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"Xtreme"
Chapter one of a novel
by Claude Hall
Music filled all of her days and all of her nights.
She loved listening to old Bill Monroe records, which
caused all of her friends to think she was strange
because they were into Bruce Springsteen, the boss,
and they didn't understand Bill Monroe at all. She
also loved Johnny Cash and Webb Pierce, Chuck Berry
and Hank Williams and Elvis Presley and Roy Orbison.
And, of course, Frank Sinatra, the chairman of the
board when it comes to singing. Someone at Capitol
Records had sent her their entire catalog of Frank
Sinatra. Not quite all of the records that he made in
Studio B, of course, because "Where Do You Go When the
Nighttime Comes" was missing, but she had the song on
an album titled "None But the Lonely" in her
collection. She treasured this particular song above
all. The chairman of the board had ventured far
afield musically when all others dared not. Long
before the Beatles and even before Gene Vincent and
James Brown, but not, of course, before Jimmie
Rodgers, the greatest of them when it came to musical
experimentation. Rodgers was the so-called father of
country music, but his music was tingled with jazz and
dixieland and blues and gospel. "Pistol Packin'
Papa," now there was a song!
Modern rock 'n' roll, she listened to and she could
write about the Rolling Stones and the Doors, but not
with any great passion. Once, she'd written an
article about Mick Jagger's tongue, but Songdust News
refused to print it. This was funny, hah, hah,
because John Kluge, one of the richest men in the
world, had become even richer because of that tongue
in a way. The tongue had inspired the logo at KMET in
Los Angeles, perhaps one of the greatest radio
stations in the world. Kluge owned Metromedia which
owned the Los Angeles progressive rock radio station,
as well as radio stations elsewhere, including WNEW in
New York and WIP in Philadelphia.
She enjoyed music, all kinds of music, including the
mariachi trios and the deep soulful sound of Cuco
Sanchez and the pure classical guitar of André Segovia
and the jazz of Chico Hamilton. At night, her bedroom
was full of the beautiful sounds of "One Stormy Night"
produced by Brad Miller and her mornings started with
records such as "Mule Skinner Blues" by Dolly Parton.
Then, just like the hit record by Don McLean which
some said was a tribute to the February third day
Buddy Holly died in a plane crash, the music died for
her. Yesterday, in fact. At the moment, she couldn't
stand even a distant thought of music as she drove
along the Mercedes-Benz unofficial test track usually
referred to as Sunset Strip. The car radio was off
this morning. It had not been tuned off since the day
she bought the car. You turned on the motor, you
turned on David Moorhead's KMET where you heard Mary
Turner or Ron Jacobs' KHJ where you heard Charlie Tuna
or Robert W. Morgan or, sometimes, KGFJ where the
Magnificent Montague told you to "Keep the faith,
baby" or "Let it all hang out!" Sometimes, even KJOI,
depending on her mood. Her mood was chaotic at the
moment. Her brain rattled with too much to drink last
night and too much to think this morning. It was
weird.
Sunset Strip, of course, was always weird. The people
who drove this direction of a morning oft danced to
their own music, heard and unheard. But today it was
even crazier than usual. A Mercedes-Benz had been
hobnobbing with a Rolls and both drivers evidently
thought they deserved the right of way by order of
supreme wealth. Now the drivers of the two vehicles
were shaking fists and blaming dented fenders on each
other. The metalistic disagreement had blocked
traffic for a couple of miles.
Ordinarily, Susan James spun down out of the hills in
her MG further east on the Strip, car phone tucked on
her right shoulder, already busy at work, stereo car
radio blaring. Not today. Her car phone remained
unused. Even a notepad and ballpoint pen for writing
ideas remained in her purse, a floppy leather monster
with a shoulder strap.
It was a beautiful morning in Los Angeles in spite of
her ugly mood and a breeze from the ocean had pushed
the usual smog over toward San Bernardino. She felt
like taking her time getting to the magazine office
that was not quite in Hollywood, but close. She had
lowered the canvas top of her little British sports
car, donned a tweed cap over her mustard-blonde hair,
and sped up and out of the San Fernando Valley where
she lived in a tangled apartment complex and down
Roscomare Boulevard through the ultra-expensive
estates of Bel Air and out the gate and onto Sunset
Boulevard. It was sometimes spiritually lifting to
visit the rich now and then, if only in passing. Bel
Air was jammed with rich people. Beverly Hills even
more so. Not far from where she sat at the moment was
the Hugh Hefner estate. Off to the right out there.
Lost in a jungle of other ultra-expensive estates.
O.J. Simpson lived out there, too, they said. She had
visited at the Hugh Hefner estate. Barbi Benton,
Hefner's "thing" of the moment, was trying to be a
recording artist. Maybe she really was a record
artist and the other aspect was secondary. Who knows?
But she lived in a cute little house on the grounds
with a huge backgammon table and her makeup was
flawless like a kupie doll.
Now, this! Her day wasn't spoiled, of course, because
it wasn't her accident per se and anyway that mess
waiting at the office was worse than any accident.
