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"Xtreme"
Chapter four of a novel
by Claude Hall
Everything was in turmoil when she arrived at Songdust
magazine. Drawn, sad faces everywhere and people
milling around as if searching for something to do.
The telephones were out of commission. Trade
magazines, even more so than newspapers, deal in
information and the telephone is the major avenue for
this mangled influx of gossip, rumors, news releases,
and outright balderdash. There were people trying to
promote something such as a record or an artist
and--though rarely these days--a song, people trying
to promote someone and even people trying to promote
themselves. These people were all desperate to reach
the magazine and the editors of the magazine were
eager to talk with them.
"The phone people are here," Tammy said, peeking up
from her reception desk where she was reading
Cosmopolitan on the sneak. She handed Susan a stack
of messages at least an inch thick. "A whole bunch of
others including Rick Shaw and K.O. Bayley said they
would call back. Before the phones went kablooie."
"How long have the phones been out?"
"An hour. The phone people say it may take another
half hour."
"God, but Zeus must really be upset."
"He screamed a while then went out to his car to use
his car phone."
"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," Susan said. "The
screaming, I mean."
In truth, she was glad that she didn't have to face
Zeus at the moment. Could she look him in the eyes?
And would he look back after yesterday's session?
Even more interesting would be whether the man
revealed any guilt or not. Would she even recognize
guilt?
"Bye the bye, you had a visitor come by," said Tammy.
"I told him you were out to lunch and he refused to
believe me and insisted on me telling you he was here.
Raised a fuss, believe me! Acted as if he owned the
magazine or something."
"Who was it?"
"Said his name was Dabney Stone," Tammy said. "I hope
he isn't someone famous."
"Hard to say," Susan said after she could think
straight again.
First the phone call this morning and now this visitor
claiming to be Dabney Stone. Astonishing! She was
thrown off balance by these developments. Finally,
she told Tammy not to worry about it.
"Do you realize how many phone calls you must have
missed?" Tammy said. "You'll never catch up."
"The day I catch up, dear Tammy, is that day that I
will know I've lost my power as one of the most
important people in this funny animal called showbiz,"
Susan said as Tammy buzzed her through the doorway
into the offices.
This is when the turmoil actually began.
"I'm Dabney Stone," said a creepy-looking guy sitting
behind her desk. He wore bell-bottom trousers and a
Nehru shirt that had long gone out of style even in
the music industry. His sideburns came down from a
mop of hair almost to his chin, which was rather
pointed. She guessed that he was at least thirty and
maybe a year or two beyond that. There was a young
girl sitting in his lap. If she claimed she was
fifteen, she was lying about her age. Fourteen tops,
Susan guessed. And since she knew quite definitely
that this was not really Dabney Stone, the man sitting
in her office chair was a mystery. And she knew that
she didn't want to have one thing to do with him. Her
fingers felt greasy, the old tale-tale sign of being
in the presence of either an outright crook or someone
who wanted to be a crook.
"You're the person who phoned this morning?"
"Right on, baby," he said, mouthing the words out of
the corner of his mouth.
"But you're not Dabney Stone. There aren't a lot of
people who know Dabney and exactly zero who know him
very well, including me. But I do happen to know him
when I see him and you're not it."
"That's right on, well enough," he said. "Screw this
Dabney Stone. You're talking to one of the world's
greatest deejays. The Mojo Man in person. How about
that? I figured you might want to interview me. Put
me in that cheap little Segway column you write.
Build up some readership."
"No, thanks," Susan said. "Would you please get out
of my chair?"
"Huh! Oh, well. I guess so. Get up, babe."
He literally pushed the young girl out of his lap and
then took his time standing up as she waited like a
frightened deer by the edge of the desk. He tried to
rise with what he thought was flair. Susan thought he
looked silly.
"You sure you don't want to write about me?"
"Fairly sure. I don't even know who you are, even
though I might know who you're not."
"You never heard of the Mojo Man?" His face revealed
that he found this difficult to believe.
"Never."
"Big in Memphis, baby. Very big in Memphis."
