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"Hurt"
by Claude Hall
Chapter Five
We had a long and serious debate about whether to take
her father's virtually new Mercedes-Benz or my
weathered pickup. I finally won the argument and we
climbed into the pickup.
"I wouldn't feel comfortable in a car like that," I
said. "Too fancy pancy."
"We've got to get one thing straight right now," she
said, her voice thin and determined. "I don't mind
drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. But if there's
china on the table, I'm going to opt for the china
every time."
I thought about that for a moment.
"Makes sense," I said, "and I don't guess I have
anything against china except that I'd probably break
a lot of it because of these clumsy hands. But
another reason we're taking my pickup is that a
Mercedes would crapout up there."
"Up there?"
"Mountains," I said.
"Mountains!" she echoed in a soft, doubting tone of
voice. "I thought you said you'd never been to Red
Rock."
"Never. But I never said I hadn't been to the
mountains."
She was almost a "native" of Las Vegas. Her parents
had moved here from California about 15 years ago.
"But I've never been in the real mountains. To Red
Rock, of course, and to Mount Charleston and once I
climbed the trail up Cathedral Rock at Mount
Charleston with a friend when I was in high school,
but that's all. Isn't it dangerous in the mountains?
Especially at night?"
I shook my head. A moon hanging almost vertical in
the sky only threw a faint glow across her face, but
it was still a very pretty face. "You'll be safe with
me. I love the mountains."
"I prefer the ocean," she said. "Especially waves.
Big roaring waves. Now and then, my parents drive
down to this place on the Baja of Mexico. There's a
little hotel on the Pacific Ocean just four hours
south of the border and it's so grand! No people,
much. Miles and miles of sand. And a sky that's as
blue as a pretty dress."
She continued talking like that while I started the
pickup and drove out of the parking lot and over to
Maryland Parkway. In a few minutes, we were on
Charleston Boulevard heading west.
Charleston Boulevard is nothing much to brag about and
after a few miles it climbs on higher up the alluvial
plain that flares down from the mountains. The
boulevard soon changes from a mere street to a mere
highway. Then you go around a bend and drive further
west and you soon reach Red Rock Canyon. There's a
sign on the road that points to the 13-mile loop
twining near the mountains. It's closed at night.
If you continue without visiting Red Rock Canyon,
which everyone says would be a mistake if you're
hunting something really beautiful in life and a spot
close to whatever god or gods may or may not exist,
the road will take you to Spring Mountain Ranch. It's
now a state park, but it was once owned by either Lum
or Abner of the legendary "Lum and Abner" radio
program and then by that Krupp woman, heir to the
German munitions empire, then by Howard Hughes, who,
so far as anyone knows, never went out there.
On further is a community called Blue Diamond where
the Old Spanish Trail, unused now, still meanders up
and over the hill.
Long before we got as far as Red Rock Canyon, though,
I pulled off the highway onto a dirt road--actually
just a couple of ruts over and between rocks.
As we drove, vague shapes moved past in the night.
Prickly pear cactus, catclaw, huge boulders, and, as
we got higher up toward the canyon, low, waist-high
mesquite trees. It was slow driving. The pickup
stayed in low gear most of the way, but it's a "four
on the floor" Chevrolet and we had no problem
following the road as it twisted like a snake around
low foothills and eventually up to the mouth of
Brownstone Canyon. Doris bumped about a lot. Now and
then I sneaked an eye her direction to see how she was
taking it. Most girls, just like a Mercedes, would
probably have crapped out on a road like this. The
road was like a bucking horse.
She took the rough stuff pretty good, though.
I finally pulled the pickup over to the side near the
locked gate that keeps vehicles out of the canyon and
turned around so the pickup would be facing the way
we'd come.
"This is real scary," she said. "It's so
dark."
"Not really," I said, cutting off the headlights on
the pickup. "You sit here a minute or two and you'll
see; the stars will pop out in the night sky."
"Is this one of those we've-run-out-of-gasoline
situations?"
"Gosh, no! If you'd like, I can drive you right back.
I only thought...."
"Just kidding," she said.
"I guess it was rushing things a bit...bringing you up
here. I didn't think."
"Well, I think you were thinking swell," she said.
She scooted over and placed her head on my shoulder.
"And the stars are coming out."
"Patience," I said. "You'll see it in a
minute."
My eyes adjust fast to darkness. I saw everything
long before she did. Finally, I heard a low "Wow!"
"Told you."
"So that's Las Vegas!"
"You can't see all of it, of course. That's the Luxor
over there. And the MGM Grand. Stupek's Folly is to
the left."
"It's called something else now. The Stratosphere, I
think."
"So's Stupek, I would guess," I said. "But I always
admired the man. Anyone who bets a million dollars on
the Super Bowl and then covers his bet by betting a
million dollars on the other team is very bright."
"Seems like a senseless bet. He can't win."
"Not at all. He merely couldn't lose. The truth is
that he won a lot. He made all of the newspapers and
television news. Gained enormous attention. More
than a million bucks worth of attention. The tower
that you see down there was built to gain attention.
He would have built it higher, if they'd let him.
Stupek's Folly is now one of the city's landmarks. He
merely had a knack for gaining publicity. Not all of
it good, of course."
"This is a very strange city," she said softly. "We
sometimes make heroes out of people not necessarily
admirable."
"I've heard strange stories about the late Mr.
Binion...something that happened back in Texas."
"Not just the Binion empire. I've heard strange
things about the Gaughns and about the Boyds. Look at
Steve Wynn getting rich while many employees at the
Mirage and Golden Nugget make most of their living
from tips and he only pays them minimum wages. Do you
know that one year he gave his employees popcorn for
Christmas?"
"No. I didn't know about that."
"It's true."
"Wait until J.D. hears about it. He may even laugh."
"He doesn't laugh much, does he?"
"Never. Or, to quote Gilbert and Sullivan, hardly
ever."
"You like plays?"
"I saw 'H.M.S. Pinafore' on television. With Linda
Ronstadt."
"Would you like to see a play on campus?"
"I've never seen a real, live play," I said.
"Will you go?"
"Okay, I guess," I said. "Of course, I work a
lot."
"When are you off?"
"I don't know."
"Surely, you don't work all of the time?"
"Just about."
"Every night?"
"Well, I take off a few days each month."
"I'll buy the tickets and you can tell them you're
taking off and that's that," she said.
"Well, I guess so. I suppose I could do that. J.D.
won't like it, but I guess he could stand working with
Nap for a few hours. I mean, I was pretty surprised
tonight when he chased us off. He doesn't like Nap a
whole bunch. But I think J.D. likes you or
something."
"He likes me?" She sounded surprised. "How
can you
tell? He seems to have the emotions of a dead stick."
"I'll admit he's hard to get to know. But I think I
know him a little. Sometimes, anyway."
"That hospital where you work is really strange," she
said. "Beyond weird."
"I don't think so."
"It is, though."
"What makes you think that?"
"Women's intuition. Don't laugh."
"I'm not going to laugh."
"I thought you might say there's no such thing as a
woman's intuition."
"I would never say that. I see no reason that
women--at least, some women--shouldn't have powers
like that. Seems, well, sort of logical."
She pointed.
"Did you see that shooting star?"
"No. I guess I missed it."
"Shooting stars are good luck."
"I've never had much good luck."
"Now you will. I'm giving you some of my lucky
shooting star."
"Thank you. In return, I will show you some paint."
