|
The Music Convention
Chapter 15
of a mystery by Claude Hall
The water was nice and
comforting and, fortunately,
she was able to hide in the darkness and the waves
once she broke the surface of the water. There was
considerable shouting on board the Anasazi Angel.
From the bridge of the craft, a beam of light bounced
out into the waves. Once, the light swept past her,
but moved on.
She eased off on her strokes. It had been impossible
to judge distance from the boat. What looked like
merely a mile could end up two or three miles. When
she rolled over on her back and swam backstroke for a
few yards, she noticed the Anasazi Angel dwindling in
the distance. Later, when she returned to the
Australian crawl, the distant hotels along the shore
seemed just as far away as they'd been before. She
had learned to swim in the cow tanks of west Texas for
in those days of childhood, the town of Winters could
not afford a swimming pool. She and her friends often
hitchhiked out to a large tank of water a farmer west
of town had for his cows, a tank with water often
muddy, usually teeming with rainbow perch, often
guarded by dish-sized snapping turtles that they
caught in their hands and tossed on the bank out of
their way.
She kept telling herself that she was tough and this
was just a pleasant swim in the dark. Then she
remembered about the shark attacks. This area was
prone to sharks. Not as many, she'd heard, as you
might find off the beaches of Australia. Of course,
here in Miami Beach they lied about the sharks and
tried to downplay any shark attack because of the
tourist industry. Don't want to stop those hordes of
damned yankees who descend on Miami from New York City
with the first fall of snow up there. She suspected
that a lot of shark attacks were not reported. That
certainly helped her swimming become nervous and she
wished she hadn't thought about it. Because she
started swimming faster, harder. And that was not the
way to attack a long distance swim. Not if you wanted
to finish. She forced herself to settle back into
long, steady arm strokes, less rapid scissor kicks of
her legs.
Once, she heard something that sounded like a
motorboat tear through the water near her. She didn't
see it.
Sharks! Now crazy people in fast boats! And she
thought she felt something brush against her leg. She
told herself that it was just her imagination.
Remember, she told herself, you're a tough chick from
west Texas. Ain't nothing gonna scare you, right? A
shark is just a big perch like you used to catch and
clean and cook and eat tail and all. And that's all
that a shark is. Nothing more.
What a night! First, the mistake of going on that
boat. Now, this desperate swim to shore. Dumb, old
west Texas chick, to put yourself in a position like
this. What kind of stupid move are you going to make
next?
To take her mind off the possibility of a shark
nibbling on her leg, she thought about Johnny Dollar.
She still hadn't figured him out. But more and more
she doubted that he was merely another disc jockey.
Look at all of these friends that had come to his
rescue! And although some disc jockeys were able,
somehow in all of the mess of the music and radio
business, to develop good and strong and lasting
friendships, that wasn't ordinarily the case. George
Wilson and David Moorhead; there were two buddies.
One got fired, he was given a job by the other one who
was generally working somewhere in the United States
as a program director. The disc jockey soon got a big
job as a program director and morning personality and
left town and then when his old boss got fired, viola!
Happened time and time again. And then you had Bruce
Miller Earle and Jay Blackburn. Bill Hennes and Burt
Sherwood. But here, suddenly, several "old high
school" or "army" buddies descended on Miami Beach
like a small storm.
You don't have those kinds of friends unless you're
something special. They can't be found on the bargain
shelf! She wondered if he really was rich. Wouldn't
that be a joke on everyone!
Well, for sure there had to some reason why a creep
like Charles D'Russo and a football team of Mafia were
after him. Over the mere playing of a record by Jose
Cuba? No way!
She sort of wished that she was already on shore now
and squeezing up in Johnny's arms. Safe. Yes!
To take her mind off Johnny, because she figured that
the idea of being in his arms was about as dangerous
as the worry about sharks, she forced herself to think
about her mother's deep-dish peach cobbler. She
didn't know why this idea leaped into her mind. She
could have thought about chickenfried steak or pecan
pie or some mighty tasty Underwood barbeque, but that
peach cobbler popped into her mind and wouldn't leave.
All were, of course, Texas delicacies. But some warm
peach cobbler with a couple of scoops of Bluebonnet
ice cream! Nothing better! Guarantee you!
