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"Xtreme"
Chapter three of a novel
by Claude Hall
A friend in the record business was someone you'd met
once or twice at a cocktail party somewhere. Thus,
she could count Neil Diamond as a "friend," along with
Mike Curb, Barry Manilow, Marty Lacker, Joe Smith,
Linda Ronstadt, and Russ Regan. They wouldn't know
her, of course, unless she was introduced or
introduced herself, once again, as Susan James of
Songdust. But then, yes, of course, they would
remember her immediately as one of their dearest
friends. Gary Owens was always dropping names of his
"dearest" friends and, God bless him, they usually
were and ranged from legends in the movie animation
field such as Chuck Jones who helped turn billions of
people onto the antics of Bugs Bunny to Goldie Hawn
with whom Gary worked on the television "Laugh-In"
series as the announcer who cupped his hand over his
ear and brought you a different kind of world from
"beautiful downtown Burbank."
It wasn't a lot different among most radio people.
Sometimes, though, you got to know someone really
well. She'd known Nails Deuvall from almost her
second day on the job at Songdust. And people such as
George Wilson, Gordon McLendon, Chuck Blore, Bruce
Miller Earle, Jonathan Fricke, Ron Jacobs, and Gary
Allyn had come along and she'd become pretty good
friends with these and others. Jay Blackburn, too,
and his wife Chancey. George Wilson had once warned
her, though, not to confuse business associates with
real friends. He, George Wilson, made regular trips
to Disneyland where he would sit for two or three
hours on a bench just watching the people in order to
"keep grounded. Friends in this business tell you how
great you are. Those people at Disneyland don't know
you and they don't care to know you. That's reality.
The rest is bullshit."
On the other hand, bullshit or not, she worked among
some of the most creative people on earth in what was,
in reality, a microcosm of the real world. Recently,
the record industry had passed the movie industry in
earnings. This meant that such as Elton John would
take an entourage of maybe 30 people with him when he
went on tour and also made it sometimes cheaper to
just buy a house in a city rather than pay for a hotel
bill. Eric Clapton once earned more than $30 million
on a tour; not bad for what amounted to 60 hours of
work. And record producer Snuffy Garrett owned both a
home in Beverly Hills and a ranch outside of Los
Angeles while Cliffie Stone, for many years the
manager of Tennessee Ernie Ford, owned a home on
Catalina Island and a ranch behind the Angeles
National Forest. The money, indeed, was sometimes
astronomical.
As for partying, the music business really knew how to
pull a party. Once, Elton John took over the western
street at Universal studios, the same street seen in
countless movies, changed all of the of the places up
and down the street to fit the industry, and performed
on the railroad platform at the end of the street with
his band and a backup vocal group that included Dusty
Springfield. She'd had champagne at Rick Frio's
Saloon on the street. Rick was an executive with MCA
Records. And a good plate of barbeque at someone
else's place. Later, Elton John hired an entire
circus for one of his parties and invited about 3,000
of his closest friends.
When she'd interviewed for the job with Songdust News
a few years ago, she'd turned it down. But not
because of Zeus McRae and the foul odor from his pipe.
He had seemed pleasant enough at their meeting in his
office. She'd turned the job down because the salary
was too low. But the very next Monday morning, the
head of public relations at the small university where
she worked walked into her office and tossed the
college catalog on her desk and told her to update it.
That catalog had not been in her job description.
Updating it would take a month or more of grueling
labor. Boring work! She sat there at her desk at the
university and thought about the catalog and listened
to a song called "I Want to Hold Your Hand" by the
Beatles.
Immediately, she'd phoned Zeus McRae and told him that
she would take the job after all if it was still open
and he'd said he would pay her the salary after all
for which she'd asked, $25 more a week. She'd only
realized much later that she should have asked for
even more money. The magazine business was not quick
to hand out raises and there was no such thing as a
time clock; you literally worked every minute of every
day the entire week except when you finally crawled
into bed.