"Paint? Doesn't seem like much of a trade for some
really superb good luck."
"We'll see about that. Come on."
I grabbed a flashlight from under the seat of the
pickup and we walked around the end of the fence by a
huge rock. The two ruts of the road led on up canyon.
"I seriously doubt there's a Ace Hardware up that
direction."
"Silly."
"Careful...I might take back my good luck."
"On up further westward less than half a mile are the
remains of some old Indian roasting pits. This was
probably a very sacred place for the Anasazi more than
a thousand years ago." With her hand in mine, I led
her between some brush and over to a rock cliff.
"Aren't you scared of rattlesnakes?"
"There aren't any nearby," I said.
"How would you know something like that?"
"It's a thing I have. I can smell a rattlesnake
quicker than you'd believe."
"You can not! That's not human."
"Yes, I can. You get good luck from a shooting star.
I can smell rattlesnakes. There's one over yonder
about fifteen yards away."
I shone the light at some rocks.
"I don't believe any of this, I want you to know."
Just then, the rattlesnake shook his rattles. It's a
very chilling sound. You hear a rattlesnake once, you
know it what it is.
"It's okay," I said. "The rattlesnake is scared of
us."
"Aren't you scared of it?"
"Yeah."
"But you don't sound scared."
"I am. They're pretty weird. I do not talk to
rattlesnakes. They do not make polite conversation."
"You're the one being silly now."
"All I said was that I don't talk to rattlesnakes."
"Nobody talks to rattlesnakes."
"My boss talks to rattlesnakes," I insisted. "At
least, I'd be willing to bet he does something like
that. And they probably stand at attention, too, when
he talks."
"J.D.?"
"No, the big boss. The president of the hospital.
But they're probably too scared of him to talk back.
Gotta be a one-way conversation."
She laughed at that. "You're so funny!"
"I am not," I said.
With the flashlight directed at the ground so she
wouldn't stumble on some of the rocks scattered
around, I led her closer to the cliff.
Then I shone the light on some ancient Anasazi signs
that modern archeologists still haven't been able to
decipher.
She fell in love with them immediately. I could tell.
"Can I touch them?"
"Except that one there. I haven't any reason. But
it's been there for maybe 1,300 or 1,400 years and
it's so...I don't know...magnificent that I don't
touch it."
"You come here often?"
"A lot," I said. "This is a petrogryph. It's
etched
into the rock. I saw on a television program where
the Anasazi did that, probably, with a piece of bone
by scraping away at the varnish...the dark part left
by the weather. But I don't think anyone really knows
how they did it for sure. Pictographs are...I guess
you'd call them pictures. They're painted on with
dyes made from berries, maybe the blood of rabbits or
something. The big one there is a petrogryph, but the
artist also used paint. That's why it's sort of
special."
"It's astonishing. He must have been drawing a
buffalo."
"I've never shown these to anyone before," I said.
"You get a lot of hunters up in this canyon and now
and then an archeologist, I guess, but it's still more
or less a sacred place even after all these years."
"I'm glad."
"Me, too. Back there near the gate, some idiot
blasted a beautiful pictograph with a shotgun. The
pellet marks ruined it. A painting that had been
there for more than a thousand years destroyed in an
instant by someone who didn't know better."
"I mean, I'm glad this place is still a sacred place
and that you showed it to me."
I understood what she really meant. A very pleasant
feeling came over me.
"Funny, isn't it?" I said. "More than two million
people hit Vegas in a month's time and all they do is
gamble. They never see something like this. Now and
then, I suppose, some retired couple will drive out to
the Valley of Fire place and look at the signs left by
the Anasazi, but only a very few people know about
this place up here."
"I wonder what they were trying to tell us, the
Anasazi."
"Only God knows," I said. "And He acts a little
funny
sometimes, but maybe we aren't supposed to understand
God."
We walked back to the pickup in silence. I cut the
flashlight off and we stood looking at the stars a
while. Then we got in the pickup and drove back down
to the highway and I took her to the ice cream parlor
in Sam's Town for some of the best ice cream in the
world.
She was absolutely the loveliest person I'd ever seen
in my life. I had trouble deciding whether she looked
best under a moon up on the mountain or in the soft
lights of the ice cream parlor at Sam's Town. But I
guess when you get right down to it, it doesn't matter
much.
Being around her was comfortable. We talked about
college and she thought I ought to take some classes.
I explained that I hadn't even graduated from high
school. This was something that I'd never told
anyone, including J.D. But it didn't seem to matter
to her.
"What happened? Drugs?"
"No. Nothing like that. There wasn't any drugs then.
Not even booze, hardly. I had, well, more of a rare
medical condition. I couldn't go to school for a
while and then, well, I just never returned. It would
have created sort of a problem."
"J.D. said that you still suffer from a virus that you
got as a kid."
"Yes. That's true, I guess. It's something like
that."
"He said it was just about incurable."
"It only bothers me now and then. I've become sort of
used to it. It's not such a big deal anymore. Well,
it is a big deal and it isn't. But I decided that I
didn't have to be controlled by it...that I could
handle an...illness like that to some extent."
"I'm sure glad you got over it. Would you believe it,
I've never been sick. Just lucky, I guess. Not even
the measles or the mumps."
She continued talking, words tumbling out like a
stream of water bursting out of a dam. I enjoyed
listening to her. And the banana split was excellent.
She said I could probably take courses at UNLV anyway
or, at the very least, I could take a test in order to
enroll in courses.
"What would I take?"
"You seem to like archeology."
"Yes. I guess that's true. When I was bumming around
here and there, I spent a lot of time in libraries
during the day. Reading. I read an awful lot. But I
think I'd be too nervous to take a course. Sitting
there. I'm not even sure I could study anymore."
"You didn't make good grades in school?"
"Oh, I guess my grades were good enough. That
wouldn't be the problem. I think I'd get scared if
the professor looked at me a little too hard. That
would bother me."
"Silly. Why should a professor stare at you?"
"I don't know. I'd just be afraid if he did."
"Some of the professors are women," she said.
"I'd be scared of them, too."
"You really are funny," she said.
But the way we left if, she was going to pick up some
papers for me and after I signed them, she would set
up an appointment for me to talk to someone on campus.
I drove her back to the hospital and put her into her
father's Mercedes-Benz.
"No speeding now," I said. "Your luck might run
out."
"Hasn't yet," she said.
J.D. came out of the employee lounge in a rush.
"Just in time," J.D. said. "You're now on duty
again.
Trouble out on Nellis."
Doris quickly stepped out of her father's Mercedes.
"You can't go," I said.
"Yes, I can," she said.
I glanced at J.D.
"Yes, she can," he said.
She gave me a small hug.
"Hi, J.D.," she said. She must have realized that
J.D. was not the hugging type. She didn't even try to
hug him.
As was his usual custom, J.D. merely nodded at Doris.
It was, almost, but not quite, a bow.
J.D. said there had been a bar fight in a small
nightclub on Nellis Boulevard out toward the air force
base. Someone had pulled a knife. Blood all over the
place.
"I hope they didn't spill all of it," J.D. said.
I noticed the puzzled expression on the face of Doris
and quickly said the first thing that came to my mind.
"You want to drive tonight...just for the fun of it?"
"Stupid question!" he snarled.
"Just thought I'd be polite," I said. "I don't
think
I'd enjoy your driving anyway."
"That's right. You wouldn't," he said.
"I'll drive," said Doris.
I grabbed her by the arm and escorted her around to
the other door of the ambulance.