Her fatigue was enormous at this point. She made a
resolution that if she ever reached shore, she was
going to exercise regularly and get in good condition.
Maybe join a health spa. Or jog.
And then, for a while, she seemed to be in a dream
state with sharks whipping in and out below her feet
and once she thought she would swear she saw a shark
fin knifing through the waves, now shallow. Colors
swirled before her eyes, now hurting from the salt
water. There was a lot of noise, but she thought
this, too, was a delusion.
Her foot hit something soft, causing her to flounder a
moment in the waves. Then she caught herself and
realizing that she was actually standing in shallow
waves. Just her head out of the water. Not standing
very well. Almost passing out, in fact, but standing.
For a foolish moment, she thought she was safe. And
then, as blinked her eyes several times and her vision
cleared, she noticed the man in spectacles standing
near the edge of the water.
He had binoculars in his hand. Now and then, as she
stood there so precariously, he raised them to his
eyes and scanned the waves in her direction.
Obviously, he had not yet spotted her in the water.
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and slipped
beneath the surface of the small waves and swam as
hard and as far as she could before easing to the
surface again for a breath of air. After two deep
breaths, she swam again, striving to put as much
distance as she could between them along the beach.
Unfortunately, there was another man further down
shore leaning against a palm tree as he stared out
into the dark, unable at the moment to see her head
bobbing in the small waves.
By now, she was extremely fatigued and struggling for
air. Her lungs hurt. She dogpaddled closer to shore.
Just close enough to stand on tiptoe, her face barely
above water.
As she stood there, undecided what to do, a couple
walked by. The man had rolled up his trousers and was
barefoot, carrying his shoes in one hand, holding the
hand of the girl with his other hand.
The man by the palm tree watched them as they strolled
up the shore.
Just then, a young girl ran from one of the hotels and
splashed into the water. She was followed quickly by
a male youth. She flung water at him with a cupped
hand. He tossed a handful of water her direction.
Both soon were soaked, clothes and all. Neither
seemed to mind. They continued splashing each other
as they ran out of the water and back toward the
hotel.
And still the man leaned against the palm tree in the
dark, almost hidden. She wandered who he was, what he
was. Probably too big, too tough. She reminded
herself that they don't raise sissies in Texas and
she'd had to deal with more than one man, personally
and savagely. If you can't kick them in the balls,
you go for their eyes with your fingernails. And, of
course, there was always biting. You bite a man on
the ear and he forgets real quick about a lot of
things, including his penis.
Slowly, bending low in the water, she moved further
into the shallows and toward the Fontaindeux. From
this perspective, many of the hotels seemed the same,
dark silhouettes carved against the distant glow of
Miami, decorated with bright lights like a stark
Christmas tree. There was a floodlight here upon the
sands of the beach, another there; they flung out like
reaching hands only to become a jumbled patch of
reflections in the hand-sized waves that lapped the
shore. At this late hour of the night, a few people
still strolled past, a few others stood and gossiped
low, their voices distorted by other noises and the
distance.
The water, pleasant enough when she was swimming,
wasn't all that warm and she began to shiver, perhaps
as much from nervousness as the chill of the water.
She suspected that the chill was imaginary anyway.
But at some point, regardless, she was going to have
to get out of the water.
For some strange reason, she realized that her hair
was a mess. Strings. Now why had she thought about
her hair? And her makeup was probably ancient
history. Not that she wore all that much makeup.
Just enough to hide a freckle or two and make her eyes
a little larger. Men liked large eyes. Especially
wolves or men who thought of themselves as wolves.
She'd known that even as a child.
Large eyes probably wouldn't affect the guy, that bird
dog, by the palm tree much. That was because large
eyes just didn't work on everyone. What a pity!
Well, her eyes probably were a mess, too, at the
moment. And more squinty than large because of the
saltwater which was already beginning to sting.
But she had, as calmly as possible, made the decision
to leave her hiding place, the safety of the shadows
of the night and the water. And once she had made the
decision, it was just a matter of timing.
With what she considered to be audacious aplomb, even
for a dumb west Texas chick, she slowly advanced out
of the ocean and walked casually toward the man
standing by the palm tree.
