enemies," Cactus said.
"And friends, too, I would surmise," I said.
Zanzibar disappeared somewhere above me.
It was obviously my turn. I was nervous. Heights
don't scare me. Much. Not as long as I can keep my
feet firmly on the ground.
However, I wasn't about to show extreme cowardice in
front of high school students; I had to maintain the
quality image of higher education, right?
Actually, the climb was fairly easy and brief. I had
to keep nudging my glasses with my shoulder to keep
them pushed up on my nose, but this was a minor
nuisance. In only a moment, I crawled over the edge
onto a shelf about 30 feet up. Zanzibar and the high
school students were waiting for me.
Cactus appeared, as if by magic, from the left.
"Short cut," he explained. "When we built the trail
three years ago, we cut a flight of stone steps just
over there. But I thought you'd enjoy doing it the
Anasazi way."
"I'm honestly grateful for the sore fingers and the
bent toes," I said.
"The ancient ones lived here probably as early as two
or three hundred years after the death of Christ,"
Cactus said to the students. "We don't believe these
dwellings above us were actually built until
1000-to-1200 A.D., although they were probably in a
continuous state of construction over several hundred
years."
As he talked, we walked up a winding path. This led
beneath the overhang of the cliff. Soon, rock
buildings one and two and three-stories high rose on
either side of us. The main entrance to many of these
was a weird-shaped door, narrow at the bottom, then a
wide square at the top, something resembling a cross
with fat arms.
"About 1300 A.D., the ancient ones abandoned the cliff
dwelling. Archeologists don't know why. Some say a
drought hit the area, some say the Apaches raided this
area from what is now New Mexico and Texas, some say
the Anasazis became women and planted crops out on the
prairie like the Hopi. This is definitely a male
chauvinistic statement. I hope you ladies will excuse
me."
One of the high school girls who looked like she could
have played fullback for the University of Texas
Longhorns tittered. In spite of the number of games
the Longhorns have won the past few years, the team
needed her.
Then, I heard a small thump, felt some dust brush my
cheek, and something fell to the ground almost at my
feet.
I thought one of the girls had dropped something and
reached over and picked it up.
It was a foot-long stick with a broken piece of black
obsidian fastened at one end.
Interesting, I thought.
Then I realized someone had shot at me again. This
time, they were using arrows.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
July 31, 2006
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
Claude Hall on a weekend stroll at Palisades Park along the
Hudson River. Circa 60s. Someone on Billboard, probably Lee
Zhito, then just editor, decided we should cover the record
studios. Guess who got the assignment. This was in addition to
writing the radio-TV section and covering several record labels
and record producers for news. Guys like Art Talmadge, Larry
Uttal, Bob Crewe, Bud Prager...lord, I can't even remember them
all! Anyway, I noticed in the studios that I didn't quite fit
in. College grad. Ex-GI. Family man. Etc. So, I grew long hair
and a beard. And often wore a loose jacket I'd bought in Mexico
made of colored rope from various pieces of used clothing.
Really colorful, folks! But, as if by magic, I'm part of the
scene in the studios. Cream, Mountain, a lot of that bubble gum
stuff, too, like "Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I Got Love in My Tummy."
I'm pretty sure that I saw dozens of the artists that literally
floated around the vicinity of the Brill Building and that area
in Manhattan. Jimi Hendrix, etc., because he was big in those
studios and somewhere in the house I still have an LP of his on
a small label. One of the studio guys merely cut out the vocal
by whomever and released the LP under Jimi's name. For a while.