"No, you won't!"
She looked at J.D.
"No," he said.
He immediately went around and climbed into the back
of the ambulance.
"Good thing he's not in a foul mood," I told her. I
opened the passenger door and let her inside the
ambulance.
"I heard that remark," said J.D.
"Whups!" I said and laughed.
I started the engine and roared out of the parking
area. By the time we hit the street in the ambulance,
tires screaming, the only one laughing was Doris.
"You're nuts!" I told her as soon as I got the
ambulance back on all four wheels and we were heading
down Sahara toward Nellis. I had all of the lights
going and the siren on.
"Of course!" she yelled back.
"What a pair you two make," said J.D. from the jump
seat where a medic would have normally sat. "You're
nuts and he's an absolute maniac."
He was holding onto the back of her seat as if his
life depended on it.
Sahara makes a dip as it crosses Boulder Highway. The
light was green, so we had no problem getting across.
I took a shortcut on Lamb for a few blocks and then
whipped right and blasted on over to Nellis and headed
north toward Nellis Air Force Base. Nellis Boulevard
is a pretty good road for fast driving. Especially if
you're in an ambulance with the siren clearing out
most of the traffic in front of you except for the
drunks and the idiots. A couple of cars didn't even
have their headlights on. J.D. had the theory that
Las Vegas enjoyed the lowest per capita IQ of any city
in the United States. He said it wouldn't even be
that high except for the influx of people moving in
from Texas who raised the average.
The road narrowed to a four-lane thoroughfare north of
Lake Mead Boulevard. And the bar wasn't much further
along.
It was a real country music dump. You could tell by
the pickups parked outside on the graveled parking
lot. Garish red neon signs proclaimed Bud and Lite
and through one large window you could see a Schlitz
Beer sign blinking at you--a collector's item.
I stopped out front not too far from a pickup with a
roll bar across the back and extra-large tires.
J.D. was already heading toward the bar. He yelled
over his shoulder for Doris to stay in the ambulance.
"Like hell," she yelled at his back.
She followed me across the parking lot and through a
screen door into a huge room filled with tables and
chairs and a counter against the rear. Two fairly
large guys--motorcycle types to judge from their jock
boots and short denim jackets--were standing on the
top of the bar. Both looked terrified.
The phone call had been wrong about one thing.
Someone had used a knife. True. But the fight wasn't
over. He was still using it. At the moment, he was
slicing up a guy across one of the tables. Literally
slicing him up. I don't think he even noticed me.
His eyes immediately focused on Doris as we entered
the room. With the knife, one of those Arkansas pig
stickers with a long thin blade low in his right hand,
he ran toward us.
I didn't have much time. So, I picked up one of the
bodies laying on the floor and hit him with it.
He collapsed. He wasn't unconscious, but the impact
knocked most of the wind from his lungs. The knife
fell out of his hand onto the floor. I kicked it
across the floor in the direction of J.D., then
reached down and picked up its owner and threw him
into the fancy Schlitz sign. Actually, I was throwing
him at the wall and that's just where the sign
happened to be. The sign popped off a shower of
yellow and red sparks, like a strange flower suddenly
shedding seeds, and went dark, and the guy fell like a
rock to the floor. He was out cold this time. One
leg jutted out at the wrong angle. Broken.
Cops started arriving then. They were quickly all
over the place. Like bees in a hive only with a lot
more racket. The bartender came out of a back room
and started giving the police the story. The guy with
the knife had just suddenly gone crazy. Crack or
something. Then the bartender had to spend a lot of
time explaining that the killer hadn't bought the
crack in his joint.
J.D. kept mostly out of sight. In shadows at the end
of the bar. I had to answer a few questions.
"You the hero?" one of the detectives asked.
"Not me," I said.
"What happened to the crazy? You do that?"
"Actually," I said, "he stumbled over a chair."
The policeman made some notes in a palm-sized notebook
and after a couple of more minutes we were virtually
ignored. Doris held onto my left arm, leaning close.
Now and then she glanced up at me and shook her head.
The two motorcycle guys didn't say much. Both claimed
they'd been busy talking and missed most of the
action. One of them glanced at me, then came over and
stuck out his hand and said, "Thanks."
I shook hands with him.
"It was nothing," I said.
"Sure," he said.
A policeman thumbed through the billfold of the crazy
while he was still unconscious. Doris was staring at
the guy who'd been cut to ribbons and looked as if she
was going to be sick.
"Bet you a nickel, that jukebox over there has a Garth
Brooks record on it," I told Doris.
She went over and looked.
"You're right," she said. "And two by Hank Williams
Jr. Hey, Vince Gill, too! Have you heard Vince
Gill's latest?"
"No. I don't guess so."
J.D. and I still ended up with three bodies. The guy
on the table had to go in a body bag. The police got
the crazy, which didn't disappoint me very much. They
had to be very careful with him because when he
regained consciousness he immediately pulled out a
switchblade and tried to hack at one of them, but
missed. They finally got him into some kind of
restraining device and half led, half carried him
away. The switchblade was left lying on the floor in
a pool of blood.
With the ambulance loaded, we headed back toward the
hospital.
"Did you know you were going to do that?" Doris asked.
She had been very quiet for several moments.
"No," I said. "I'm definitely not a hero."
"Yes, he is," said J.D.
"You picked him up and threw him like a stick," Doris
said. I thought that her voice carried a certain
level of awe. I hoped it wasn't fear.
"It wasn't that easy, I assure you," I said.
"He's just being modest," snarled J.D. "The man is
immensely strong."
She leaned over and squeezed my right biceps.
"Enormous muscles," she said. "You must exercise an
awful lot."
"Not really. I do run a bit. But not that often,"
I
said.
"Then you must be a natural," Doris said.
"What's that? Nothing bad, I hope."
"I mean, you were probably born with the kind of genes
that create large muscles naturally. Your father and
mother probably were fairly strong people."
I couldn't look at her for a moment.
After a while, I told her: "I never met my parents.
I was raised in an orphanage."
"I'm sorry," she said. "You'd mentioned you were
sick
for a while, but I didn't know that you were an
orphan. Was it a horrible place?"
"I don't know," I said. She looked puzzled, so I
thought I'd try to explain it although I'm not very
good at explaining anything. "It was the only home I
ever knew. I've nothing to compare it with. Anyway,
when I came down with that sick spell I told you
about--I guess I was about 14--I ran away."
"While you were sick?"
"Yeah."
"Told you he was crazy," said J.D.
"What did you do? How did you survive?"
"For a long time," I told her, "I tried to pretend I
wasn't sick. I wandered around, living on what food I
could steal. Slept in empty barns and boxes in alley
ways."
"Sick like that? How horrible!"
"It was bad when it was happening. I'll admit that.
I sweated all of the time and, because of the fever,
was always thirsty. I think that's one of the reasons
I still drink too much coffee."
"What happened?"
I wondered what she meant. I certainly couldn't tell
her the truth. She wouldn't want to hear that anyway.
"After a while things got better," I said.
"I mean, what happened to you?"
"I don't know." That was more or less the truth.
She hit me on the arm with her fist. It was a small
fist and didn't hurt at all. But I don't think she
intended to hurt me anyway.
"You'd better tell me."
Instead of telling her what had really happened, I
told her about what had happened to me.