He was stunned by her attire. Which, of course, was
almost nothing. A bra and panties. And barefooted.
Had he expected her to stroll from the ocean in an
evening gown or a smart little cocktail dress from
Macy's?
Obviously, he had also not expected her to walk right
up to him. He was so surprised, in fact, that by the
time he reached for his gun in a shoulder holster
inside his jacket, she'd plunged her nail file from
her bra into the side of his neck. Blood spurted
everywhere. He dropped his gun and grabbed for his
neck with both hands.
"Oh, my god!" he said, staring at her as if she were
some monster just from the sea.
Well, he had that right! She picked up his gun and
slugged him with it across the forehead. He crumbled
like a discarded towel onto the sand. She kneeled and
checked. The wound caused by her nail file had not
hit his jugular. She wondered, just briefly, if she
really cared. After all, this was not any choir boy
slumped there against the trunk of the palm tree.
But she didn't have long to contemplate her own
morals. Someone had noticed the attack and was now
screaming their head off. A woman from near the
swimming pool.
Sharon tucked her nail file away in her bra and walked
over to some shrubbery against the outside of the
hotel and placed the gun out of sight.
Then she walked over to the swimming pool and as she
passed by the woman on her way to the door of the
hotel, gestured back at the limp form of the mobster
leaning against the palm tree.
"Scream a little louder," Sharon said. She had to
almost shout the words in order to be heard above the
woman's screaming. But the tactic worked. The woman
suddenly stopped and just stared at her.
"Is he dead?"
"Not yet," Sharon said. "Maybe later."
The woman started screaming again. So Sharon walked
quickly past her and into the hotel. There weren't a
great deal of people around at this hour or two past
midnight. Should have been. Maybe the party crowd
that usually stayed up beyond midnight were all in the
suites. Those that noticed her in the lobby, stared.
She paid them little mind. So she wasn't wearing a
pretty little cocktail dress; well, she hadn't even
brought one with her!
Then, dammit, she almost bumped into someone she knew!
"Would you like to borrow my jacket for a while?"
"Fyfe! Well, yes. That might be appropriate until I
can get to my room," she said.
He immediately whipped out of his leather jacket.
Tonight, he was wearing the loudest yellow shirt she
had ever seen. The blue shirt of a day ago had looked
a little better. The yellow shirt, like the blue
shirt before, was unbuttoned about halfway down his
chest. Sharon mentally kicked herself. Why was she
making fun, even if just in her thoughts, about this
guy? He'd come to her rescue, hadn't he? Not that
she needed rescuing at the moment.
"I'll be your escort," Fyfe Collins said. "You look
as if you need one."
"That's the last thing I need," she said.
"Where my jacket goes, I go," he replied. "And,
anyway, my ego has been rather bruised of late and
doing something kind and generous and wholehearted as
serving as a bodyguard, even temporarily, would be
good for me."
"Okay. Come along," she said.
With his jacket, slung across her shoulders, she
headed for the elevator. Fyfe hurried to catch up.
Two men were just leaving the elevator.
"Hi, Sharon. Where's the party?"
"Special invite only," she said and smiled.
"Put me on the list for the next one," he said with a
laugh and stepped aside so that she could enter.
They were alone in the elevator.
"Could I inquire about your party?" Fyfe asked.
"No," she said.
When the elevator stopped on her floor and the door
opened, she was out immediately and a few seconds
later standing in front of her room trying to find her
room key. She'd tucked it in her bra. For a moment,
she thought she'd lost it during her ocean swim. But,
finally she touched it and retrieved it. Big boobs,
big search.
However, the key wouldn't work.
"Let me try," Fyfe said and stepped forward.
"Not necessary," said the person who opened the door.
"I thought I heard someone out there."
It was Molloy "Buster" Mason, Stetson perched on his
white-hair head, voice like the growl of a large puppy
dog.
Sharon stepped inside the door, hands on hips.
"What so popular about this room?" she commented.
"Just like all of the others."
She walked over to the dresser to find a blouse.
"Well, I hope you're not too attached to it," said
Mason.
There was nothing in the dresser drawer.
"Guess not," she said and turned to face him.