Big time! She was not, certainly, in a hurry to face
the music.
When she thought about this pun, she laughed and the
drivers of the cars to the right and left jerked their
heads to stare at her.
Then a motorcycle cop in a spiffy uniform arrived and
soon traffic began to move more smoothly around the
accident. The two drivers continued to argue. One of
them looked like Lee Brown, the newish managing editor
of Songdust News magazine.
Susan smirked at herself in the rearview mirror. She
wasn't aware that Lee Brown made that kind of money.
Of course, everyone in Los Angeles probably made more
money than she did. And it was also fashionable in
Los Angeles to drive a Mercedes or a Rolls even if you
didn't have money. Only the very strange drove
something such as a little British sports car that was
no longer being manufactured. Unless, of course, your
car was very, very old and very, very rebuilt and
virtually a custom-made classic that was then worth an
astonishing amount of money and thus prestigiously
acceptable.
The policeman stepped between the two men without
pausing in his hand signals. He pointed at her and
then pointed toward Hollywood.
Susan shifted to low gear and moved around the two
cars and the cars and the drivers were soon lost from
view behind her as she sped out of the Beverly Hills
area, past the 9000 Sunset Building, past the myriad
nightclubs and restaurants, some of them famous and
others trying to be famous and some just ancient
history such as Ciro's, no matter what thingamabob
occupied the site at the moment. Down the street was
Tower Records where you might find Bob Dylan buying an
album or two alongside Sylvester Stallone or Cher or
Jack Nickelson. The store unceremoniously placed
albums still in cardboard boxes and stuck a price sign
on them and you wandered here and there partaking of
music as if picking blackberries from low bushes.
She loved Los Angeles! She'd known it for a long
time. And now she loved it painfully more even though
this realization, too, was strange. Perhaps because
of yesterday's confrontation with Zeus McRae,
publisher of Songdust. This was the very second,
Susan knew later, that she decided she would never
leave this city. This was her place. She'd hunted
for it most of her life. And now that she'd found it,
she wasn't going to let it go. She was going to fight
to stay. Regardless of what happened in the next few
days and weeks to come. Fight! She'd show the world
what it meant to be a real Texican! Damn them all!
Because today was not going to be easy. Nor the days
ahead. Yesterday, work at Songdust magazine became
quite suddenly aggravating, insulting, and
humiliating. It happened the instant she confronted
Zeus McRae, editor and publisher of the weekly music
trade magazine, with her suspicion that the record
charts were crooked. Ordinarily, you'd find him on
the telephone. He'd just hung up and his hand still
rested on the unit. But when she voiced her suspicion
about payola, he'd turned away from the phone and
stared at her briefly.
He immediately took his pipe and began packing it from
a canister that he kept on his desk.
She had read the truth in his eyes, almost hidden by
heavy dark eyebrows, before he said:
"I sincerely doubt that you know what you're talking
about, Sue. It hardly smacks of the sort of thing
with which the Twins would be involved."
She told him that she had proof.
"Proof? Hardly sufficient, I would think."
She suddenly realized that she shouldn't involve
anyone else and certainly shouldn't mention any
further names.
She said she had real proof.
Zeus looked up from his work with his pipe.
"I've begun to believe," he said, the words soft,
"that you're not quite the caliber of people we desire
on this magazine. For more than one reason."
She pointed out that circulation, especially among
radio subscribers, had more than doubled.
"I've heard word, however, that you may be trying to
hurt this magazine," Zeus said. He made an extended
fuss lighting his pipe, which swooped down from his
mouth and hung below his chin.
She said that his statement was nothing short of
ridiculous.
"Regardless, you're not going to sabotage this
publication with lies," Zeus continued. "And I would
suggest that you keep your mouth shut unless you want
a defamation lawsuit tacked to your tail. Do I make
myself clear?" He had quickly hidden behind his pipe.
Smoke filled the air over his desk. He stared out
the window, refusing to meet her gaze. The entire
office wall was a window. His view was of the
Hollywood Hills. Her own office had such a window,
but it faced the general direction of the apartment
building on Doheny where Marilyn Monroe had committed
suicide. Too many pills or too many men. No man was
worth that kind of death. Not even JFK.
With some remorse, because she'd worked at the
magazine for more than three years and liked her work
as radio-TV editor, she had indeed heard what Zeus was
really saying. Loud and clear. She'd walked out of
his office as he fled deeper and deeper into his cloud
of pipe smoke.
She'd then spent the rest of the day behind a martini
on the rocks at the bar at Martoni's in Hollywood
thinking about that short conversation. Behind
several martinis, in fact, as she tried to think
things out. There were many ramifications about the
situation. None of them boded well for one perky
little female named Susan James born and raised, as
they say, deep in the heart of Texas. At a town, in
fact, no one had ever heard about and probably, now,
never would. Brady. Actually known as Brady's
Mistake in its early days when her grandfather used to
drive up in front of the dugout that was the general
store and shout down from his horse and wagon for a
sack of flour. From Brady's Mistake to Hollywood was
a long story and an even longer trip and finally she'd
made it to the top in spite of everything.