"A farmer in Alabama or Missouri took me in. A
God-fearing, Bible-toting farmer. I guess that's
where I got the muscles. We started work before sun
up and many a day, except for Sunday, of course,
worked until long after dark. But he was a good man
and he taught me something very important...he taught
me that I didn't want to be a farmer."
"Silly."
"Not too silly. I ran away as soon as I could. I
guess I was about 17 at the time. That's when I
became a bum. They've got a more-pleasant name for it
these days. Homeless. I roamed around the country
for what seemed like years until I ended up here and,
quite by accident, got a job. That's my life story.
Honest. All that I care to tell, anyway. Actually,
my life hasn't been all that pleasant. Until, in
fact, just a few nights ago when I met you. Since
then, my life has been great."
"How romantic!" snarled J.D.
"Shut up," said Doris. "I want to hear more."
"Unfortunately, two problems exist," I told her.
"First, three isn't a crowd at the moment, it's an
entire stadium. The second problem is that we've
reached the hospital."
"What a pity," she said.
"Yeah. Things were just getting slightly warmer than
tepid. Almost mildly interesting," snarled J.D.
I pulled the ambulance under the overhang at the
emergency entrance of the hospital. Four men in white
came out and had emptied the back of the ambulance
almost before I turned off the motor.
"Eager, aren't they?" remarked Doris.
"A little too eager," agreed J.D.
"I'm beginning to wonder a little about your
hospital," she said.
"So am I," said J.D. "Look, you two guys go grab a
cup of coffee and I'll join you in a few minutes."
"Don't go too far," I said.
"I'll be around. If you get a trouble call, yell out.
I'll hear you."
We went into the employee lounge. When she saw the
coffee mug, she went over and picked it up.
"What a strange, strange mug."
"So's J.D. I gave it to him for his birthday."
"You're strange, too," she said.
"When did you figure that out?" I said.
"Just now. Anyone who'd think of buying anyone else a
coffee mug like this has a very odd mind. What are
these things here on the side?"
"Wings," I said.
"Strange wings."
"Like those on a bat," I said.
"Wherever in the world did you find a coffee mug like
this?"
"One of those curious little shops that deal in magic
herbs. I thought about buying him a can of soup made
from the eyeballs of lizards. I was trying to find
something funny, you know? I wanted to make him
laugh."
"This mug should have accomplished that."
"No. He was very touched by the gift. I mean, he
never shows anything even remotely like emotion and
he'd never tell you outright because everything he
says is slightly sarcastic, but I could sense it. He
liked the gift very much. Doesn't matter, because he
never uses it. It just sits there on the counter. No
one's allowed to even pick it up."
She quickly set the mug down, careful to place it
facing the same direction as close as she could.
"Tell him the cleaning lady moved it."
"Tell him what?" asked J.D. as he entered the room.
"We were just admiring your coffee mug," she said.
"Stupid little trinket," said J.D. in his usual
sarcastic tone of voice, "but I keep it around because
it reminds me of a friend from the old days. You
could say he had bats in his belfry. Actually, he was
about as bats as they come." He slumped down on the
couch and picked up the newspaper and immediately hid
behind it. "Now, you kids get out of here. Go over
to the drug store and buy a soda pop or something.
I've got some thinking to do and I need a lot of
quiet."
We walked arm in arm out of the hospital and across
the parking lot.
"What a beautiful moon," she said.
We stopped and I stared at it.
"It'll be full in a few days," I said. "I'm looking
forward to seeing the full moon this month. More than
usual. I don't exactly know why."
We continued walking toward the drug store.
"Your friend J.D. is, indeed, a strange one."
"You keep saying that."
"Did you noticed that he had the newspaper upside
down?"
"Yes," I said. "He does that a lot. He was
merely
hiding behind it."
"Strange," she said softly.
"You could say that about a lot of people I know," I
said.
"There's also something very strange about that
hospital."
"Just a hospital," I said.
"No, it isn't," she insisted. "Dad told me a
yesterday that the state is about to investigate HRT
Inc. I was telling mom and dad about you. You know?
He said that...."
"What were you telling them about me?"
"Just that you had the cutest eyes. Like those of a
small puppy."
"My bark is worse than my bite. Honest."
"What a pity!" she said.
We went into the drug store.
"What would you like?" she asked. "I'll get one
from
the machine here."
"I don't have any coins," I said. "I have some
dollar
bills. This is one of those machines that takes
bills."
"So it is," she said.
"Diet Pepsi," I said.
She took the two bills and fed them into the machine.
She punched up a Dr. Pepper for herself.
"Don't you want the change?"
"No. I always leave it."
"Big spender, huh?'
"Not really. Tight pants. The silver weighs me
down."
We walked back out into the parking lot and sat in my
pickup.
"What did your dad tell you about the hospital?"
"Just that it failed some kind of inspection or
something. He didn't know all of the details."
"I never heard anything about an inspection," I said.
"Of course, I'm never around in the daytime."
"He said the hospital might be closed," she said.
"If
they close the hospital, will that affect you a great
deal?"
"It's the only good job I've had," I said.
"You can find another job easy in this town."
"Not so easy," I said. "Even worse for a guy like
J.D."
"I'm sorry," she said.
Just then, J.D. came out of the hospital.
"Gang action over near Bonanza. We'd better get over
there."
"Okay," I said.
"Can I go?"
"No," I said. "It's easy to be a hero with just one
guy. When you've got a whole bunch, I'm more of a
coward."
"That's not precisely true," J.D. told her. "But
you
can't go anyway. Regulations."
"What about earlier tonight?"
"That was Tuesday. This is already Wednesday.
Regulations are different on Wednesday."
"Strange," she said.
(to be continued)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
November
18, 2003
New York City 1964-71
A journey by Claude Hall
Part Two
When I joined Billboard, Cashbox owned by George
Albert was the major trade publication. Competion!
Billboard had just plowed through a staff (they left
to start a trade magazine called Music Business;
Record World had also recently cranked up). Billboard
magazine had asked Paul Ackerman to return as editor.
Paul had earlier left Billboard because it did not
meet his standards for quality and had been head of
some trumped up association that disappeared as soon
as he left it. He said he'd come back as music editor
if they named Lee Zhito, a staff member in Los
Angeles, as editor. It was Zhito who hired me, but
Paul was to be my music mentor in those early years.
He was always generous of his time and effort and made
it a point to introduce me to people in the music
business. He carried enormous respect in the music
industry and he deserved it; he was a person of
outstanding caliber and extremely ethical.
Paul Ackerman had a master's degree from Columbia
University, as I recall. One of his favorite terms
was: "Publishing's where it's at," meaning that
the
music publishers make the real money in the music
business. He could quote Chaucer and he could quote
Hank Williams. His appreciation for both country
music and blues was quite astonishing for a man so
gentle, so kind, so reserved.
The Billboard offices were in a building (seventh
floor) on 46th Street just around behind the old
Paramount Theatre on Broadway where Frank Sinatra sang
a few times to countless screaming bobbysoxers.
Across from us was the offices of Variety. Ackerman
was both respected and loved by just about everyone.
Sam Phillips, head of Sun Records in Memphis, once
brought Jerry Lee Lewis to New York and had a piano
lifted outside the building and into Paul's office
just so he could hear "The Killer" in person. I
remember the Cowsills also performing for us in our
offices; when the father of the group had a tiff with
Ed Sullivan, the promising career of the family group
suddenly dove into the trash basket. The story of
Jackie Mason and Ed Sullivan is well known in show
business; the Cowsills were not that important at the
time. I once called Sullivan for a comment for a
story and he was gracious and quite proud of the fact
he was a reporter first and last. But you didn't mess
with Ed Sullivan whose television show gave important
exposure early to such as Elvis Presley and the
Beatles.