"We moved all of your stuff to a suite upstairs,"
Mason said. "That, dear girl, is your new abode."
"Oh, great," she said. "I can't even afford this room
here. I'm a girl without a job, you know. And now
you've got me in a fancy suite. I'm going to be in
hock for a long, long time."
"I cheated a bit," said Buster Mason. "I put it all
on my expense account. Let Hill Country Star
Enterprises pay the bill. They can afford it."
"Well, I need to locate some decent clothes pretty
fast. Would you kindly direct me to this fancy
suite?"
"No problem at all, dear lady," said Mason. "If
you'll follow me."
He started out the door, stopped in the hallway to
face Fyfe Collins with a stern look on his face.
Instantly, Sharon noted, he no longer looked like a
fatherly version of Chill Wills, but some tough guy
about to go up against Randolph Scott in one of those
Saturday afternoon movies back in Winters, Texas.
"This is his jacket," Sharon explained. "He said he
goes where the jacket goes."
Mason nodded.
"For a while yet," Mason said, then turned and led
them to the elevator.
Sharon was, indeed, booked into a suite. And a fancy
suite at that. Penthouse, no less! And it came
equipped, she soon discovered, with bodyguards. One
of these was Johnny B. Dollar, who stood near a wall
that was an entire window looking out on the ocean,
now dark, but with a moon crawling out of the distant
water. And he appeared to be quite irritated about
something.
At her, it turned out.
"I never seen anyone pull such a stupid stunt in my
entire life!" he yelled as soon as he saw her.
"Whups," she said. "Wrong suite."
She turned to leave. Which was a stupid stunt, she
thought even as she did it, though probably not the
same one as Johnny mentioned, because all of her
clothes and everything were probably somewhere in this
fancy dump at the top of the Fontaindeux.
"Come back here!" he ordered.
For what she figured was the first time in her life,
she obeyed the order. After all, she did need her
clothes. But she also promised herself real quick
that this was the last time he was going to order her
around. Yes, sir!
He took a few steps in her direction, but stopped as
if locked in an attack of strong emotion. He stood
there virtually quivering in anger, his forehead
wrinkled like the head of some pit bulldog.
But his anger only fed her own anger. Fired. Almost
killed on a yacht off out yonder in the dark of the
ocean. Almost drowned trying to swim ashore, not to
mention the possibility of being shark bait. Then
that funny bird downstairs by the palm. She'd been
through enough to make anyone angry. More than
enough! And she'd certainly had enough!
(continued next week)
e-mail
claude@claudehallonline.com
|
May 5, 2008
Commentary
by Claude
Hall
Former Bartell radio
head George Wilson, after
commenting that he'd learned Cher was going to be
performing in Las Vegas: "Guess I'll have to make a
phone call to see if I can get tickets." I asked him:
"You still have leverage like that?" GW: "I'll tell
them that I'm coming out of retirement and going back
to work."
RABBITT MATTERS
Without question, L. David Moorhead, general manager
then of KMET in Los Angeles, make a drastic mistake
when he fired Jimmy Rabbitt in the 1970s. As I've
mentioned, I tried to keep Rabbitt from being fired.
Moorhead and I were en route to Australia to
participate in a media conference organized by 2SM and
guided by Kevin Donahue and Peter Davidson. Somewhere
during those few days, Moorhead fired Rabbitt and one
of the reasons may have been that he was playing too
much country music. Later, Moorhead told me that he
spent more than $600 in long distance telephone bills
on the situation.
A few days ago, Timmy Manocheo was in town and picked
up some interviews that I'd done on cassette to
transpose to CD. He gave me a boxed set of Rabbitt
programs, including more than three hours of one of
his shows on KMET-FM. Now I was always a Rabbitt fan.
Still am. But how good is your memory? Hey, I'd
listened to the guy some 30 years ago! Was he still
good?
Something cute. I opened the box and there was a
picture of me with Rabbitt going back to his KTNQ
days. Hey, flattering! Both of us were a lot younger
then.
The answer about Rabbitt's ability as a radio
personality: Without question! Great then. Great
even now on tape after all these years. I would have
to assume, listening now with what I know, he was
probably the heart and the soul of the station. I
believe I've featured a six or seven-part interview
with Rabbitt in Commentary back a year or so ago.