But that was yesterday. Today and several tomorrows
yet to come, she realized, would be a race as she
sought to find another job before the ax fell on her
current job. Because, of course, Zeus had to fire her
now as soon as he could figure out a half-decent
excuse. Whatever the payola scheme might be, Zeus was
obviously involved.
For a moment this morning, she thought about speeding
right on pass the office of Songdust magazine and
going back to Martoni's. The Manus, currently
unemployed again in his deejay migration from radio
station to radio station in Los Angeles, would be
there at his usual bar stool. He wouldn't demand
sparkling conversational wit nor even expect it.
Anyway, the only topic of conversation that the Manus
found even vaguely interesting was about the Manus.
Maybe a few others would soon be commandeering their
usual booths. Largely, record promotion people at
this time of day. Soon, Ernie Farrell just dropping
by to say hello for he seldom stayed long. Tony
Richland. Harold Childs. The atmosphere was always
lively at the Hollywood watering hole, if a little
egocentric and usually slanted toward whatever artist
or record was hot at the moment or whatever station or
radio personality had topped the last Hooper or Pulse
ratings or whatever program director had just been
fired. From Martoni's, she could telephone Zeus McRae
and tell him to go screw himself.
But, of course, that wasn't the Susan James she knew.
Most of her life had been spent appeasing the wishes
of others. That's one of the reasons why she was so
good in this particular job as radio editor. The
Manus wasn't the only one who loved to talk about
themselves and she was an excellent listener.
None the less, as if on autopilot, she wheeled her
little sports car into the entrance of the office
building and downshifted as she drove up the ramp to
the rooftop of the parking structure attached to the
office building. She parked in her usual slot, cut
the engine off, stood up in the seat and leaped out.
Instead of putting up the top on her car, she pulled a
Mexican blanket from behind the driver's seat and
tossed it over the seats. Just to keep the sun off.
Summers could be blazingly hot in Los Angeles
sometimes. And your steering wheel would be too hot
to touch. Other days, a wind from the ocean brought
in a faint mist that chilled you to the bone.
Sometimes, she wrapped the colorful blanket, bought in
Tiajuna, Mexico, around her shoulders as she drove.
With her purse slung over her left shoulder, she
entered the building and took the elevator to the 11th
floor.
The receptionist didn't even glance up as she entered
the lobby.
"You have phone," said Tammy. "On the line right
now."
"What's new?" said Susan.
"One is long distance. Rod Muir, Australia. And one
is Nails. The others, I don't know."
"The Nails?"
"And no hammer in sight."
"What a pity," said Susan. "Give me Nails first."
She grabbed her other phone messages from the wall
slot behind Tammy and when the door buzzed, quickly
entered the inner sanctum of offices off the lobby.
Someone had been in her office. She realized this
when she poked her key into her office door and found
it already unlocked. And obviously that someone
didn't care whether she knew it or not. Only three
people possibly had a key to her office. The
custodian, of course. Probably Zeus' toady, Lee
Brown, albeit the managing editor. And Zeus.
Definitely, Zeus.
She had demanded one of the better offices. Without a
carpet because she was always getting a shock from
static electricity. And got it. And needed it. She
was always talking with someone on the phone because
of necessity to keep in contact with radio people not
only across the nation, but even around the world to
some extent. Her mail was mostly from the states, but
also she received letters from far-flung places like
Crete and even behind the Iron Curtain.
The fact that she demanded and received a private
office hadn't set well with Lee Brown, who still
occupied a cubicle amidst a row of cubicles not too
far down the row from where Chase Dudley, the
copyeditor, did his word magic.
As usual, her desk top was awash with papers, notes,
news releases from myriad radio stations and record
companies. If someone had prowled amidst this mess,
she would never have known.
She sat down and placed her purse on the floor to her
right and stared at the desk top, wondering what it
was the person or persons were trying to find.
When Tammy put the telephone call from Nails through
to her desk phone, Susan, lost in thought, almost
jumped out of her chair. She picked up the telephone.
All Nails said was, "Lunch. Noon. That's an order."
And she hung up without saying where nor why. Why
was always important in this business. You never had
lunch just to be consuming calories. Especially
Nails, who habitually ate rabbit food for lunch and
always insisted that you do the same. Thus, Nails
considered the reason for lunch very important. Just
like Nails, thought Susan. But, why not? Where, of
course, wasn't necessarily specified, which mean that
it was to be held at her office on La Cienega. This
was not a new thing. They'd lunched there a few times
in the past.
With almost methodical intensity, Susan opened each
desk drawer and searched, seeking to discover if
anything was missing or out of place. But after going
through a couple of the desk drawers, she gave up.
The honest truth is that she couldn't tell if anything
was missing or not. Ms. Susan James, it was often
whispered by her friends just loud enough for her to
hear, had majored in two important disciplines in
college-journalism and making a mess. Her office was
messy. Her apartment was messy. Her life was messy.