"I've heard about Dewey Phillips and George Klein.
Never heard about the Mojo Man," she said. "And, of
course, there's a guy named Elvis who sometimes hangs
out down in that area."
"I've seen this Elvis cat. He's cool. But Klein and
Phillips can't touch me, baby."
"I can see that," she said. "May I ask how you got
into this office without being announced?"
"Came in with those phone cats," he said without
embarrassment. "They wouldn't let me in out front.
That screwy babe at the switchboard said you weren't
in."
"And I wasn't," Susan said. "And I'm still not. I'm
afraid you'll have to leave. I don't like to see
people without an appointment."
"What! After I drove all of the way from Memphis!"
"You'll just have to drive back," she said. "Call and
make an appointment when you get there."
"First, take my picture for your column. I promised
this chick here that she'd get her photo in the
magazine. With me."
"I'm not a photographer," Susan said. "Don't even
have a camera handy. And there's no room in the
column for the next issue."
"Now that's a lot of crap!" he said. "You're always
running a page or two of names and call letters."
"Either you leave, or I'm calling security," Susan
said.
He grinned. "The phone's dead, remember?"
"Not the intercom," she said.
To tell the truth, she didn't know if the intercom
would work or not. But, on the other hand, she
figured that this guy wouldn't know either. Anyway,
there was no security.
"I don't appreciate being treated like crap," he said
pointedly.
She shrugged. "And I don't like treating you like
crap, but, to be honest with you, you bring out the
worse in me. Out!"
"You can't do this to me," he said and his tone was
very quiet. "It'll cost you."
"Somehow, it already has," Susan said.
"When I take over your lousy job, I'll get all of the
publicity I want!" said Mojo Man.
"Good. I'm sure you'll enjoy reading about yourself."
Reluctantly, he walked toward the rear entrance,
literally dragging his young companion by her hand.
Her face looked that of a frightened animal caught in
a trap and unable to escape. Susan waited, hands on
hip, until he entered the door that led into the outer
hallway by the stairs. Sometimes, she used the same
door when she was concerned about someone seeing her
in the lobby.
She walked over and opened the door to make sure he'd
left. The Mojo Man and his young girlfriend were not
in view.
Visitors were always welcome at Songdust and somehow
most of them were disc jockeys or program directors
and she was the one who escorted them around, showing
them the chart department, introducing them to Chase
Dudley, the copyeditor, others. Many of these "drop
bys" became casual friends or, at the least, contacts
for information throughout the radio world. Once, Ken
Levine had come by; his on-air name was Beaver Cleaver
and he'd just sold a television script to "M.A.S.H."
She met with them all--Johnny Holiday, Pat McMahan,
Dusty Rhoads, Jack Armstrong, Jay Lawrence. But this
barging in by the Mojo Man, whoever he really was, had
upset her. The man was so creepy!
Just then the phone rang. It was Tammy to say that
everything was kosher once again and she suddenly had
three calls waiting. "Evidently, no one has forgotten
you yet," Tammy said.
The first call was from Chuck Chellman in Nashville
who wanted to know if she was coming to the Country
Music Association convention this year. Actually, the
official name of the convention, which wasn't really a
convention but more like a gathering and party, was
the WSM Birthday Party. Country disc jockeys, country
artists, and people in the record business who dealt
primarily with country music teemed into the city.
One year, only four major recording artists in country
music missed the event and that was because one had a
broken leg and was in a cast and the others, including
Johnny Cash, were filming a television special in
Miami. One year, she'd wandered into a couple of
rooms in the old Andrew Jackson Hotel where Tex Ritter
was holding sway over a small crowd enchanted by his
old windies. Tex, who'd joined the Grand Ole Opry a
year or so earlier, was telling how when he was a
movie star he'd visited a doctor who'd told him to
drop his trousers for a shot and Tex said he told the
doctor, "Just be aware, doc, that you're sticking that
needle into the ass of America's most beloved cowboy!"