This particular night, date unknown, Rabbitt was first
into blues, including John Lennon and Jimmy Reed.
During a commercial break for "K meet," there was a
Werehouse spot, and a spot about a record. Rabbitt had
a fine voice. No pressure. Good presence. Friendly.
Plugged a concert featuring Rod Stewart and Foghat.
Slowly, as he got back into music, there was a Linda
Ronstadt, a Willie Nelson, a Jerry Lee Lewis, the back
to Chuck Berry, Elvis, Commander Cody and into a Bob
Dylan. Ronstadt, Willie, and Dylan have much better
product out now than they did then. A "Portland,
Oregon" by Loretta Lynn could be progressive country.
And I have stuff by Kitty Wells and Willie and even
Los Lobos that would fit better today on KMET than
almost any other radio station in the universe. But,
well, you know.back in those days, so I was told,
personalities all rated the cuts on LPs and it was a
policy to play the top-rated cuts. B. Mitch Reed
would never have rated a Willie higher than a dog's
nose. Nor Kitty Wells. Rabbitt was presenting the
music as something special. Wanting you to hear this,
listen to that. It was a real record show! But I
have to admit that while it was great radio, perhaps
it didn't quite fit KMET. Doesn't matter. I would
have let Rabbitt violate the music policy in any way,
shape or form. Quite simply put: He was Rabbitt.
You want to hear something cute? Back in those days,
it was known that Rabbitt and Mary Turner, another
personality on the station, were a thing. Moorhead
told me that the first person in his office to ask for
Rabbitt's slot was Mary Turner.
Ah, radio!
I don't know where this Rabbitt tape came from
originally. I'm certainly not going to ask.
Historic, for sure. A treasure, for sure. Even
though there's a bit of distortion now and then. My
personal opinion is that whoever did this tape
deserves an award for preserving a classic bit of
radio history. Jay Marvin in Denver told me recently
that Rabbitt had a great impact on his radio career.
I've made copies of the three CDs and mailed them to
him. With the compliments of Timmy Manocheo.
Incidentally, Timmy has made copies of CDs of my
interview with Snuffy Garrett and with Murray the K.
The Murray the K interview, never published, was
recorded just a few weeks before his death. The
Snuffy Garrett interview, unfortunately, was done in a
restaurant over lunch. Lots of clinking and clanging
going on. And the two people with Snuffy joined in.
One was Ron Winters, who talked about the food and
stuff. The other was Bud Dain. I'm going to try to
make sense of the conversation, for that's what it
was, and may try to run some of it next week. In case
some of you may not know who Snuffy Garrett is, he
started out as a disc jockey around Wichita Falls, TX,
managed a nightclub, started producing records. He
may be one of the most successful independent record
producers ever.
I also owe Timmy's wife a long-stemmed red rose for
doing post office chores on the CDs. Thank you,
Timmy. Thank you, Irene.
PETROL MATTERS
Rob Moorhead: "Fact checker to the rescue! FYI,
Claude, here are current prices (today's Times of
London, attached) for petrol in the UK. Your figures
were a tad high, although today's surge does finally
bring a gallon of Brit gasoline up to approximately
$10 at current exchange rates. Remember I told you
about the MB 300 Turbo I bought for green conversion
last year? Here is the result: It works great.
Clean and so economical. And a few idiosyncrasies
thrown in. Recycled vegetable oil for use in diesel
conversions still costs under $2/gallon in Los
Angeles, including delivery to one's home (the service
refills a 60gal barrel w/ electric pump in the garage
whenever needed). My sinister old Mercedes may smell
like a catering truck wafting carnitas and tacos down
the highway, but it's a sweet ride...and still manages
25mpg on average. Crunch the numbers. With recycled
vegetable oil at such low prices, the actual cost per
operating mile is comparable to my sister's Prius.