Why put everything in order when she knew where
everything was? Except her car keys, of course. She
was always having to search for her car keys, even
when she'd placed them the evening before so that she
could find them quickly. As for her personal life,
well, that was another story. Make that a novel. A
long novel. Which she wanted to write some day. All
journalists were closet novelists.
Tammy rang. "You want this call from Australia?"
"No."
Tammy said that she'd take a message. "I have other
calls. Five right now."
"No. Message them, too!" Susan said. Listening to
myriad vocal messages was a pain; she received too
many and they took too much time.
"Cut the yelling," said Tammy and hung up.
Susan tossed her tweed cap onto the couch across the
room and pondered her phone messages slips. There
were about two dozen in the stack. One from Ernie
Farrell. At one time, Ernie had been vice president
of Reprise Records owned by Sinatra. Until Sinatra
became irritated with him for some reason about which
neither would talk. Now Ernie worked for MGM Records
and promoted the Osmond Brothers for Mike Curb. Six
of the messages were from program directors hither and
yon across the nation. Jack Gale had phoned. One of
the phone calls was from the legendary Bill Randle,
now back on the air in Cleveland at WERE; he'd left no
message. At one time, Bill had been a god in radio in
Cleveland and a secret god in the music industry
worldwide. She knew her radio history. Perhaps
that's why she was able to communicate so well with
the majority of people in radio. Alan Freed, who
coined the term "rock'n'roll," had been a nobody until
a motorcycle accident when Bill Randle volunteered to
provide blood for a transfusion.
There was also a note that Dabney Stone had phoned.
For a moment, Susan had trouble remembering just who
Dabney Stone was. In this business, you had to be
able to walk into a lobby of a hotel during a
convention and almost instantly know perhaps 500 of
the people milling around there with a drink in their
hand. Sometimes, she couldn't quite remember a given
person right away and she faked conversation until,
like wind under a door, the name of the person came to
her. Once, she'd introduced Buddy Blake to a group of
program directors as Kahn Hamon, then programming a
radio station in San Antonio. Kahn had played along
for several minutes until the throng melted away, as
throngs do at music and radio conventions, then he had
whispered his name in her ear and laughed at her; to
him, fortunately, the incident had been amusing. A
few program directors of powerhouse radio stations
would have been insulted, but not Kahn.
She didn't remember who Dabney Stone was until she
returned Bill Ferguson's phone call and he told her
that he'd heard Dabney Stone, an important person in
the music business, was dead. Then she remembered.
"Don't be ridiculous," she told Bill. "Anyway, he
called this morning. Around 9 a.m. before I got to
the office."
"Guess it was just a rumor," he said. "So he's not
all that important?"
"Not really," she said. "Matter of fact, he's a real
nobody and I had trouble remembering the name. But it
is rather strange that he'd phone so early. Phone at
all, in fact. Musta been a mistake."
Bill apologized for bothering her with useless
information before asking if she was free for lunch.
She told him that she had a command performance,
unfortunately. "Try me again tomorrow."
"And the tomorrow after that," he said, before hanging
up.
That was when Lee stuck his head in the door without
bothering to knock, which was typical with him because
he thought that no one on the magazine deserved
privacy except himself. However, he still shared a
cubicle at Songdust News, which caused him, he said,
enormous embarrassment. He had earned his position on
the trade magazine by becoming the world's greatest
"yessir" man and he thought the job of managing editor
was an important one. Didn't the little toad realize
that practically no one in radio and music knew who he
was? Or cared?
"Copy?"
"No."
"Late."
"Is it?" Susan said.
Lee couldn't think of a response. Susan hadn't
figured out yet whether he just lacked the witticism
of most people on the staff of Songdust or was
actually stupid. Slowly, she was beginning to think
it was the latter. He was short and looked even
shorter because of thinning hair; his spectacles that
made him look like a frog who'd just swallowed
something bad. Generally, his mouth hung slightly at
one end
She raised her eyebrows and continued to look at him
with what she hoped was a questioning expression.
After a moment, he withdrew his head. She had the
strange feeling that he was still standing just
outside her office door trying to think of a witty
comeback. The door was still ajar. She got up and
went and closed it, perhaps just a little too firmly,
so that if he was still there, he would get the
message that she didn't want to be bothered just now.
Actually, she had most of her stories written and they
were in her desk just waiting for her to take them to
the copyeditor. If Lee had enough brains, he could
have read all of the stories when he'd gone through
her desk. Of course, it could have been Zeus who'd
entered her office. She doubted that, though. Zeus
stayed pretty much to himself, pretty much alone.
However, a few weeks ago, Lee had distributed a memo
saying that he wanted to see all of her material
before it was turned into the copyeditor. She'd
ignored the memo. Frankly, she couldn't figure out
why he'd want to bother. Her section in the weekly
trade magazine generally consisted of a few random
stories about radio station format changes and maybe,
now and then, an interview with someone important in
radio such as a Bill Stewart, Bill Drake or a George
Wilson or Rick Sklar. The major item was a column
called Segway. The title was a play upon the word
"segue," which meant going from one thing to another,
such as from one record to another. The column had
been launched about the time of World War II by the
then radio editor who'd gone on to considerable
success in the music business as a music publisher and
head of a small independent record company. One of
the later radio editors was today one of the major
record producers in the world. But a lot of people
had written the column over the years and most of them
hadn't become famous for anything.