I think by then a major label had signed Jimi and they put a
stop to the makeshift LP. I also reviewed live acts--especially
for a few months when Billboard Talent Editor Mike Gross was
sick. Wrote reviews ranging from Tony Bennett to performances of
Jefferson Airplane. Yeah, hellofa range! One of the funnies that
happened one night in a record studio was I ran into John
Zacherle, who was bigger than the devil on an FM progressive
station at the time and did, I guess you'd call them "inserts"
for movies on a local TV station (you'd see Tarzan swinging
through the trees and suddenly it was Zacherle swinging from the
vine). He asked if I'd like a map of Transylvania because one of
the very esoteric fields of which I was somewhat aware at the
time was the legend of Dracula. I said, "Yes." John sat down,
pulled out a pencil and a piece of paper, and drew me one! I
almost burst out laughing. But didn't. You didn't laugh much
around John in those days. Just FYI, although the beard and hair
got me into the studio scene and young adults would ask me
directions on the street even though one of Manhattan's finest
was standing near, I also got stopped a lot by the police. This,
even though Barbara and I drove a VW Beetle in those days and
had two small kids and a largish dog named Popsie who always
rode in the "back-back" behind the rear seat, a word he knew
very well including "car" and "go." He also knew the word
"heel," but he never remembered it for more than a few seconds
when we were walking anyplace. I once asked a young cop why he'd
stopped me. He said I "fit the profile." (Photo by Barbara Hall)
The person that I
was yesterday and all of the
yesterdays before that.has gone on. The person I am
today will be a different man tomorrow, if tomorrow
comes. Thus, the Shelby Singleton I knew years ago is
not likely to be the man today who heads Sun Records.
God bless them both. But I indeed loved the other
one. Was it in Miami or was it in Atlanta? A
convention. Atlanta, I think, when someone called his
suite and told him they were coming up to wipe him out
and he told them over the phone they'd better "bring a
big bullet." This, I heard, as a rumor, of course.
Shelby was a man who flourished amidst rumors in those
days. And I've heard him spin a quaint tale or two
about others. But he was definitely colorful and fun
to be around. I remember dining with him and a record
producer who was fairly infamous at the time in a
restaurant in New York City. Who, but Shelby could
locate a soul food restaurant in Manhattan? In the
60s? Certainly, not many people. And somewhere in
this house is a picture of Shelby and a lot of record
people and Mickey Spillane. I've always wondered what
Mickey Spillane was doing in that photo.just never got
around to asking.
You probably know of Shelby Singleton because of
"Harper Valley PTA," a single by Jeannie C. Riley, one
of the fastest and biggest hit records ever made.
When Shelby brought her to an International Radio
Programming Forum at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New
York City, she froze just about every man in the room.
Women, too. She was surrounded the second she walked
into the ballroom and I don't think she was able to
move more than 10 yards that entire evening because of
the men who flocked to her. What a record, what a
woman!
Ah, Shelby! You deserve a book! But this is just a
shtick about the records that Jerry Naylor sent me a
few days ago. There were nine CDs in the series
tabbed "The Rockabilly Legends" and I'm not going to
discuss them all nor the fact that Jerry sneaked in a
couple of Sleepy Labeef tunes. This "error" is
certainly made up for with a live cut of the Everly
Brothers doing "Bird Dog" in stereo as well as "Wake
Up Little Suzie." Which doesn't exactly fit either,
come to think of it. This is No. 7 in the series that
you can checkout at legendsmarketing.net. One of the
other CDs features Bill Haley and the Comets live and
in stereo. I would think the three stereo tunes by
Bill Haley definitely fit.
Anyway, last week's Commentary drew this from Shelby
Singleton: "Claude, we worked with Jerry on his
package.about 75 or more sides are Sun Sides. You did
a good write up on the package. We wish Jerry well.
Stay in touch."
I immediately wrote Shelby that I had surmised he was
behind the scenes, so to speak, on the Sun material.
More than that, I complimented him for the outstanding
acoustic quality of the songs. Yes, they're in mono.
But this is music history! And Shelby, as sort of a
musical keeper of the throne, has done an outstanding
job in preserving this history.
Robert Velline says "You're right...Sun Records was
remarkable. Sam was great at placing mic's to get all
of the sound. I have a lot of Sun 45s, different
artists, and they all sound great...and hot. It
really comes down to the engineer, the mix and getting
as much sound pressed on the vinyl as possible. Less
noise...more music. Of course they were also recorded
'live' in those days. Most engineers in today's world
are used to tracking...wouldn't have a clue how to
record live."
All of us owe Shelby a sincere vote of appreciation
for the acoustic standards he has maintained on this
treasure.