She asked a caller from Memphis about the Mojo Man and
the program director warned her to stay away from him;
"he's bad news." It turned out that a radio station
in Memphis had just fired the Mojo Man after he
disrupted listeners, advertisers, and the radio
station's program director and almost the Federal
Communications Commission.
Bill Hennes had also phoned. She returned his phone
call and they discussed the fate of a program director
in Dallas. Program directors and disc jockeys had
little job stability. The Ed Hider story at KFI in
Los Angeles was a classic; Hider, who went on to write
"The Donny and Marie Osmond Show" for television, came
to work one day to find someone else sitting at the
microphone in KFI studio. That was the way he'd been
fired. Hennes said that the Dallas program director
was on vacation when he received a telegram at the
hotel in Hawaii to learn he'd been fired. And his
apartment, provided on a tradeout by the radio
station, had been taken away; his belongings had been
stored and the telegram informed him that he could
pick up the bill for the storage from the radio
station's receptionist when he got back to Dallas.
At some point, Bill Stewart phoned to ask for details
about the next radio programming meeting that she was
going to do. She said she didn't know yet. Some
details had to be worked out. The truth was that
unless Zeus McRae gave her a bonus, she was thinking
about copping out on the convention this year. Too
much work.
Songdust got into the convention business because the
money that could be made was astronomical. The
National Association of Broadcasters convention a
couple of years ago in Las Vegas grossed $400,000,
according to NAB President Vince Wasilewski; she was
sure it made several times that amount now. The
Songdust radio meeting made $63,000 in profit one year
at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. It was a
three-day meeting mostly of radio station program
directors, although general managers interested in
programming attended and so did a few disc jockeys.
And a considerable number of members of the record
industry. There were quite a few record company
executives dropping by that particular meeting because
she'd persuaded Clive Davis to make a public
appearance after virtually a year of absence. Clive
was the hotshot president of Columbia Records and
involved on a personal level with many of the record
label's superstars. One day he came back from lunch
to find a padlock on his office door. That was the
way CBS executives notified him that he had been
fired. No real reason was apparent, although the
industry raged with rumors and more rumors for a
while. Now, voila! He was back. And shortly
afterwards he had formed Arista Records and, once
again, began coming up with hits. The man had a touch
when it came to a hit record.
The first real radio programming meeting was organized
and conducted by the legendary Todd Storz, owner of
KOWH in Omaha, Nebraska, and his program director Bill
Stewart. The convention drew about 500 people to the
Muehleback Hotel in Kansas City in 1958. Bill called
it a disc jockey convention, because in those days
most disc jockeys picked their own music that they
played on the air. True, KOWH was doing something
different because Bill Stewart had discovered the
validity of a closed playlist and a music rotation
pattern, i.e., play the current hits more often than
either new records or old records. Prior to that
convention, however, most people on the air were radio
announcers, not disc jockeys per se.
"We were just an upstart industry in those days," Bill
Stewart had told her once, "the independent radio
industry. When Top 40 radio became successful,
everyone was out to get us, particularly the
newspapers--in view of the fact that most newspapers
also owned radio stations in those days. Radio
stations had been big for a lot of years during the
great rise of network radio. And they were on their
way down because television had literally taken over
the whole industry."
That radio disc jockey convention in Kansas City
created a feeling of togetherness among the stations
playing Top 40 and those who worked for these
stations.
Stewart said about 2,500 disc jockeys and owners
showed up the following year in Miami for the next
convention "and the press was really out to get us."
The final day of the convention, the local paper
carried the headline: "Booze, Broads, and Bribes."
His wife came to town. "We were going down to the
Bahamas with Paul Berlin and his wife. When I picked
her up at the airport, I was a few minutes late and
she'd already bought a copy of the morning paper. She
was sitting there reading it."
He said stories about the convention had grown since
like Topsy. "I hear wild stories about what's supposed
to have happened there that are so far from the truth
that it's unbelievable!"
Regardless, the National Association of Broadcasters
refused to have anything to do with program directors
for many years.