Segway was the most-read item in the entire magazine.
Once she'd spent several hours researching radio
stations that influenced record sales in the Detroit
region. It was a good article. She was proud of it.
The article started on page one of the magazine and
jumped into the radio section. On Tuesday, the day
that most radio stations received their copies of the
magazine, she'd received a phone call from a program
director in Michigan who praised her as one of the
best writers in America and "this week, you deserve
the Pulitzer Prize!" But it turned out he was talking
about the Segway column. And after a year or so she
discovered that a great majority of radio
personalities read it on trips to the bathroom. How
could you take any great pride in a column that was
read on the john? The key thing was that they read
every word. She batted it out at top speed and never
looked at her copy and yet radio personalities, music
directors, program directors, and an awful lot of
general managers read it all. It was read on the
island of Crete and on strange South Pacific atolls
and it was translated in Brazil and distributed to all
of the Radio Globo empire. Every word.
Then, to make Lee the Toad happy, she walked a couple
of articles to the copyeditor, Chase Dudley. The
deadline for her copy wasn't until tomorrow. She
wanted to hold onto the Segway column until the last
moment.
Funny about the Dabney rumor, she thought. Rumors
spread like wildfire in the music and radio business,
which were one and the same business really, but
separate entities. Once, just for kicks, she and
Nails had started a rumor at 9 a.m. and received a
phone call with almost the same information by 11 a.m.
The last phone call came from New York City. Calls
with the information arrived throughout the afternoon
and didn't peter out until the next morning. In all,
she received 32 phone calls, including two from radio
station KNX here in Los Angeles denying the rumor that
they were switching to a Cuban music format. A silly
rumor because there were actually just a few Cubans in
the city. Hispanics, yes. Cubans, no.
While she added a couple of items to the column
Segway, she thought about Bill Ferguson. Vaguely.
Because Bill, himself, was sort of vague. She hadn't
quite figured him out yet. Scratch that; she was a
long way from figuring him out. Now and then he
phoned her for lunch and now and then she accepted.
Lunch, with Bill, was always a catch-as-catch-can sort
of event. Casual as well as spur of the moment in
some hamburger den like Cassel's and once even at a
hotdog stand in Hollywood shaped like a funny hotdog.
Another time, they'd grabbed cardboard containers of
clam chowder on the Santa Monica pier and sat on a
bench on the pier over the water and fed seagulls
pieces of stale crackers. She remembered that the
occasion had been spontaneous, but fun and the clam
chowder had been hot and good.
Bill was like that. No George Wilson when it came to
looks or charisma, but someone who was seemingly
always around lately and who seemingly had begun to
fill in the gaps of her life.
The odd thing about Bill was that he wasn't in the
business. Neither in radio nor in music. She'd met
him in a bookstore on La Cienega one evening when both
of them reached for a book by Hemingway. It turned
out that he owned the store and was fetching the book
for a customer.
But when she thought about that, she wondered how he'd
known about Dabney?
There were some mysteries flying about this morning
and she realized that not all of them concerned her
job.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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March 7, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
The man without an enemy is probably a very dull
fellow. For it is our enemies which keep us in fine
fettle. I'd like to say that I don't have an enemy
that I didn't create, but this is probably not true.
Some enemies occur by accident. However, I'd like to
believe that the enemies I've made on purpose are a
finer breed and deserving of more respect than those
enemies I've made unintentionally. Unintentional
enemies are merely the swishswash of life and after a
while mean nothing if you remember them at all.
Friends, of course, I treasure more. Good friends and
true, as the writer-artist Barnaby Conrad once
remarked of me and my wife Barbara. Friends can, too,
keep you in fine fettle. Usually, you have to measure
up to their image of you which is usually more lofty
than you have of yourself. The constant effort to be
better than you are demands great energy, great
concentration, and even greater determination. You
eventually may measure up to their expectations, but
seldom the expectations of yourself that you think
they have (which are more likely imagined than real).
However, it is the handling of enemies with which I'm
concerned at the moment. When one has the government
as enemy it is, indeed, possible to believe in anarchy
as a better way of life. Bring back J. Frank Dobie
and God bless him! And I did not create this
particular enemy.
In previous Commentaries, we discussed the strategies
of Musashi, but these were primarily in the realm of
physical combat. For the aspects of psychological
combat--especially in an antagonistic
environment--there are few better theories than those
developed and honed in real life by Saul Alinsky.
Some today consider his theories passé. I do not. Of
course one must assume that any theoretical entity or
concept applies only to the extent it affects you
personally and is more than likely not the total
answer.