Take, for example, No. 7 in "The Rockabilly Legends"
series. It features Roy Orbison with "Oooby Dooby,"
Jerry Lee Lewis with "Good Golly Miss Molly," Johnny
Cash with "I Walk the Line," and "Hound Dog" with
Jerry Lee Lewis among the 14 songs. "Honey Don't" by
Carl Perkins and "Feelin' Good" by Little Junior
Parker are here, too. And, of course, "Bird Dog"
mentioned above. All of the CDs in the series are
outstanding. The same, in the case of Johnny Cash, as
when I bought the 45 rpm and literally wore it out
without ever taking it off that little RCA turntable
that plugged into the back of my radio. Years later
in New York City, when Barbara and I were still
dating, we would drive out to the end of Long Island
and I would take my guitar and sing "I Walk the Line"
to her. There are some who think it quite amusing
that she married me anyway.
Just FYI in regards to Jerry Naylor's "Legends of
Rockabilly" DVD that I discussed last week, I sent my
lawyer son John in LA my copy (which I want back,
incidentally) and got this response: "I just finished
watching the first disc of the DVD. What a blast. It
went by pretty quickly for a documentary that is over
two and one half hours. Fascinating look at the past
and some excellent stories. Watching it did make me
sad, though, when I realized that all of these great
musicians, with the exception of Jerry Lee Lewis, died
way too young. Well, I do believe that I will start
watching the second disc now. Thank you for sending
it to me to watch."
OTHER MATTERS
Anita Garner,
anitafaye@earthlink.net, who has a
website at
www.thegloryroad.com: "Good morning,
Claude. Your website link was sent to me by a fellow
broadcaster who knows I'm working on a project that
has to do with the evolution of rockabilly. I'm a
former broadcaster, now spending all my time writing.
One of my projects is called 'The Glory Road', about
my family in the Deep South during the 1950s. My
mother, Fern Jones, was a gospel singer/songwriter,
whose work was recorded by Johnny Cash (a song of hers
is in the movie 'Walk the Line'.) She eventually got
herself a record deal with Dot and we came to
California because of it. Of course the story behind
the story is the more fascinating one--my parents'
love story and their continuing conflicts over
religion vs. ambition, etc. These days, it's
important to me to help place my parents and their
evangelist peers into their rightful place in the
evolution of rockabilly into rock and roll. These
folks rocked in church. They mixed street
music--blues and hillbilly--and brought their honky
tonk style into their performances.and from there, as
you know, Jerry Lee and Elvis and a whole bunch of 'em
copied what they heard in church and took it back to
the honky tonks. If you're interested, I'll send you
the newly remastered, re-issued CD. There's lots more
on the website shown below. I remember your name from
my radio days. I did my time on the air in L.A. and
other places. I'm glad to meet you through your
column. It's fascinating."
Thank you, Anita. I've always appreciated gospel
music and have had the privilege of hearing some good
things over the years. Just heard "Precious Memories"
by Jerry Naylor. Quite good. Different. A good,
modern, fresh tempo to a great old song. Good record
to have around when you need some uplift. Gospel
songs can do that for you. Stu Hamblen, Al Brumley.
Spiritual fountains. To this day, I still consider
"Around God's Throne" by the Consolers as a great,
great classic. But the truth is that I don't listen
to much music any more. Unless it's by an old friend,
recommended by an old friend, or otherwise something
that I treasure. I did checkout your website, though.
Good on you! I wish you the very best on your
writing. Not easy to be a writer these days, but I
suppose it never was. My western "Huecos" was just
published by PublishAmerica.com. Once you finish your
book, you might consider going that direction.
xLibris.com is another avenue. Writing has always
been my main passion.
"HUECOS" MATTERS
I've received a bundle of notes from people who say
they're ordering my western novel "Huecos" from either
PublishAmerica.com, Amazon.com, or BarnesandNoble.com.