The Prius, however, is neither carbon neutral, nor
sulfur free...'Das KochenFettAuto' is both. Another
concern I have about the hybrid track is that
disposing of spent Prius batteries is going produce an
expensive environmental nightmare of heavy metals. A
scrap Prius requires hazmat disposal. A widespread
disposal infrastructure does not yet exist, therefore
one can expect it to be a lucrative growth industry
within a few short years. Toyota is putting nearly
20,000 new hybrids on US roads each month, but with
little provision made for the complex process of
dismantling retired vehicles. Veg-diesel is a
renewable waste byproduct, plus, the 3 liter turbo MB
engine it fuels proves much faster on the road than a
hybrid -- but definitely not as quiet. Those little
hybrids can sneak up on you. There is, in fact, an
interesting proposal pending in California that will
actually require Toyota to make them noisier next
year. I kid you not. The expressed fear, real or
imagined, is that blind pedestrians do not hear the
Prius approaching and may accidentally step off the
curb in front of one. And a diesel, well, sounds a
bit like a semi-truck. Don't confuse recycled cooking
oil with bio-diesel. Bio-diesel (along with ethanol)
is the political hot potato de jour (and economic
boondoggle) currently wreaking havoc with world food
prices. The amount of corn needed to produce a single
gallon of bio-diesel would feed a hungry Third World
family for a very long time. Such a waste. But those
lucky Germans can choose between traditional Diesel
#2, or the German bio-alternative -- pure rapeseed oil
-- at their pumps. This Teutonic green choice is less
costly, and it does not compete directly with food
crops for the consumer Deutschemark, as does
traditional bio-diesel throughout the rest of the
world. No wonder Mercedes sells more diesels in
Europe than it does gasoline fueled vehicles. (The
Mercedes designed SmartCar being introduced here this
year, for example, runs on an extremely clean three
cylinder turbo diesel in Europe, but is being imported
into the US with a gasoline engine). Next time I am
in Vegas I will take you for a ride in the
Mazola-mobile. 'Environmentally friendly' doesn't
have to be synonymous with cramped and austere
sacrifice. It can be a luxury Autobahn-burner, too."
Rob, my figures for the price of petrol in England
came from a British couple I met on a recent Caribbean
an cruise. They had a "mini," they said, which got
somewhere beyond 50 mpg. Good on you about the veggie
oil, but that still doesn't solve the problem that we
all face.i.e., the last drop tango.and the desperate
necessity for a generic, almost free energy source.
Ah, cold-room fusion! Where are you when we need you?
Just FYI, Barbara came back from swimming on Monday
morning around 11 a.m. and asked if I'd run out of
gasoline because there was "something red" attached to
my old Chevy Astro van. I went out to check and
someone was siphoning gasoline out of the van. They'd
placed the plastic can there, stuck a hose into the
gasoline tank, got the gasoline flowing, and walked
off. And were just coming back around the corner of
the house as I walked out. A minute later, they would
have had the gasoline and gone. As it was, they kept
walking across the street and between the house and
back around to a red crewcab pickup. They drove off
as I watched. They were young, Caucasian, and I
suppose desperate for gasoline. I got a funnel and
poured the five or six gallons back into my van,
trashed their hose and can. Barbara phoned the
police. The police merely took and name and address.
Guess this is a sign of the times.
FICTIONAL MATTERS
I'm guilty. I sort of persuaded Scott St. James to
read my novel "Xtreme." Hey, I'll take all of the
readers I can get, even if I have to bamboozle one now
and then into reading my novels!
Scott St. James: "I probably should have known
better, but I didn't know I'd be reading anything past
what was published March 7, 04. I just finished
Chapter 8 and now have to take a break. Wow!
Without a gun, sleeping in her car in Carpinteria and
who is the mysterious gun packing Harley rider who
took her gun? Speaking of mysterious, what's up with
the mysterious mother and who are the mysterious
shooters? This day will not end without me finishing
'Xtreme'."
And later: "After finishing Chapter 23 (August 9,
2004), I saw (read) a 'Continued next week'. There
is no August 16, 2004 and August 23, 2004 is the
beginning of a new novel, 'Snake and the Spider Lady'.