I stumbled across Saul Alinsky's "Rules for Radicals"
while studying for a Ph.D. in communication at the
University of Buffalo, Each course that I took
seemed to have four textbooks as well as 20 or so
academic papers that must be devoured. So, once a
week I would drive early in the day from Brockport to
Buffalo, hole up in the graduate library on campus,
and study all day, attend class that evening, and
drive home, reaching home sometimes about midnight and
frequently having dodged snow flakes, flying deer in
the dark of night, and enormous fatigue in addition to
professors that often knew less than I did about some
aspects of communication. But this, I surmise, is
merely because I'd been around for more than a decade
and a half some of the greatest minds in practical
communication--Lou Dorren, Jack McCoy, Kent Burkhart,
Chuck Blore, Jay Blackburn, Ron Jacobs, Bill Drake,
Buzz Bennett, etc.--and, in addition, had become a
groupie of such as the communications guru Dr.
Marshall McLuhan.
Born in 1909, the son of Russian Jewish immigrants,
Saul Alinsky's passion for justice originated from his
experience growing up in Chicago's Jewish ghetto
during the suffering caused by the Depression. It was
his mother, Sarah Rice, who influenced him most.
Alinsky's son, David, said, "She taught him
that...individuals [must] be responsible for other
individuals and that you can't just walk away when you
see something that's not right."
In 1938, with a graduate degree in criminology from
the University of Chicago, Alinsky began work for
sociologist Clifford Shaw at the Institute for
Juvenile Research. Assigned to research causes of
juvenile delinquency in Chicago's tough
"Back-of-the-Yards" neighborhood--setting of Upton
Sinclair's "The Jungle"--Alinsky soon realized that
crime was a symptom of poverty and powerlessness.
This immense slum in the shadows of the giant Union
Stockyards, one of the largest factory complexes ever
created, was crowded with poor inhabitants; they had
no rights and no job security. In the course of one
year, wages were cut three times. (Does this remind
you of something that is going on under the present
government administration as good jobs are being sent
abroad and Americans are left with taking a job at
Burger King or else?) Alinsky believed that
widespread poverty left America open to the influence
of demagogues and that the only cure was active,
widespread participation in the political process. He
organized and led the Back-of-the-Yards Council in a
series of successful pickets, strikes and boycotts and
in the process won a mentor in CIO President John L.
Lewis. In 1940, with concepts learned from Lewis,
Alinsky formed the Industrial Areas Foundation, an
umbrella organization to organize new campaigns. His
book "Reveille for Radicals" (1946), was a manifesto
which called upon America's poor to reclaim American
democracy.
Virtually unknown now, by the late 1960s Alinsky had
become a folk hero to America's young college
radicals. In 1969, he wrote "Rules for Radicals" in
which he urged America's youth to become realistic,
not rhetorical, radicals. Time Magazine hailed Alinsky
in 1970 as "a prophet of power to the people,"
contending that Alinsky's ideas had forever changed
the way American democracy worked. Alinsky died
suddenly of a heart attack July 12, 1972. He was 63
years old.
Memories of Saul Alinsky organizing a riot in
Rochester, NY, still permeated the State University of
New York campus at Brockport during my tenure. Just
FYI, one of his personal rules was that he had to be
invited to wield his turmoil by a major organization
of some kind in the area. Thus, he was invited to
upset Rochester. Which he definitely did.
Are the rules of Saul Alinsky pertinent today?
Remember what I said about enemies? Well, I wasn't
aware that the government of the United States was an
enemy of mine and of the people of the United States
until recently...and then I noticed that many of Saul
Alinsky's rules were being used against me. By those
who appear to be robbing us of our constitutional
rights at a rapid and quite rabid pace, i.e., those
who want to change the world from what it is to what
they believe it should be whether you personally agree
or not, but whose real aim is to put money in their
own pockets at the expense of those not also wealthy.
First, let me tell you I was quite aware that I was
under physical control while in the U.S. Army and have
more than likely been under mental control to some
extent throughout random periods of my life.
Religion, for example, is naught more than a form of
mental control in regards to the fact that others try
to tell you how to think and act. If you're born and
raised in the so-called bible belt, you've much to
overcome.
Today, we have people presently in control who appear
to be striving for even greater control and there is
the possibility that the control sought is both
physical and mental. I see this in various aspects of
our current life. I see the rules for radicals used
constantly against me. Not just because gasoline
prices soar for no reason (we're told because of lack
of sufficient supplies, but this is a lie), not
because Vice President Cheney gave himself a "bonus"
of more than $30 million and no one dared complain nor
investigate, not just because we have a non-president
we didn't elect (and that crime has, too, been swept
under the rug), not just because we have a war we
didn't declare (the government claimed Iraq was full
of "evil ones" and that there were "hundreds of
thousands in mass graves" in the country which is a
lie because no one has found these mass graves nor, in
fact, the so-called "weapons of mass destruction" that
was the primary excuse by our non-president for
attacking Iraq).
Meanwhile, more and more firms are moving overseas to
take advantage of virtually slave labor conditions
while here in the United States more and more people
are left without decent jobs, forced to retrain for
jobs they do not wish to do, jobs which are much less
than the jobs they previously enjoyed. And the
economy has not only gone to hell under G.W. Bush, but
the jobless, the old, the sick, the homeless have been
left without hope. The other day, there was talk of
cutting back on Social Security benefits to help
balance the budget. Are you aware that the members of
Congress have their own retirement funds equal to
their salaries and thus have no need for Social
Security? Are you aware that the so-called tax cuts
were mostly for the rich?