In fact, Sam Hale just mailed me a copy to autograph
and then mail to the legendary Red Jones, a personal
friend of his in Georgia. I've written about this
before, but I'm very capable of repeating myself. Good
stories always bear telling again. When I was
attending The University of Texas, I started listening
to "The Louisiana Hayride" on KWKH out of Shreveport
and thus heard Elvis Presley the first time he was on
the air. I wrote to Red Jones, the host of the
two-hour "Country Calvacade" show on KVET in Austin
about the record "Blue Moon of Kentucky" and he
mentioned on the air a day or so later that he'd gone
down to a small store near the Commodore Hotel and
bought a copy. He played it. Viola! It's true that
Dewey Phillips in Memphis probably played Elvis first;
I was told this by Sam Phillips, head of Sun Records,
who said he paid Dewey $5 to do it. And maybe the guy
doing the radio show after the "Hayride" on KWKH (on
which Elvis and Johnny Cash, etc., played disc jockey
a few times). But I would surmise that Red Jones was
at least the third disc jockey to play an Elvis record
on the air.
You want to hear something that's missing from music
history? A syrup commercial done by Elvis. I
understand that Col. Tom Parker tried everything in
the world to keep that commercial off the air after he
took over as partner for Elvis. Wonder whatever
happened to it?
Dennis J. Fitzpatrick: "I just finished reading your
book. I could hardly put it down. It is a great book
and you are a very talented author. Please write
another. What about a basketball book? The Henderson
library bought your book as I requested. The call
number is 3 1431 00483 9908. Wonderful book!
Congratulations!"
Mary Garza: "Hi, there. Just a note to let you know
that I just finished reading your book. What a
fantastic tale. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Brings back
memories of when I was a kid and listened to my Dad
tell us 'yarns' about the old west. How colorful and
heartwarming. Hope you and the family are well. Say
hello to Barbara and when you are in Houston you can
autograph my book for me."
Bill Pearson: "Hi, Claude. I read a chapter or two of
the book every night, and finished it last night.
Very enjoyable story, and, by the way, I wasn't
inclined to change a single word. I think I read the
chapter about when he went over the Rio Grande and
shot up the place a couple of years ago. Maybe you
put it up on your website when you wrote it. It seems
so authentically 'western' that I'm curious now to see
how you'd handle a science fiction novel. Or some
other genre. I'm also curious about Publish America.
Is it a fact you didn't have to pay them anything?
Did you have to prepare a PDF file for them (I've been
obligated to, with my printer, and it's costing me
$500 just for that job) or did they do that? Did you
supply the cover photo? I didn't even notice any
typos until the later pages of the book, and those few
weren't major. I thought the book itself looked very
nice, well bound and a first class production. My
book IS finally in the works. I hope to have copies
by Sept. OH. My other news. I'm more than halfway
through the big Dark Castle illustration, and haven't
screwed it up yet. I only work on it an hour or two
every day, on the days I get to it at all. I do all
the thinking about it in between, and am going slow on
purpose. I love to sketch, but I hate finishing
things. It's WORK, and I'm just naturally lazy. When
finished, I brashly predict, you'll have something,
the novelette and illo together, of interest to a
PAYING publisher. Publish America beats Xlibris, the
other online publisher I know about (which charges
hundreds to publish a book!) but Publish America isn't
going to promote Huecos, and distribution is so
important. I passed on offering my book to the one
distributor in the comics universe (they've got a
monopoly and are very arrogant, and want 60% off cover
price) and am offering my book only to the country's
largest online and catalog dealer in comics and
illustrated books of all kinds. The name of the
company is Bud Plant, Inc. My Witzend magazines were
his best selling magazines when he was just starting
out, back in the late 60s. Even so, I'll be lucky if
he can sell 200 copies of my book, and I'll be
hustling to sell copies personally any way I can. And
I certainly can't afford an advertising promotion!
Must sell most of the 1,000-copy limited edition.
Anyhow, congratulations on getting Huecos in print,
and I hope it's the first of many to come!"
Just FYI, Barbara and I have had at least two major
artists sleep on our couch. Bill Pearson once in
Enid, OK, and Don Yee a couple of times here in Las
Vegas. In has been my honor for more than 40 years to
have a Pearson oil framed and on my wall. He also
once gave me an oil of me and John as a baby. I think
he painted me with horns. Unfortunately, that
painting went astray during myriad movings. I'm
really intrigued with what he's working on now for my
children's novel "Dark Castle: Search for Whitehall."
As for his own book. It will be a collector's item
from the very first copy. Don't let Bill downplay
that in your mind. Bill wrote a mystery and asked 20
of his artist friends to do two illustrations each for
it. Ergo, the first coffeetable mystery. His buddies
in the art realm include the very top illustrators in
the world. The book will more than likely carry a
price tag of $199.