However, she'd started two weeks later in one of the
most exciting jobs one could imagine. The people
might be a little fake, but they were not fake to
themselves; all of them had faith that they were
superstars. The recording artists, the record
producers, the record promoters, the record company
executives. As for the radio personalities and
program directors, most of whom were still on the air
or had been on the air much of their radio careers, it
took a hell of a lot of ego to go on the air and talk
to a hunk of electricalized tin and make believe that
there were human beings listening out there somewhere
and that they were highly fascinated in what you were
saying. Most radio people were extremely gifted and
all quite bright, as a rule. Look at Bob Pittman.
Jack McCoy. Buzz Bennett. Bob Todd. Burt Sherwood.
Kris Erik Stevens. She admired every radio person she
met and, yes, many of them had become great friends
during the three years or so she'd worked at Songdust
News. Including one well-known radio character even
though a program director. Some other program
direction mentioned to her once that he knew when the
guy hit town because one morning he found the tires on
his car slashed.
There had not been a single day until, well, now that
she hadn't been eager to go to work and, in fact, put
off going home to her apartment in the San Fernando
Valley until the last moment. She enjoyed every day.
Showbiz!
And now, all of it might be ending. This life. This
fun.
According to a friend, Suds Clark, who'd phoned her
last week from New York City, the payola scheme was
quite extensive. "The Twins," he had said, "offered
me a top 40 position on the chart for my record for
$5,000. I need the action, Sue. All I really want to
know is: can they do it?"
The phone call fetched old memories.
She'd bumped into John Sebastian one night at the
Palomino Club in the valley. The club was operated by
Tommy Thomas and guarded over by Big Tiny who was
known to stand in the doorway and not let you in if he
didn't like you and the nightclub was featured in
"Every Which Way But Loose" and "Hooper." But real
music buffs hung out there, ranging from Bob Dylan to
cowboy actors such as Lash LaRue. One night, she'd
gone out there, for it was a long way out Lankersheim,
to catch Linda Ronstadt, who did her show that night
barefooted and wearing a print dress. Later, she'd
drifted backstage to say hi and John Sebastian was
there and she asked him about Felix Pappalardi and
John had made the motion of pumping a syringe with one
hand into his arm. "He's producing a Japanese rock
group in a studio at Woodstock," John said. John had
just written a song called "Welcome Back Kotter" for a
TV series and was getting rich. She later heard it
and felt sad because it was a far cry from the days
when he was a member of the Lovin' Spoonful, but she
was even sadder about Felix. She'd met Felix one
evening at the home of Bud Prager, who had invited her
up to listen and meet with Smokey and his Sister, an
act that never happened. Felix was there and he
really happened; an elusive, friendly musical genius
who'd been a member of the Mugwomps until John
Phillips took the group and moved to the West Coast
and renamed it the Mamas and the Papas because of Mama
Cass. Felix then went on to produce three rock album
masterpieces by a British group called the Cream that
she'd first heard in the Cafe au Go Go in Greenwich
Village. One night, she was even in the studio when
Eric Clapton, a member of Cream, was sitting on a bar
stool in a darken studio and Felix was kneeling at his
feet encouraging him on a particular rift. Felix
played on the album. A toy piano. But no matter how
often she listened to the album she'd never heard that
piano, a musical gag hinged on the comic script
"Peanuts." Later, Felix formed, produced, and played
in Mountain, one of America's greatest rock music
triumphs. By then, Felix and Bud Prager were
partners. Later, Prager was to manage Bad Company and
Foreigner. And much later, Felix was shot and killed
by his wife Gale. Just thinking of this and the
potential that was Felix Pappalardi, she felt tears
come to her eyes and quickly wiped them away with the
palms of her hands. It was so easy to cry over the
dead--Janis Joplin, Bobby Fuller, Sam Cooke, Otis
Redding. It made you wonder what God really had in
mind.
The ramification of a top chart record was obvious.
Many other radio stations would play the record
because it was a "hit" record. Not only would sales
of the record probably increase in record stories
nationwide, but more than likely around the world.
This would also help sales of the album or cassette
featuring several of that particular artist's songs.