The staff of Billboard at this point in New York City
included Hal Cook, publisher; Lee Zhito, editor; Paul
Ackerman, music editor; Mike Gross, talent editor,
Aaron Sternfield, and me. Aaron handled a lot of the
coin stuff even though we had someone in Chicago. And
we usually had someone in Nashville. That was it.
But we all did everything and on the day we made up
page one would fight to get our stories on the page if
we thought they were good. Paul oversaw this battle
and would sometimes get a story on page one that
wasn't all that good because "I promised." The
early
days of Billboard were fun. On the other hand, if you
had written a story for the music section that Paul
didn't think was all that good, he would put it on the
side of his desk and at some point before deadline,
his elbow would "accidently" knock the story into the
ever-present trash can beside the desk. This happened
to me only a couple of times during my stint with the
magazine in New York City. Don Ovens was head of the
music charts and had a staff of maybe five or six
people. We were later to grow so large that I didn't
know everyone on the editorial staff and cared less.
Zhito thought it pertinent to have a toten everybody.
I did not care to get to know the toten pothead. Pot
wasn't the problem; there were quite a few dummies
working on the magazine at one point after the
magazine reached the financial stature that could
afford such. But that was essentially later after we
moved the headquarters of the magazine in 1971--me,
Cook, and Zhito, and Don Ovens, head of charts--to Los
Angeles.
Paul Ackerman was the driving force of the magazine,
even if he didn't have exactly a driving personality.
He would take me with him occasionally on a story,
especially in my early days. And I made it a point to
introduce people to him as I grew in my job...to point
to him as virtually an icon. And he was that.
There was some trial in the south and Sam Phillips was
on the stand and Paul was there; Phillips remarked,
according to Paul, that he was there "without women or
liquor." Paul took me to dinner one night in
Nashville (probably during the country music
convention) with Sam Phillips and his two boys, Jerry
and Knox. Knox later gave me a tape of the first
runthrough of Elvis Presley on "Blue Moon of
Kentucky." I would think that tape would be worth a
fortune; however, it was lost when I moved to Los
Angeles. In the background at the end of the side,
you can hear someone making a comment that was proof
Phillips was cutting Elvis "black" from day one,
something RCA Records and Col. Tom Parker denied for
more than two decades.
Phillips brought along his mistress to that dinner, a
woman who sort of fawned over him, brushing his hair
with her hand, and I wondered how he could put up with
that sort of thing. It was, on the other hand, a
fascinating dinner. This was the guy who'd discovered
Roy Orbison, Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny
Cash, Carl Perkins, and others. He didn't make much
money off of Elvis, but he took the money of Perkins'
"Blue Suede Shoes" when it hit and bought stock in a
fledgling motel chain starting in Memphis. Holiday
Inn?
Paul took me with him a couple of times to the annual
lunch with the guy who wrote "Rudolph the Rednosed
Reindeer" which an enormous hit for Gene Autry. This
was held traditionally at the legendary Lindy's on
Broadway. During the conversation and industry
chitchat, Paul would ask how "Rudolph" was doing and
the songwriter, Johnny Marks, would reach into his
inside jacket pocket and pull out a sheet of paper
he'd typed up with some astronomical numbers about
performances, records, etc. Paul would take a few
notes and do the story for Billboard. Later, Paul
passed on the wand, so to speak, and I did this lunch
myself and asked the traditional question. The
songwriter was always eager to point out that he'd
written many other hits. But, of course, there was
only one "Rudolph."
Paul's great love in life was his camellias. One
year, he entered the flower show at Madison Square
Garden, won first prize, and never entered again.
He'd made his own greenhouse behind his house at Far
Rockaway. And he was not above taking
"clippings"
when he was around some other famous camellia person.
Ralph Peer, the legendary music publisher, had been
into camellias and Paul once toured his garden in Los
Angeles and came away with several clippings. Peer's
wife Monique, renown herself in the music publishing
world for importing South American hits to the United
States, maintained his garden after his death. She
later married Gene Nash, the manager of Leroy Van Dyke
and writer of "Big Wide Wonderful World of Country
Music," a tune that received heavy exposure on country
music radio stations for a while.
Paul Ackerman didn't live more than a few years after
leaving Billboard. After I'd moved to Los Angeles,
Paul Ackerman had a heart attack in Nashville or
Memphis and Sam Phillips had his private jet bring in
heart specialists from as far away as Paris to treat
him. I don't know what happened to Paul's flowers
when he died.
At one point while still in Manhattan, I fought for
and got a window cubicle (the "offices" were separated
by partitions, with the exception of Hal Cook's office
on the southwest corner). It was a bit odd, but you
could count your worth to a firm by your office in
those days, i.e., a separate cubicle, a cubicle with a
window, an office, an office with a window, an office
with a window and curtains and a couch, etc. You'd
reached the top when your office had a private
bathroom.
I owe Hal Cook a lot. Less than a year or so after I
started work at Billboard, he and Roger Littleford
heard that I wanted a house and he talked Bill
Littleford, head of Billboard Publications Inc., into
loaning me $7,500 interest free and then saw that I
got a raise which would literally pay the loan
payments. This is how Barbara and I bought the house
at 26 Kenneth Road, Ardsley, NY, where we lived about
four years until moving to Los Angeles in May 1971.
The other day, I was listening to the CMT television
channel and they showed a snippet of the country music
museum in Nashville and, I'll tell you, I felt a
little sad about it. Because Hal Cook, Paul Ackerman,
and I worked like hell to get the first one
constructed and now it's gone. Sort of a pity,
really. Hal conned a guy named, as I recall, George
Martin (no, not the SIR one, but a guy who packaged
songs for cheapie albums sold usually PI on radio and
television) into shelling out a heavy percent of the
profits from a Hall of Fame LP sold on country music
radio stations. There were two or three volumes
eventually sold. Just about all country music radio
stations participated in playing the mail order ads.
The monies raised were quite enormous. Paul Ackerman
and I wrote the stuff on the LP jackets and the
brochure included with each LP. Hal Cook deserves
most of the credit for the construction of the
original museum. Bet you can't find his name anywhere
in the museum that exists today and in all probability
no one in Nashville remembers his name.
It was Hal Cook who drove Barbara and I to Forrest
Hills Tennis Club to see the Bob Dylan concert where
he went rock for the first time and was boo'd. Hal's
first wife had died and he was now married to his
former secretary, a wonderful woman who was raising
his two remaining boys (one had previously committed
suicide). The middle son had problems because of
Hal's career. He wanted to be a singer, but it's
difficult to be in the same business as your father
when your father doesn't own the business. I think
his name was Jim. He sang for a couple of years in
the subways of London, passing a hat. He did a lot of
work for me on the house in Hartsdale--sanding,
painting--when Barbara and I needed to sell it in
order to move to Los Angeles. Hal Cook moved to Orcus
Island off Seatle when he retired; he came back to Los
Angeles briefly in an attempt to start a jazz music
association and then I never heard of him again. I
hope his two remaining sons found their place in the
world.