Larry Scott: "CONGRATULATIONS!!!! I'm thrilled for
you. There are hundreds of us ol' radio hands that
owe you so much. I'm so grateful having had the
pleasure of calling you friend these many years.
There is a young man at KNEL in Brady that is one of
the nicest most dedicated I've ever met. He's doing
unbelievably good things to keep our good country
music alive. His name is Tracy Pitcox. What he has
accomplished in his 35 years is astonishing. His
email is hillbillyhits.com. I know he would love to
hear from you and you would enjoy visiting with him.
By the way, I do a syndicated show of western swing
and cowboy music. Let me know if you like stuff like
that and I send you copies when I do my mailing. Take
care."
Just FYI for those of you who're newish to the scene,
Larry Scott was/is one of America's greatest country
music disc jockeys. After all of these years, I can
only remember a scattering of the names -- Bill Mack
and Eddie Hill -- but Larry is right there. I sat in
with him at least once when he was on KLAC in Los
Angeles. So, I immediately dropped Tracy Pitcox a
note, to wit: "Just heard from Larry Scott that you're
doing a great show. I was born in Brady. Visited the
station once as a kid when it was two turntables built
into a desk! Hope this reaches you!"
Tracy Pitcox: "Just read about you in our local
newspaper! How ironic. It is a small world and Larry
Scott is one of the greatest guys in the business. I
am only 35, but wish that I could have been a part of
some of the things you did together in the business!
I love the industry and it has been good to me as
well."
The thing that Tracey read in the local newspaper -- I
assume the Brady Standard-Herald -- was a news release
I emailed the paper about "Huecos." I also emailed
one to the stringer for the Abilene Reporter-News, but
don't know if it was printed.
Gary Smithwick: "I just ordered your book, and will
mail it to you for inscription. After I read it, your
book will take its place on our Famous Authors We Know
and Have Drunk Likker With bookshelf; authors like
Bill Ray and Julia Child (well, in her case, no
likker). Hope you and Barbara and the kids are doing
well."
Lord, but the name Bill Ray brings back memories!
What a great radio man and even greater human being!
For the newish: Bill was with the FCC and knew his
radio and most people in radio knew him. Great, great
person! Always willing to help anyone in radio. Big.
Small. A real radio man.
Dale Tucker: "Congrats on the book -- I look forward
to reading it soon. Quick question -- you mention Ron
Frazier and a search shows him doing AMs with a guy
named Shane on WABB, Mobile. This doesn't look like
the same Ron Fraiser I worked with at 'ABB in the
sixties -- he went to LA and a nice film career. He
had a bit part in 'Close Encounters' (filmed largely
in Mobile), was a general in 'War Games' and I'm sure
others. Any idea?"
I apologized to Dale Tucker about being slower than
mud growing, but I emailed him about Ron being the
same Ron and doing well talking in Mobile on WABB.
Ron, too, is working on a book and also has written a
song about to be recorded by some major act.
IMPORTANT MATTERS
America is being raped. Buchenwald either planned it
or encouraged it. At the very least, he has done
precisely nothing to stop it. Exxon Mobile earned $10
billion in profit the last quarter. Where do you
think this money came from? From the majority of
Americans who really couldn't afford those high
gasoline prices at the pump. Where do you think the
money is going? Directly into the hands of Buchenwald
and his cronies.people who live on unearned increment
or otherwise invested ill-gotten gains for the most
part. If you have stock in Exxon, you should be
ashamed. Not only is Buchenwald a baby killer (i.e.,
Iraq), but without question one of the most villainous
people ever to be born in America, a man worse than
Hitler. A man who obviously had no intention of
helping the nation.a man who sought only to line the
pockets of his friends with money that is, in effect,
stolen from Americans coast-to-coast. Soon, you will
have an opportunity to improve the terrible situation
facing America and the world.this coming election.
You'd better vote those killers and robbers out of
office. Or you will jeopardize the fate of America
and the world even further. On the other hand, if you
don't think things are really bad now, vote
conservative and destroy the rest of the world.
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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