And there were other moneys, too, from mechanicals and
airplay. Mechanicals were the money that a hit song
earned as other artists in the United States and
overseas recorded it. Airplay earnings came every
time the song was broadcast on radio and/or television
and every time it was sung in some nightclub. A big
song such as "Yesterday" by the Beatles earned
countless millions of dollars just from airplay alone.
Then, the tours.
She had immediately denied the accusation on the phone
that the Songdust charts were "fixed." But also just
as quickly decided to check it out. She told Suds
Clark that she'd get back to him in a day or so.
She'd then phoned the national program directors of
two of the nation's major radio chains. One of them a
good friend. Rick Sklar. Both capable of keeping
information to themselves just because it was Susan
James who asked. And, yes, they confirmed within a
week that a record which had been mentioned by the
Twins to Clark as an example shouldn't have been on
the record sales chart of the magazine.
And that's when she'd marched into the office of Zeus
McRae and told him that the High Hundred Chart was
being "bought" by a record promotion executive. And
got tossed out of Zeus McRae's office. Literally, as
well as figuratively.
Her pastrami on rye was huge. They had sliced it in
half. It came with a kosher dill pickle and a frown
from the waiter when she also ordered a glass of milk.
Pastrami on rye demanded a beer, of course. But she
was in the mood for a glass of milk and peace and
quiet. She didn't mind it, however, when Bill
Ferguson sat down and also ordered a corned beef on
rye sandwich.
"And beer," he told the waiter.
"She's having milk," the waiter pointed out. He
paused for a moment, pad and ballpoint pen poised.
"Yes. She's quite strange like that," Bill said to
the waiter. "On the other hand, it's part of her
charm."
"You eat here often?" Susan asked, her words slurred
because she had a mouth full of sandwich.
"Once before. I think. I'm not quite sure. But
probably at least once. This is, after all, the only
place in town to eat."
"There are tons of places in Los Angeles."
"There are? Name one."
"Chasens."
"Okay. Name another."
"The Brown Derby."
"Another one."
"I give up," said Susan.
"I'll try those out later. Actually, I wanted to have
lunch with a pretty girl," Bill said, "and I knew I'd
find you here."
"You did not. You must have spies following me."
"That, too," he said with a grin. "All of us
bookstore characters keep an assortment of spies handy
just in case we want to have lunch with a pretty
girl."
"I'm beginning to wonder about you," she said.
"Good! That's precisely the result for which I was
hoping."
"Why did you know about Dabney?"
"Dabney who?"
"You know who. Dabney Stone. He's not exactly the
type of person you meet in a bookstore."
Bill smiled. "He came by once. Interested, I
believe, in a book about the music business."
"He couldn't read," said Susan. "And I would bet a
million dollars that Dabney Stone never came into your
bookstore."
"I thought you said you didn't know him very well."
"I do, however, know enough about him to be assured he
would never come into any bookstore in this entire
city of Los Angeles. Nor Pasadena, come to think of
it. Not even Redondo Beach."
"Everyone can read," Bill said. "Anyway, the better
question would have been how did I know about this
Dabney character being dead."
"Okay. How did you learn he was dead?"
"Some customer, I suppose, must have mentioned it to
me. Why?"
"Dabney Stone, Mr. Bookstore Man, is not your basic
music business creep. If he's dead, which I doubt,
not too many people would care and they certainly
wouldn't care enough about it to talk about it. Not
unless he died in some way really interesting. Like
with hives, beehives that is, or someone stabbed him
with a spear from a Mayan temple. Or he was attacked
by seventeen vampyres on Santa Monica Boulevard in
Hollywood."
"Well, I did seen one or two vampyres along that
section of Santa Monica the other day, plus a couple
of other weird creatures."
"I don't think you saw Dabney Stone there," she
insisted.
"He's definitely not dead?"
She laughed.
"One of his ex-wives doesn't think so."
"Do I know her?" he asked quietly.