So, I thought I would print these rules here under the
belief that perhaps you should be more aware of what's
being done to you. How. Why. They are fodder for
thinking. No matter your proclivity for
thinking...pro or con.
These rules provide advice on confrontational tactics.
For Alinsky, organizing is the process of
highlighting what is wrong and convincing people they
can actually do something about it. The two are
linked. If people feel they don't have the power to
change a bad situation, they tend to continue to act
like docile sheep. In my opinion, at some point, they
have the potential to literally erupt.
According to Alinsky, the main job of the organizer is
to bait an opponent into reacting or providing them,
perhaps, with a valid excuse for not reacting.
Essentially, we're talking about control of people.
Getting them to think what you wish them to think
whether it's positive or negative.
The organizer of a confrontation and change must first
overcome suspicion and establish credibility. For
example, you might accuse the liberal of being
something bad when, in truth, Franklin D. Roosevelt
was a liberal and was one of America's greatest
presidents. The liberal is willing to help the down
and out. The conservative is more concerned with
themselves and to hell with everyone else. Next the
organizer must begin the task of agitating: rubbing
resentments, fanning hostilities, and searching out
controversy. For example, you might claim Iraq has
weapons of mass destruction and are about to attack
the United States. This is necessary to get people to
participate. An organizer has to attack apathy and
disturb the prevailing patterns of complacent
community life where people have simply come to accept
a bad situation. Thus, you accuse Democrats of
causing the depression that is coming, but which
you've been planning on as soon as you get into the
White House because, after all, the poor are easier to
control. And if they rebel too much, you can always
shoot them.
Thus, the first step in community organization is
community disorganization. There is already evidence
that certain people in our present government were
warned of 9/11 and did nothing to stop it; however,
this past week on CNN a Republican even accused the
previous administration of "an intelligence failure"
which resulted in 9/11. Republicans still harp on
Clinton's sexual proclivities (which they spent more
than $40 million of my money and your money to
"investigate" even though the alleged sexual
shenanigans of G.W. Bush Sr. and Jeb Bush were swept
under the table and CNN doesn't bother to mention them
anymore as well as probe those "missing months" of
G.W. Bush Jr. when he was supposed to be pulling duty
in the National Guard).
Through a process combining hope and resentment, the
organizer of discontent keeps the real issues second
on any national agenda and "smoke screens" before the
media and/or the public. Who really gives a damned
whether gays and lesbians get married or not? Their
business. I have enough trouble handling my own
business, whatever it may be at the moment. I am more
concerned with the price of gasoline, the rising price
of food in the grocery, the rising cost of medical
attention and prescription drugs.
Alinsky emphasized that his rules, mentioned below,
must be translated into real-life tactics that are
fluid and responsive to the situation at hand. So,
here they are, just FYI:
Rule 1: Power is not only what you have, but what an
opponent thinks you have. If your organization is
small, hide your numbers in the dark and raise a din
that will make everyone think you have many more
people than you do.
Rule 2: Never go outside the experience of your
people. The result is confusion, fear, and retreat.
Rule 3: Whenever possible, go outside the experience
of an opponent. Here you want to cause confusion,
fear, and retreat.
Rule 4: Make opponents live up to their own book of
rules. "You can kill them with this, for they can no
more obey their own rules than the Christian church
can live up to Christianity."
Rule 5: Ridicule is man's most potent weapon. It's
hard to counterattack ridicule and it infuriates the
opposition, which then reacts to your advantage.
Rule 6: A good tactic is one your people enjoy. "If
your people aren't having a ball doing it, there is
something very wrong with the tactic."
Rule 7: A tactic that drags on for too long becomes a
drag. Commitment may become ritualistic as people turn
to other issues.
Rule 8: Keep the pressure on. Use different tactics
and actions and use all events of the period for your
purpose. "The major premise for tactics is the
development of operations that will maintain a
constant pressure upon the opposition. It is this that
will cause the opposition to react to your advantage."
Rule 9: The threat is more terrifying than the thing
itself. When Alinsky leaked word that large numbers of
poor people were going to tie up the washrooms of
O'Hare Airport, Chicago city authorities quickly
agreed to act on a longstanding commitment to a ghetto
organization. They imagined the mayhem as thousands of
passengers poured off airplanes to discover every
washroom occupied. Then they imagined the
international embarrassment and the damage to the
city's reputation.
Rule 10: The price of a successful attack is a
constructive alternative. Avoid being trapped by an
opponent or an interviewer who says, "Okay, what would
you do?"
Rule 11: Pick the target, freeze it, personalize it,
polarize it. Don't try to attack abstract corporations
or bureaucracies. Identify a responsible individual.
Ignore attempts to shift or spread the blame.