Atlantic Records got mad at Billboard once because of
the charts and withdrew their advertising for several
weeks; it costed the magazine perhaps $60,000 in
revenues. However, Hal Cook, the publisher, never
gave in. Another time, Florence Greenberg, who had a
small label in those days, came up to the office once
and raised hell. Hal, yelling, tossed her out of the
office. Those early days were not easy. Lots of
pressure. Once, I recall Hal picking up his drum set
at the shop; he'd literally tore up all of the drum
heads, probably out of anger and frustration at some
point. I heard from someone that Hal Cook, when he
was doing promotion for Capital Records, tried to buy
a Kitty Kallen record onto the air, so his hands were
not perfectly clean. But his Billboard days were
lilly clean so far as I knew and I believe he tried to
establish a better way of doing things for the entire
industry.
Mike Gross, who knew Broadway better than anyone I
ever met, was always willing to call someone for
Broadway tickets if you wanted to take your wife out
to a show and was always asking if I were willing to
do a review, usually adding that the groceries were
good as an enticement. One night, we saw Johnny
Rivers perform at the Copa as a replacement for Sam
Cooke (great steak). Cooke had been shot by a jealous
husband. So far as I know, it was the one and only
time Rivers performed at the Copa. I loved the show.
He did about 45 minutes on "La Bamba," one of my
favorite songs. Barbara and I also caught the
Supremes at the Copacabana, as I recall. Tony
Bennett, we caught several times; the groceries were
very good at the Waldorf, an important factor when
your salary on Billboard wasn't all that great.
Bennett was pretty good, too. (Memories of New York
City will be continued next week.)
MORE THAT MATTERS
Kent Burkhart, RADIOKENT@aol.com:
"Claude, the record
promotor/Otis Redding partner was Joe GALKIN, now
deceased. Jerry Wexler spoke at his funeral in
Macon."
Right! How could I have forgotten? Another thing
that I forgot and I suppose should add for the record:
That Mercedes that Joe bought from Jerry was not
exactly a "used" car. It drove like a ship.
When you
see that TV commercial and they're doing 125 mph on
the autobahn while pouring a glass of champagne,
that's the car. Also, Phil Walden, head of the record
company, to the best of my knowledge really loved Otis
Redding and when Otis died gave his widow her proper
share of the firm. I will never forget the death.
I'd just returned from a convention in Las Vegas when
I received the phone call at my office in New York
from Phil and he was crying. Otis, the Alman
brothers. Plane crash. I waited a few days. I
had
to. Then I bought a six pack of beer in a deli
downstairs and one evening after everyone else had
gone home drank the beer while writing about Otis
Redding for Vox Jox. I really thought his "Ain't Got
No Satisfaction" a classic. Shortly afterwards, disc
jockeys started leaning on "Dock of the Bay" and it
soon became a millionseller. I've often wondered if
there was any connection between my Vox Jox tribute
and the hit. Probably not. I don't even remember
what I said. Doesn't matter. Until that point, Otis
was much bigger in Europe than in America. I still
believe to this day that he should have been even
bigger here than he was. He was a great artist. A
great many recording artists never receive their
proper tribute, but I guess you could say that about
radio people, too.
Burt Sherwood, bohica1@comcast.net:
"Claude...people
will be looking for you! Riverdale is NEVER referred
to as part of the Bronx...I made that mistake too many
times!"
David Carr, DCarrCNY@aol.com:
"Saw your email and
thought about the old days and early history of
Metromedia. Harvey Glascock hired me as a jock as
soon as Metropolitan Broadcasting (early name of
Metromedia) bought WIP in Philadelphia. Soon after, I
added the music director title and then program
director. Glascock was an inspiring guy and knew how
to challenge me. We achieved a lot at WIP in those
years (1960-65). Harvey went up to WNEW in New York
about then, replacing Jack Sullivan. Dave Croninger
came into WIP and we hit it off well. Harvey brought
Gert Katzman to WNEW with him. Allan Hotlen was my
first hire at WIP, replacing Gert as MD. WIP went
beyond the earlier heights and it was quite rewarding
for me, personally. Shortly thereafter (1967), I went
to WNEW with Harvey as PD. A year later, Kluge offered
me the GM position at WIP and WMMR. I hated to leave
Harvey, but it was something I couldn't turn down.
Several years later I was back in New York running
WNEW-FM. Harvey, Croninger, Jack Thayer and I were
later fired by an efficiency expert Kluge hired when
John made some costly purchases causing the stock to
tumble. It was my first termination-without-cause
experience and I never really got over it,
psychologically speaking, Years, later (1991) after
ABC, Mutual, Meredith and Metromedia, I left radio. I
promised my wife I would never go back. I have been
running Park Outdoor in Syracuse since. However, the
strangest series of events were set in motion a few
years ago when I volunteered to do a jazz show on
WAER, the Syracuse University Public station. The show
became a local hit. It led to my current relationship
with one of my all-time favorite people, Rick Buckley.
Rick and I have partnered on producing and marketing
'Dick Carr's Big Bands Ballads & Blues'. I host and
produce out of Syracuse. The syndication marketing is
done by WOR Radio Network and the show is currently
heard in 40 markets. They add about two stations every
week. My wife has forgiven me for going back into
radio because she knows I'm having fun being on-air.
It replaces the stress of golf. I continue running
Park Outdoor and expect to do so for another year at
which time I will appoint my successor currently in
training. Dick Carr Productions, LLC has been formed
and will begin adding projects when I pull back from
Park in December 2004. I've been in touch with Allan
Hotlen several times...he recently moved to Boca. Do
you know what happened to Croninger after he moved to
El Paso and opened a Kentucky Bob golf center? If you
have his email address, send it on. I enjoyed an email
exchange with my old friend Kent Burkhart a few months
ago...glad he's doing well. Where is Gertie Katzman?
Two record contacts who supply me with classic
standard and jazz product are Don Graham and Sal
Ingeme...two great guys. Believe it or not, I've even
spoken with Buz Curtis. Life is good. Hope you're OK,
too. It certainly appears that way. Say hello for me
to whomever. Tell them I'm alive and well in Syracuse
and to look for me on 'Big Bands Ballds & Blues', the
two-hour weekly in syndication by WOR."
Somebody was trying to contact David Croninger a few
weeks back via snail mail; don't know if he succeeded,
but I asked him to let me know if and when.
Jay Lawrence, JAYAZ@aol.com:
"When I went to the
morning drive show at WNEW there was only one person
at the station who really made me feel welcome.
William B. Williams. What a gentleman. There were
others who did everything they could to undo
me--Johnathon Schwartz, Ted Brown (angry because I got
the show), others as well made it very difficult for
me. I just wasn't one of them. William B. Williams
always made me feel as though I did belong and was the
only congratulations I got when the ratings went up
dramatically in morning drive. I have some
interesting memories of that time in New York."
Jack Raymond, mraymond@net1plus.com:
"You couldn't
have known, Claude, but GOD couldn't have made music
headlines in 1964! There was so much going on with
threeTop 40 radio stations in New York City. Besides
the APPLE had the Beatles cresting in March '64. It
must seem like a smokey cloud to you at this point.