"Of course not. Her name's Nails Deuvall. She didn't
like him either. I guess. With Nails, it's sometimes
hard to know how or what she really feels about
anything. She's in public relations. Public
relations in the music business is not exactly like
the public relations they teach in a university. The
music industry is different and showbiz public
relations is very, very different."
"I'd like to meet her sometimes," Bill said. "Could
you invite her along the next time you come to Musso &
Frank's?"
"Nails? She'd never be caught dead in a place like
this. No one would be able to hear her make funny
noises with her fingernails. That's her trademark,
her fingernails. They're as long as crowbars."
"And you didn't--don't--know this Dabney Stone?"
She dug into her sandwich again before trying to
answer. That was the major problem with people at
lunch time, they kept you so busy talking you didn't
get a chance to really eat and a sandwich like this
had to be savored properly.
"Borrowed a few bucks from me once," she said. "Never
paid it back. I asked him for it a couple of months
ago and he said tomorrow. But just like the song,
tomorrow never comes with a guy like that. And he's
very, very illusive."
"A cheapskate?"
"That and a few other things," Susan said. Again, she
laughed.
"Interesting," said Bill.
"No, he's not," Susan insisted. "So, how many spies
do you have following me?"
"Quite a few, to be precise."
"That is not exactly precise," Susan said. "A few can
range from seven or eight to twenty or more."
"Well, how many men and women would you prefer?"
"Seventy-five. And they must all be men. Wearing
dark glasses, of course."
"Mustaches?"
"Half."
"I can do that," Bill said. He snapped his fingers as
if ordering it done.
His sandwich arrived with a bottle of Coors. He began
to eat as she watched him, hesitating over her own
sandwich, for the first time since she'd met him
studying his face. His hair was an intense black and
he needed a haircut, but since she'd known him, which
was two or three months now, he'd always needed a
haircut. His eyes were brown and sort of savage in
nature as if he'd seen too many things that depressed
him, but was constantly looking around as if seeking
something better. A grim mouth could suddenly flash
into the cutest smile. And somewhere along the way in
life, probably in a college football game, his nose
had been broken. This did not adversely affect his
features. He still had a face you could trust, but
only if you got to know him and she suspected that few
people ever got to know him very well. She realized
now that she, herself, didn't know him very well. But
she also realized, just now, that she wouldn't mind
doing so.
"Like it?" he asked.
She frowned; she'd been caught studying his face. It
was a good face, she thought. That wasn't exactly the
sort of thing you'd tell a person who'd asked about
himself. But she had an annoying habit of the truth.
That is, the habit was annoying to most of the people
she knew. Not to her. And now she was forced to
respond in some way and she desperately wanted to lie.
Yet, she couldn't.
"It's a good face," she finally said.
"I wasn't asking about my face. I was asking about
your sandwich."
"Yes. One of the best sandwiches in the world."
"With mayo instead of mustard?" His tone expressed
extreme doubt.
"That's why I like it," she said.
"And my face? What a horrible thing to say to a
man...that he has a good face. Much better to say
he's ugly or something like that."
"You aren't ugly," she said.
"Well, thanks a lot. And what do you meant by good?
A lot of different connotations flood into my mind on
a word like that. Does this mean I qualify for some
kind of job like that of postman? A good face might
be handy if you were a postman. Or how about a
banker?"
"You're insulted," she said. "Just because I was
trying to be honest."
"Sometimes it pays to lie. You could have said that I
have the face of a college professor. That would have
been nondescript, yet far above a mundane adjective
such as merely good."
"Well, I don't lie!" she said with a snap to her
voice.
"Which also means that you must keep your mouth shut a
lot in the business you're in."
"Yes, it does. I admit it's a crazy business. But
why do I have to keep my mouth shut around you? Is
that what you want?"
"No. I guess not. I'll settle for good."
He looked into her eyes. She did not want him to look
into her eyes. Long ago, when she was a kid in the
little town of Brady, Texas, her mother had caught her
lying by looking into her eyes. She tried to explain
everything so that lying made sense, but, of course,
lying never made sense and you had to lie again to try
to straighten things out. After that, she'd adopted a
policy of never lying. Not even, really, about Dabney
Stone. This way, you didn't have to explain things.