OTHER MATTERS
Scott Burton, sgb831@cox.net:
"After WHK , Bill
Stewart hired me to program the Storz station, WDGY,
in Minneapolis. The six years working with Bill was
one of the greatest learning experiences of my career.
Claude, thanks for reviving some great memories."
Chuck Chellman,
www.CaldwellTrvl.com,
chuckc@caldwelltrvl.com:
"Thanks for keeping me on
your list. I really enjoy the reading. FYI...the
wonderful Country Music Hall of Fame building holds a
lot of wonderful non-country exhibits. Coming soon
will be Nashville's contributions to blues and R&B.
They have made a CD compilation which is just super.
Stay tuned and come to visit us one day soon."
I sent Raechel Donahue,
mizrae@netvip.com, one of the
emails promoting a coming novel on my website and she
responded: "Claude, how nice to hear from you and I
can hardly wait to see the book. I have a new one
coming out soon, albeit not about the biz." I wrote
back, asking for information and she replied: "Right
now you can check me out at 995themountain.com--just
click on Mountain guides on the Air and then on my
picture (I'm the only chick so it's easy to pick me
out). My new book will be called 'Sex and the Single
Sexagenarian'--because once you're over the hill you
can start to pick up speed. I have a lovely grandchild
that looks frighteningly like Tom. But then, so did
our son. Would you like to see a couple of my
documentaries? I did one on Phil Spector and one on
the history of FM radio?"
Naturally!
Just FYI for those of you who may not know, there were
two women who were pathblazers in the early days of FM
rock radio and especially in what we called
progressive rock at the time. Alison Steele, New York
City, and Raechel Donahue, San Francisco. Two
legends.
Neil Young,
nlryoung@hotmail.com, wrote to mention the
death of Al Casey, 60. Cancer. Feb. 23, 2003. Neil
got the news from Cary Pall,
CARYPALL@aol.com, who
worked with Casey at 99X, New York.
David Martin,
radiopers@aol.com, says the 1976
International Radio Programming Forum "still remains
one of the most amazing experiences of my life."
David sent his views of what makes a good general
manager. Ah, yes, most of the ones I knew were,
indeed, supermen. Of course, then there was Art
Simmers.
Pat Walsh,
pwalsh@aristotle.net: "Many thanks for your
reprinting of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette column
mentioning the twenty consecutive years of being
number one for KSSN's Bob Robbins. As a result of your
column I also heard from several people from the past
years, one from over forty years ago. You mentioned
the return to Arkansas of 'the legendary Mitch
Michael's'. As a side note I should tell you that when
he was tearing them up in Louisville I was running a
very profitable and successful station in Little Rock
(KAAY) and because of the strange programming we were
doing to produce much-needed revenue for the home
office I lived in constant fear that someone would
hire a good programmer to go after us as we were
extremely vulnerable. Knowing that Mitch (TM) was from
Arkansas and might like the opportunity to return, I
attempted a flanking action. I named one of my on-air
personalities 'Mitch Michaels', launched fairly
extensive promotion of the name, and even got an
Arkansas service mark on the name. Kept the name on
air from 1966 until I left in 1976. Fortunately, Mitch
(TM) went to New York."
For those of you who don't know or don't remember,
Mitch Michaels was the on-air name of Kevin
(KevinMetheny@clearchannel.com)
Metheny's father.
From Gene of "The Sounds Of Philly" at
www.giantgene.com,
GIANTGENE1@prodigy.net:
"Our
'Sounds Of Philly' book...(or, 'How to Sell a Million,
Collect $64, and Don't Pass GO!') is coming along. My
wife does the work...I have what's left of the
memories...(she knows the REAL stories...) so it's
fun. Looking forward to the Disco Show on VH1 this
week. I was asked to be on, but my wife didn't think
it was a great idea as I promised her no more TV after
years of being on it and the road...so we just do our
net shows now, which are STILL tons of fun, and get
lots of listeners at
www.soul-patrol.net, as well as
the giantgene.com 'Sounds Of Philly' site that my son
started. Hope all's well."
Whew, Gene! I got tired just reading about everything
you're doing. Amazing output! I'd like to mention
something about the book when you get it done. Sounds
like a worthy project.
Garvin Rutherford,
rutherfordbilletdoux@bigpond.com:
"Just when you think there is no one left...a name
jumps out at you. Just discovered your site
accidentally so it's going to take me some time to
read the past columns. What I have read brings back
some memories...names I will always remember. Howard
Kester, Jack Thayer, David L. Moorhead, and yourself
and Barbara. I hope you are keeping well."
Garvin, too, brought back some great memories of
Australia. The Rocks in Sydney, a plane trip to
Canberra. But my greatest memories of Australia have
to do with the people I met down there and who
occasionally dropped by my door in Los Angeles during
my years there. Wonderful people! Peter Davidson,
Rod Muir, Kevin O'Donohue...many, many more. Same
with Brasil and Luis Brunini, Guilherme de Souza,
Antonio Porto, and others. Always felt--and still
do--that I've got many, many friends in those
countries.
Coming next week to
www.claudehallonline.com, a new
music-industry novel.
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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