You did forget some names from the past. Herbie Rosen
(local Atlantic), Freddie DeMann (Big Top), Gene
Armond (Dave Knapp's Knapp Records), George Goldner
(Red Bird with No.1 Shanga-Li's 'Leader of the Pack',
'Walking in Sand' Eddie (The Old Philosopher) Lawrence
(EPIC), (World's Fair Philosopher) Steve Allen's
Signature Records. 'The Jackie Gleason Show'
(featuring the June Taylor Dancers; Soupy Sales
married one of them), Ed Sullivan's 'Toast of the
Town' has the British Invasion bands including the
Rolling Stones, the Hullabaloos, the Searchers, Peter
& Gordon, Dusty Springfield. Louie Armstrong was
alive and well and living in Harlem with the No. 1,
'Hello Dolly'. The great Spike Jones releases his
last album on United Artists. Johnny Holliday, Ed
Hider (produced by Neil McInytre), Jack Lacey, Mark
Olds (PD), Rick Sklar, and the great Mad Daddy who was
working with WINS producer Scott Ross. Scott went on
to produce the first non-commerical born-again radio
program and then marry one of the Ronettes! Mad Daddy
(as Pete Myers) worked evenings in 1964, immediately
before his 10-midnight show on WINS on WNEW! WINS
news director Charles Scott King would later go on to
NBC television network news. He was last the Europe
NBC network correspondent. Tony Richland was working
for the Famous Music Publishing Company. His picture,
along with another five other record pluggers made
LOOK magazine's cover when payola hit the news in
1959. WMGM morning legends Bob & Ray were heard
everyday. Over on 1130, Klaven and Finch was going
great guns! Steve Kamen (Jubilee Records) was
recording his novelty hit, 'The Subways Keep Rolling
Along!' Murray the K with his office one floor above
WINS on Central Park West was planning his Easter Show
at the Brooklyn Fox Theater. Jackie the K, his wife,
worked with her dad. Her dad was Murray's manager at
the time. Murray Burnett, the first host of WINS'
'Contact' show, went on to write a Broadway show.
Cheers!"
Great memories, Jack. Thanks. Just FYI, Scott's
religious program was produced at first, as I recall,
by a guy in those early years who was a minister of
some kind; I kept meeting him, Larry or something,
backstage at rock concerts. He seemed to be always
welcome. Regardless. He didn't preach, per se, to
anyone; he was just there I guess if anyone needed
him. He was well-liked, though.
The following "series" came about when a Tom Campbell
fan tried to contact him. The first email from Susan
D'Asaro, SDasaro@visa.com:
"I'm a native San
Franciscan and my friend and I are nostalgic for the
radio DJs and radio ads we remember from our childhood
in the 60s and 70s. What is Tom Campbell up to? I can
hear his voice in my mind like it was yesterday."
I forwarded the message to Tom and let her know.
D'Asaro came back with: "Thank you so much for your
reply! I came across your name in a book review while
doing a Yahoo search for Tom Campbell. My friend and I
were/are big fans of his from his radio days in the
Bay Area, I grew up listening to him as a DJ and on
all the great ads he did. Tell him he still has big
fans here!!! I wish he'd come back."
The book review, of course, concerned the book by
Johnny Holliday, voice of the Terps, which you can
find for sale on the Amazon website. Johnny was kind
enough to send me a copy of his book and ask me to
write a review for it. I seem to be getting a lot of
mileage from that review. Hope the book is selling
well.
Tom Campbell, tc@tomc.org:
"Thanks, Claude. Great to
hear from you! I am on the road quite a bit right now.
Have been named Sr. Technology Advisor and Officer
of the Convention for the 2004 Natl Convention at
Madison Sq. Garden in NYC. Got to see you soon as it
has been too long. Thank you again for all you have
done for me over many years."
See, Ken Dowe...I do know at least one staunch
Republican (is there any other kind?). Other than
you, that is. But there's just one thing I don't
understand about this D'Asaro lady...she LIKED those
commercials? Whew! I mean, they were professional
and sold product. But I think you'd have to be just a
little bit nuts to ENJOY them. Especially after you
heard a barrage of them over a period of several
months! No question, however, but Tom was KNOWN. I
remember the day a general manager called me to
checkout a Los Angeles rumor that Tom was going to be
hired as a disc jockey in the market. The GM was
planning to sue to keep him off the air if that
happened. Just about everyone thought those radio
commercials had provided Tom too much, almost ungodly,
recognition for ARBs...they figured that if he went
back on the air as a disc jockey he'd wipe out
everyone!
J. Robert Wood, jrwood@netcom.ca:
"Didn't know you
were writing a regular 'column' again, but I'm just
now reading the back issues and thoroughly enjoying
the opportunity to re-connect with the memories and
the people who made our beloved radio such a glorious
business. Claude, may I suggest you send your column
out to everyone by email. That way, no one will forget
to check it out, as may be the case now. This will
increase readership, and give everyone a chance to
pick up on the latest issue when it is written, not
several days, weeks (or in my case) months later, and
enlarge the sense of community for guys who
'subscribe'. Your reflections on the business along
with memories from your readers resonate with all of
us who were, and still very much are, passionate about
this great business. I/we appreciate your effort!"
I emailed Bob my philosophy, such as it might be, why
I think a stable, permanent website is the way to go
not only for me, but also for radio fans in general.
Not my website, but the website of Larry Shannon. Me
and John Rook and Chuck Dunaway are, in effect, just
hangers-on to Larry's site, although I think the total
effect is a nice package. We, in essence, are parts
that can be replaced and in time to come will be. I
hope. For this would mean that radiodailynews.com has
become a major industry focus and the way of the
future has become a reality. While it may be true
that I could presently achieve better reach personally
via emails because a few people remember who I used to
be, I think a website lends greater longevity, greater
stability. I still receive an email now and then
regarding the poem, for example, which can be accessed
via the website. Anyway, my major purpose is not so
much as to express my thoughts regarding radio and
politics as it is to feature my novels, chapter by
chapter. I was previously sending out 'diatribes' via
email to a growing list of a few hundred and getting
back 20-40 responses. So, I was able to vent, as John
Rook, god bless him, is doing now. But then I
realized that I didn't solve anything. Yes, I
understand someone may have taken my five veggie
diatribes against operations such as Clear Channel to
Mays. Randy was subsequently demoted and ties with a
record promotion firm cut. Don't think my article had
much to do with it. And, anyway, If that's all I
achieved, big deal. Radio, overall, hasn't come back.
It's still somewhat of a mess. The late David
Moorhead had great plans to make radio creative again.
Since he has gone on, I hope that someone else will
come along to make the attempt. But I know people who
think it's always going to be like it is now. At 71,
I won't have to endure the mess a great deal longer, I
would think.
Whether a website is read or not, in my opinion, is
strictly based on whether it's worth reading or not.
Does it serve a function? Does it provide news? Does
it provoke thought? Does it provide entertainment?
Is www.claudehallonline.com
interesting enough to
create habit reading? Only, I would think, among
those who really love the genre. Print publications
seem to be dwindling; the Internet seems to me to be
the way of the future whether I'm there or not.
In my opinion, Larry Shannon provides the needed news
via his www.DailyRadioNews.com.
I couldn't compete
with him even if I wanted to...which, most assuredly,
I do not. Too much work. And I have nothing to prove
anymore in that regard. In fact, I'm grateful that
Larry is willing to do it. God bless him. My own
website is sort of a watering hole for memories. Now
and then I try to hype readership with a blanket email
sent out to a constantly growing list. This past
week, Larry Ryan, Shreveport, asked to be removed from
this list and I removed him. He said he didn't need
the publicity. What publicity? As some of you may
remember, my last such email mentioned Harvey Glascock
and William B. Williams, etc. I don't think publicity
would do them much good right now. Good memories,
yes; publicity, I doubt it. Memories are the gold
coin of us who're growing too quickly ancient.