But she still believed that some people had the
ability to read your soul just by peering into your
eyes.
"Good," she said, looking at her sandwich as if it
were important. "Anyway, if you're going to follow me
around with a hundred spies, you'd eventually find out
all about me and you'd know that I don't lie and you'd
know that good is good enough for me. What if I'd
said bad instead?"
"I said I'd settle for good," he said and laughed.
"So how's the book business?" she asked as she
finished her pastrami on rye.
"You do not really care about the book business.
You're just trying to be pleasant. Or, and this is
just a perhaps, trying to avoid talking about
something important."
"It's true that I haven't done much reading lately,"
she said, "but that's only because I've been pretty
busy. And, while I don't know whether I care about
the book business or not, I do care about books and
hope to write one someday. Is that important enough
for you?"
"How many words do you have written on the book?" he
asked after a sip of his beer.
"None," she admitted.
"A writer writes," he said. He stared at her, causing
her, once again, to glance aside.
"Yes. I know that. However, when you're writing
several thousand words a week, it's a bit difficult to
face a comma when you come home from work. And this
is only If you come home from work. Because working
for Songdust is a job that occupies almost twelve
hours a day seven days a week."
"Writers make time for their personal work. Screw
Songdust magazine."
"You know a lot about writing?" This time, when she
asked the question, she looked in his eyes. They
weren't really brown, but dark with a touch of green.
"A whole bunch," he said. And this time it was Bill
who glanced away, refusing to continue the hard gaze
of her eyes.
"Okay, how many books have you written then?"
"Three," he said.
She was astonished. She'd never thought of him as a
writer.
"Is that the truth?"
"Of course not! You may not lie, but I find that
lying is very necessary in my line of work."
"It is not," she said. "Lying is never a necessity."
"Where did you learn that kind of nonsense? Is that
what they teach at The University of Texas?"
"It's what I was taught."
"Absolute truth is absolute nonsense," Bill insisted.
"I'm going to tell Walter Cronkite on you," she said.
He paused and leaned back in the booth.
"You've been listening to too much rock'n'roll," Bill
said. "Do you realize that too much rock'n'roll is
bad for you? They've done tests. There's a hearing
loss in some people who've listened too long to too
loud music."
"Are you trying to destroy the music industry? No one
in showbiz will like you very much. If, at all."
"Why not? What has the music industry done for me
lately?"
She liked this joshing around. For a while a few
moments ago, the conversation had become much too
serious. This was more relaxing. The conversation
wasn't vicious, like it usually was with Nails, but
pleasant and joking.
"I shall see that you're banned from every Bob Dylan
concert on the face of the planet," she said.
"Speaking of concerts, how would you like to go to a
concert with me one night?"
"After you've viciously attacked rock'n'roll? Never."
"Bill Monroe is performing out at Knotts Berry Farm in
a couple of days."
"Okay," she said quickly.
"You didn't know about Bill Monroe?"
"Why did you assume that?" she said. "I happen to
know a lot about Bill Monroe."
"Ah, yes. But you didn't know he was performing at
Knotts Berry Farm, did you?"
"No. I'm not the talent editor of Songdust. I'm the
radio-TV editor. But, to be frank, I doubt if the
talent editor of the magazine knew that either. Or
cared. He generally sticks to the major acts.
Michael Jackson, Elton John, Olivia Newton-John. The
acts that sell albums by the boxcar load, not the
box."
Bill finished his sandwich.
"Why Monroe?" he asked. "I'm curious."
"Why not?"
"I'm serious this time and not looking for a fight.
Not even a debate. It's just that Bill Monroe is not
the sort of recording artist someone who is
twenty-three years old would appreciate."
"I'm not twenty-three. I'm twenty-six."
"You don't act twenty-six."
"Right! Just as if there's a whole lot of difference
between how a person acts at twenty-three and how a
person acts at twenty-six. And no debate, eh. Next,
you'll probably come up with the suggestion that I act
sixteen."
"No," he said. "I would not even say sixteen and I
wouldn't even think sixteen."