Chapter 23 introduced us (readers) to Mugs, a dog
whose howling made me laugh out loud. And a dog, who
later, turned out to be quite heroic. Claude, I have
thoroughly enjoyed these 23 chapters. Also, many of
the commentaries next to the chapters. Like (among
others) May 24, May 31, June 28, July 12 and yes,
August 23, featuring the beginning of the (then) new
novel. Observations: Many of the names written
about in 'Xtreme' are people I know or knew before
their passing. Names that stopped me in
mid-sentence(s) were Charlie Miner (first met him in
St. Louis) and Howard Kester who had a phone
conversation with me when I was at my first job, KLIV,
in San Jose. A conversation that resulted in an
irate phone call from the then PD at KYA who let me
know in no uncertain terms that because HE was the P
bleepin' D of KY bleepin' A, I should never speak to
Howard Kester AGAIN!!! I don't remember who that PD
was, because even at that young of an age, I knew who
wasn't worth remembering. A couple of other things
that jumped out at me were the Gary Owens name
dropping thing (which made me laugh), but like you
wrote, he really does know all these people and they
really are friends of his. And now I'll drop a name
by saying/writing that I've had the pleasure of
working with 'Garish' several times and I will never
forget a huge favor he did for me by recording a big
role as the announcer in a play I did that was written
by Terrence McNally. Gary Owens, one of the
highest-paid voiceover guys in the history of the
business, refused to take a dime from me. Two other
observations about things I read in your novel,
'Xtreme'. The Palomino Club. Wow! 'Those were
the days, my friend'. The restaurant where Elton John
celebrated his birthday and someone gave him a horse
who crapped in the restaurant? Had to be LeDome.
Now...Is there anything you can do about getting
Chapter 24 for me?"
Gary Owens is, indeed, one of the nicest guys in
showbiz. Couple of GO stories which may or may not be
true. He didn't want to ask for more money at KMPC,
so he just asked for a larger office. He also may
have helped Joe Smith, once chairman of Elektra
Records, get his first job in the record industry.
Last story: A basketball nut, as am I and Johnny
Holliday and a few others, he hits more shots on a
basketball court by accident than by design. And once
a horrible shot ricochets off the corner of the
backboard into the basket, he will grin and say, "Oh,
Gary."
OTHER MATTERS
I sent my son John a copy of the top 10 list of radio
station moneymakers that was sent to me by Neil Young.
John Hall, esq.: "Very interesting, but in a way sad
seeing the same companies over and over again. JACK
FM being on the list is not a surprise to me. While I
have gotten bored with it over the lack of DJs, the
fact that the station has a bigger playlist than the
same 20 songs is going to attract some interest. KFI
is the Rush Limbaugh station and I avoid it like the
plague."
Just received word from Linda Flint that her father
Robert Hummel had died. I think Robert was known best
in what we always called ham radio. But he was a big
fan of the old WLS in Chicago and knew guys like Clark
Weber, Art Roberts, Ron Riley. I don't remember him,
but, heck, I have trouble remembering a lot of things
these days. Do not make the mistake of thinking
that's a small world, though. Linda's email is
lflint5678@charter.net
if you like to contact her. We
come, we do, we go.
GIANT MATTERS
They were giants
And we worshipped these
And the men and women who worked there
Were gods to us
Especially the kings of the night and the early morn
But even more we studied the signals and the sound
And what they wrought and countless men on countless
days
Drove around countless towns, car radio on, listening
Hoping to find a weakness
A weakness seldom there
For these were giants.
And we learned from these great gods
Howard Miller and Bill Randle and John R
Frank Ward, Paul Harvey, and Arthur Godfrey
How radio was and this knowledge helped us make all
radio what it came to be.
And if some came to worship us in time to come
It wasn't us, we'd learned from the masters
They were indeed giants
Other giants soon came along
As programming became a science
Heros such as Storz, McLendon, Stewart, and Blore
And we learned from these
Wilson, Drake, Rounds, Tyler, Sklar, Buzzy, Rook
For they, too, were giants among giants
And radio grew virtually unbelievable
With dayparts and psychographics
With recycles, gizmos and ganders
Tuneouts and tuneins.
And, in many situations, astronomically profitable
But slowly the giants went away and were there no more
And the world grew silent except for garbage
And many of us lamented radio
For once there were giants.
- c. hall.4.27.08
e-mail
claude@claudehallonline.com |