Anyway, when you come right down to it, the very
sporadic emails that I may send out usually are
promoting only one person--me. Good or bad, that's
the truth. I'm attempting to hype, trick, tease,
persuade some of you to tap into my weekly website and
perhaps along the way read the chapters of my novel.
A few have and I've been grateful for this. And,
quite frankly, I enjoy anyway--novels or not--hearing
from radio and music buddies that I've always
considered friends. Until this week, I even thought
Larry Ryan was one of these. Oh, well, as Gary Owens
would say. Guess I'm too old to get uptight about
much of anything these days. Sad, yes; uptight, no.
Don Whittemore at DandyDonsicecream.com,
don@dandydonsicecream.com:
"Just keep on expressing
yourself. You never held your opinions silently about
mutually served topics...we both had fervid interests
in and out of the businesses--radio, records, music,
writing and as illustrated by the Al Coury story you
told in Vox Jox, or I'm crediting to you. Coury had a
record touted in Gavin. Al pitched the record solely
based on its prominence as a promising newcomer in
Gavin. Next record Al pitches, the dj/md says it
isn't doing too well in Gavin. Al immediately
replies, 'Gavin? You can't go by Gavin'. You were
always about what's good and not about tearing down
people when you had the power to do so. That's why,
in a small way, guys like me still talk to you after
30+ years...because we want to--not because we have
to."
Don't remember that Al Coury story, Don. But it's a
cute one. Wonder if Al remembers it. And, come to
think of it, would he admit it even if he remembered
it?
Stephen Meyer, stephennmeyer@earthlink.net:
"Well
hello from an old promotion guy...imagine my surprise
when this email showed up in my Inbox today...my
goodness...I didn't know where you were and what you
were doing...but, hey it's been what...almost 25
years? How'd u get my email address? Let's see...I
think we probably last spoke when I was still at
Capitol Records...I left there in 1983 and went to
join Irving Azoff at MCA and I can't remember whether
we were in touch while I was there. Anyhow, I left
MCA in 1991 after Irving left and Al Teller (who was
literally Darth Vader!) took over and destroyed all
Irving had built. I decided to option out of my
contract and leave. I consulted for awhile but got
tired of not working with a team...so I returned to
the corporate workplace in 1996 and moved here (Las
Vegas). Had several jobs here...helped open The
Venetian, worked briefly for Las Vegas Sports
Consultants (the official oddsmakers) and now work for
MGM/Mirage at their properties
(www.primmvalleyresorts.com)at
the California/Nevada
stateline (20 minutes from the house). Vegas is a
boomtown and it's been good to me...affordable
housing, NO STATE INCOME TAX (!), great restaurants,
shopping, entertainment, etc. I have no complaints.
The music industry has changed dramatically...much of
it for the worst as the conglomerates continue to
merge as profits shrink and they try and stop Internet
downloading (an exercise in futility...it will never
be stopped) and try to get consumers to BUY music
again. Of course the fact that 90% of the music out
there is disposable and the fact that Artist
Development departments are a thing of the past has
also contributed to the industry's ills. Those facts,
and also the fact that CD prices had to come down (and
maybe even further) because it's a whole new world out
there. When DVDs of hit movies are selling for the
same price as CDs, then the value of the CD is
diminished in the consumer's eyes. One thing is
certain...the labels had better make the Internet an
ally quick because it's the future...and the future is
now. My hope is that the real MUSIC people like Clive
Davis are able to lead the industry through these
storms...and the MUSIC people like Clive are the key.
Not the lawyers, analysts, business affairs people.
How are you, old friend? I actualy thought of you two
months ago because the Eagles were here in concert and
Irving got my wife and I passes. We sat next to
Cameron Crowe (the director of Jerry McGuire, Almost
Famous, Fast Times at Ridgemont High) and I leaned
over at intermission and said to him, 'Hi
Cameron...you don't remember me...but in 1978 or 1979
you and I were contestants on a quiz show called
$50,000 GRAND SLAM and our category was the Beatles'.
You were the one that told me about the show and the
reason I met him! I'm still in touch with many
radio/record people...Al Coury, Bruce Wendell, Don
Zimmerman (then president at Capitol), Susan Scharf,
Billy Brill, Bob Hamilton (from K-EARTH), Dave Sholin,
Joel Denver, Richard Palmese, Irving, John Rook, and
others. Great to hear from you...write me back and
tell me what you've been doing all these
years!"
Incidentally, Steve is launching a
newsletter ... actually relaunching one...called Disc
and Dat that he used to issue back in his Capital
Records days. First "issue" is pretty good.
Steve
has some good thoughts. Contact him at
stephennmeyer@earthlink.net
if you'd like to get on
his email list.
John Rook, jhrook@earthlink.net,
disagreed with me
slightly about Jerry Wexler being almost a legend:
"Jerry Wexler was a damned good record producer.
Produced 'The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face' with
Aretha Franklin that turned her into a star literally
overnight. Did Aretha do it prior to Roberta Flack?"
One evening in the Hollywood Hills of Los Angeles, I
watched in astonishment as Mike Curb and Ted Atkins
competed about record knowledge, up to and including
the color of the labels on the discs sent to radio
stations. So, I wrote Ted Atkins, but it appears I
should have asked Barry Hansen instead: "Ted, Rook
has a question re my website. The only person I know
who would know would be you. How are you these days?"
Ted Atkins, kruzers@msn.com:
"The only reference
source I have is Joel Whitburn's 'History of Top 40
Hits' (had to chart at least 40) and, while it shows
Aretha's first Top 40 (#37) hit as 'Rock-a-Bye Your
Baby With a Dixie Melody' (Nov. '61), there is no
mention of 'First Time...'. Not to say she didn't
record it but, if so, it didn't break the 40. Sorry I
couldn't help more. In the back of my mind, though, I
seem to remember that as a great trivia question.
Kinda rings a bell. Could be wrong. Maybe it's a
senior moment. All is hunky-dory here in the Burg.
It's a holiday day off and I'm just catching up on
paper work, filing, etc. Raining all day. I've
touched bases with John a couple of times in the past
month and finally got his entire story about what
happened up there. Just unbelievable. Can't believe
the holidays are almost upon us. Where did the year
go? Karen's already got most of her shopping done,
spending money like we had some. We're going to
Clearwater in Feb. to see her son and, hopefully, will
take another cruise in March or April. Working on it
now. Hope all is well with you and your family.
Remember the night in New York we were guests of Rick
Sklar on the WABC boat and circled Manhattan? I think
Dean Tyler, among others, was with us. Great times!"
I remember the boat trip well. Also on board, Barry
Fiedel and David Cassidy. And Howard Kester did four
hours on oranges. I still have a picture around
somewhere. Ah, we had some good times, didn't we?
Tom Quigley, tomquigley2@yahoo.com:
"Someone mentioned
Sandy Beach on your website. If they were referring
to the one who used to be at KB in Buffalo, he's still
there, working either weeknights or weekends there.
It's fun to listen to some of the old jingles they
play, and, of course, the music, but I'm not sure how
long the novelty can last. WBBF in Rochester (93.3)
must have caved in to the wishes of their retail
advertisers--they went full-time Christmas music last
Sunday, Nov. 9--a little early, don't you think?"
Tom, while there may have been more than one Weird
Beard (two, I think) and probably a dozen Johnny
Dollars, to the best of my knowledge there was only
one Sandy Beach.
Next week, back to memories of New York City, circa
1963-71.
(to be continued)
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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