"Well, it's okay. I guess I should be flattered, but
three years is not a hell of a lot of difference. And
anyway women back where I come from usually are
married and have a couple of kids by age twenty-three.
Up until now, I have avoided all of that and the
reason is that I like the music of Bill Monroe. In
other words, Mr. Bookstore Man, I'm not your typical
Texas female. Men have been known to shun women like
me, including me personally."
"Now that is definitely a lie. I seriously doubt that
any man in his right mind would shun you," he said.
"My kind of woman scares away them there kind of men,"
she said.
"Why? Are you into kung fu or karate or something
like that?"
"Or something, definitely. And definitely Bill
Monroe. And maybe the International Submarine Band
and a few other esoteric groups like that. And
mariachi music, especially the trios. And Peggy Lee.
God, don't you just love Peggy Lee!"
"It's the Bill Monroe that I don't understand. Peggy
Lee, yes. Everyone loves Peggy Lee. But Bill Monroe
plays bluegrass. Fiddle! Mandolin!"
"Bluegrass is not a dirty word in my dictionary," she
said. "If you had any great musical sense, you'd
realize that bluegrass is very similar to classical
music. The group is just a little smaller, that's
all."
"I guess I'll take your word for it," Bill said, and
when she reached for her purse, he quickly said, "My
treat" and pulled out a credit card. He also left a
tip as they left the table and walked out of the back
door into the parking lot in the rear. The myriad
noises of the restaurant suddenly fell away to be
replaced by a siren wailing in the distance and
someone much closer shoving on his car horn.
"Do you really believe what you said about Bill
Monroe?"
"Of course. But that's not the real question here,"
she said. "The big question is how did you know that
I like Bill Monroe. Not a hell of a lot of people are
into Bill Monroe, you know."
"That's quite true. I checked his record sales.
Trivial compared to someone like Johnny Cash. I found
it highly fascinating, however, to discover that
Johnny Cash is presently the major selling artist on
Columbia Records. A record label that also several
big name artists like Barbra Streisand. That, to me,
is absolutely amazing."
"Don't dodge the subject. The topic of which is Bill
Monroe."
"Research, my dear. Merely research. A bookstore
owner has to be adept in these things."
"Then why do I have the strange feeling that my
personal privacy has been violated? There isn't
anyone I know who knows that I love Bill Monroe's
'Uncle Pen' and 'Blue Moon of Kentucky' and just a
whole gob of his other songs."
"Nothing of the kind," he said quickly as they stopped
by her little MG. "Just a lucky guess. Anyway, you
look somehow like the Bill Monroe sort. The hair.
The high cheekbones. The smile."
"I've never smiled in my life," she said. "Especially
when it comes to Bill Monroe."
He glanced at his wristwatch. "Can we continue this
discussion on music at lunch tomorrow?"
"No. I've got lunch with some recording artist. I
can't remember who."
"I thought you said you didn't get involved with
talent."
"I don't much. That is, I write stories about this,
that, and everything in between. It's just that I'm
not the talent editor, so to speak. Don Whittemore of
RCA Records thought that I might find this particular
artist interesting and I said I'd do the lunch tango
not so much because I'm really interested in this
particular artist, but because Don's a pretty nice
guy."
"I don't think I know him," Bill said.
"Why should you know a guy like Don Whittemore? He's
in the music business, you're in the book business."
"I don't know," he said. "Just seemed like the thing
to say at the moment. He probably doesn't know me
either."
She laughed. "Would you please get in your car and go
somewhere else."
"Okay," he said. "I'll call you for lunch day after
tomorrow."
"Okay," she said. "That would be nice if you can get
past all of those telephone calls on hold at the
switchboard."
"Easy," he said. "But, of course, I'm willing to wait
on hold for up to an hour in your case. No, make than
three minutes."
"Hah!" she said.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
March 22, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
My wife Barbara Hall worries about what will
happen to
us--and our friends--if G.W. Bush gets elected this
coming November. She has lost a lot of sleep because
of her worries. Some of our friends aren't doing too
well. No jobs. Not much chance of getting a job. We
note others who are suffering, too, and lament for
them. They have jobs, though not the jobs they should
have, and are not able to pay increasing bills. One
woman is about to lose her home. I believe that a
great number of Americans are worried about how Bush
is destroying the United States. He has proven
himself to be the greatest enemy this nation has ever
had.
Just in case you might wonder, my wife attended
Cornell University, then switched to Columbia
University where she earned both a bachelor's and a
master's degree. Over the years, she has been around
some very bright people. Not just in radio and
television. In politics. In government. In
education. Her worries are not exactly unfounded.
However, there are signs for hope. My son Andy and
Barbara attended a recent Nevada Democrat rally. The
turnout was three times what it was during the
previous election, she was told. The primaries in
many states drew greater turnout than before.
Concerned people are stepping up.
We must get Bush gone!
In an earlier Commentary, I accused Bush of calling
down the hounds of hell. When you call these hounds
down, you don't create a war, you create a enemy that
only desists when all is dead. Either you're dead or
the enemy is dead. But if you're somehow the
survivor, then you have to fight the children of the
enemy. And their cousins unto even their very distant
cousins and their mothers and fathers. The hounds of
hell never give up, never give in and they will
continue to attack in the dark of night and from the
alleyways of the world. March 17, a hotel in Baghdad
was blown up. I write this as they continue to pull
the bodies of the dead and those who have been wounded
from the rubble. Ah, Bush! What have you done to me
and my children?
OTHER MATTERS
Paul Van House,
pvanhouse@houston.rr.com: "I read with
interest your review of Johnny Holliday's book on the
Internet. Way down in your review you mention Tom
Campbell. Every few months I do an Internet search to
see if there's something new on 'Tall Tom' who was,
for lack of a better description, my boyhood hero.
Listening to Tom on WONE in Dayton, Ohio, in the late
1960s, and talking with him on his mobile phone
(222-2222) sparked a life-long interest, and an almost
20-year career in radio before I dropped out to get 'a
real job'. I've always wanted to thank Tom for his
role in my life...or at least find out what happened
to him after he left Dayton. I still remember his
on-air announcement that he was going to San
Francisco. I have an aircheck of him from sometime in
1966 or 67 that I taped, and another I purchased from
an aircheck clearing house of his work at KYA. I also
heard he was selling cars in San Diego, but have never
seen any mention of his name other than associations
with KYA and WONE. If you have any information you
could supply to a would-be disk jockey, I would really
appreciate it!"
How's this for a bunch of addresses? Paul Van House
Radio/TV and baseball statistics software:
http://www.binxsoftware.com
Family Home Page:
http://users.ev1.net/~pvanhouse
Church Home Page:
http://www.ashfordumc.org Anyway, I
sent Paul a note about Tom, saying he was busy at the
White House doing something in sound and copied Tom
and got a response (see below somewhere).
Jay Blackburn,
radiojdb@satx.rr.com, doesn't want me
to print much of what he writes because his wife
Chancey and his friend Bruce Miller Earle pound him if
he says the wrong thing. But I think I owe Chancey
some copy, so: "You were right! You didn't conceal
identities very well. I'm waiting now for chapter 3.
Chance started her career at Wonderful WENE (weenie)
as it was pronounced on the air. I've the jingles on
tape from PAMS thanks to Jon Wolfert. C.B. was 16 and
the copywriter. While going to school in Buffalo she
did morning drive on WPHD. She was Lady Jane on
WYSL-FM then WPHD. She was then hired to do afternoon drive at
KAFM. In Dallas she became a folk legend. When I fired her, we
had been married one day and I had not told her I was going to
replace the whole staff, she came into my office with her YOU
BETTER NOT JACK WITH ME face on. Chance picked up my phone,
called the competition and got a job then and there. Women
actually went around Dallas saying they were Chance. We had to
get several TROs and like that! Now you know some of that story
and I'm off the hook for not telling you earlier. Chance, on
air, had that wonderful smoky voice, deep and resonant and she
could rock. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
When the G.M. was giving me a thumbnail on the staff when he got
to her he warned me to be careful, she was a feminist bitch. Of
course I married her less than 3 months later."
Tom Campbell, tc@tomc.org:
"Thank you for remembering
me. I never forget my younger brother Claude! I
am Sr. Technology Advisor and 'Officer of the
Convention' for the RNC NYC Convention. (Not for
bragging, just for info update). Just been named
technology advisor to the G-8 Summit. The U.S. is
host country this year with the event taking place in
Sea Island, GA.. I have also served as technology
advisor to the White House. My duties are focused in
NYC and GA at this time. Also still on air (via
commercials)--Ford, Ken Cranes Entertainment, etc.
Again, not bragging, but thought you might like to
know latest activities. All the very best my friend."
Just FYI, one of the memories I have of Tom Campbell
is from an NAB convention in Washington. We're having
coffee. Tom gives the waitress all kinds of fits just
for fun and with a smile about his coffee...you know,
wanting cream, wanting sugar, the coffee is too cool,
etc., then leaves a $20 for a tip.
And then I had another note from Jay Blackburn. We
had been discussing the genius of Chuck Blore. And I
don't think Jay's wife Chancey will hit him too hard
if I print it. If she does, tough luck on you, Jay.
This is good stuff! "Last week we talked about Mr.
Blore and KISS. I don't know if you ever heard it when
Blore and Sonny were rolling it out? Every piece of
production gave me goosebumps. It was incredible. You
were right, in those days of analog gear it was so
labor intensive it must have been extremely difficult
to keep up the momentum. Plus, the target
demo/pyscographic--25+ females--are the hardest to
turn around. Once you get them they are more loyal
than country listeners. Look how long it took Ron
Chapman and crew to get KVIL cooking! Today the old
KISS format would be much easier to produce, what with
our digital capability. The most difficult part would
be finding the writers. The problem with being a
visionary (hearinary?) is while you can hear the
product in your head, you have to communicate the
vision to others who may not 'get it'. Fifteen years
ago Bruce, Danny Garcia and I came up with a Spanish
format that spoke street Spanish and played dance or
drum-oriented music. It worked with the audience and
the #s were there but we could not sell advertising
because we spoke bad Spanish. Now that format thrives
in all major markets with a significant Latino
population. Goes to show you! I've been an admirer of
Chuck Blore from the time he left KELP, at 28 but
looking like he was in high school, and worked the
L.A. miracle--KFWB--now that's easy to remember! I
actually met Mr. Blore in '68. He still looked like
he was in high school. It was at a convention just
when he debuted 'The Age of Aquarius'. It blew me
away. Then I got to shake hands with him. I've never
forgotten."
There indeed have been many who've worshipped Chuck
Blore. Me, included.
Richard Kimball,aaskdick@earthlink.net, wrote
mentioning: "Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings in
reporting the death of our old and dear friend J.J.
Jackson of an apparent heart attack while on his way
home from dinner last evening. He was a great and
innovative radio man, one of the original MTV VJ's,
and a good friend. I will miss him."
Then a note from Neil Young,
nlryoung@hotmail.com,
regarding the obit of Baltimore personality Johnny
Walker who went under the name Wild Child on WPTR in
1968. Rick Kelly,
nuhuc@juno.com, responded with the
early March obit from the Baltimore Sun, as written by
Frederick N. Rasmussen: "Johhny Walker, who made
Balitmore laugh and the lawyers wince for more than a
decade as a madcap disc jockey then shucked the fame
and walked away when his AM radio station switched to
an all-talk format, died Monday evening at University
Specialty Hospital in Baltimore." He was 56 and
suffered from a pulmonary disease. His stunts
included treasure hunts, flying to Kenya in search of
a witch doctor to help the Orioles, and reading his
tax-evasion indictment on the air. Alan Christian, a
former Baltimore radio colleague, was quoted: "In the
history of Baltimore radio, he'll go down as one of
the greatest performers who ever opened a mike."
And thus men die even as worlds die.
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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