Meanwhile, Bill Gavin, who operated a tipsheet called
the Gavin Report, held a convention in Las Vegas in
1967 organized by a program director named George
Burns. A year or so later, Susan organized a radio
programming meeting under the auspices of Songdust
News at the New York Hotel. Keynote speakers that
year included Art Linkletter, who talked about his
late daughter walking out a window of a building under
the influence of dope thinking she could fly.
Zeus McRae decided he could do his own convention,
this one about music, after her success. He held it
in the Bahamas at the British House. It turned out to
be a farce when Berry Gordy, black owner of Motown
Records, came down and the hotel had no room for him.
He turned around with his entourage of about thirty
people and went home and word had spread.
Susan, after almost an hour of returning the most
important phone calls, finally got around to phoning
Nails to tell her about someone pretending to be
Dabney Stone.
"This Dabney Stone must be one important fellow after
all," Nails said.
"I think he's going to make the column this coming
week," Susan said. "Just thought you'd like to know."
"How silly! But wonderfully delightful. Don't
mention our marriage."
"Okay, I won't."
"Something as sacred as marriage just shouldn't be
discussed in public," said Nails. "Not to change the
subject, because the sudden appearance of Dabney at
your office is quite interesting, but how did you
enjoy your lunch with Bill Ferguson?"
"A girl just can't have any privacy in this
cottonpicking town," said Susan. "How did you know
about that?"
"I know everything," said Nails. "Absolutely
everything."
"He's taking me to see Bill Monroe in a few days,"
Susan said.
"Bill Monroe? There definitely something wrong about
this Bill Ferguson person. Hasn't he every heard of
Cher or Tony Bennett? Someone like that? No girl in
her right mind would want to go hear bluegrass music."
"I happen to like bluegrass music."
"That's what I mean," said Nails. Her voice changed.
"I think I'll just check this guy Ferguson out."
"Don't tell me if you find out anything bad," Susan
said. "At least not until I've caught Bill Monroe out
at Knotts Berry Farm."
"Deal," said Nails.
The rest of the day, Susan worked on an article about
morning radio personalities around the nation. She
would never be able to mention all of the good ones,
of course, but J.P. McCarthy at WJR in Detroit, Salty
O'Brine in Providence, Rhode Island; Bob Van Camp at
WSB in Atlanta, Dick Whittinghill at KMPC in Los
Angeles, John Gambling Jr. at WOR in New York...these
were legends among legends. One New York City lawyer
she'd met a couple of years ago shaved to Gambling,
dressed to Gambling, and knew that when Gambling
played the habitual march tune he had to head for the
Ardsley train station to train to work in the city.
These personalities were engrained into the lives of
their listeners. Children had grown up listening to
Bob Van Camp in Atlanta and so had their children.
The article grew slowly, because she constantly had to
check facts. A lot of writers in the trade genre of
journalism existed on rumors and they had become so
adept at writing they could hide the lack of real
information. A lot of people on television news were
also capable of this. But she had studied journalism
under Dr. Dewitt Reddick, Dr. Norris G. Davis, and
others at The University of Texas in Austin and she
believed in hard news; she let the facts tell the
story and tried to keep her personal opinion or
opinions out of what she wrote. Even when she was
interviewing Rick Dees back when he worked in the
south, she always assumed that Rick knew more than she
did about radio. The truth was, however, that after
you've written countless stories with the likes of
Bill Drake, Ted Adkins, Gordon McLendon, Ruth Meyer,
you knew just about as much about radio as there was
to know. Not that you couldn't learn more, of course,
because radio was constantly evolving, growing,
changing. Sometimes for the better. But this was not
always the case. Lee Abrams with his concept of "Much
More Music" bothered her. The "More Music" theory of
Bill Drake, née Phil Yarbough, was bad enough and a
lot of radio personalities felt he was an enemy more
than a friend. She liked radio personalities and had
grown up listening to such as John Hall over KVOO,
Tulsa, Oklahoma, Eddie Hill over WSM in Nashville, and
Frank "Gatemouth" Paige over KWKH in Shreveport,
Louisiana. When Ralph Emery had taken over the
all-night show at WSM, she liked him, too, but not as
much as Eddie Hill who would sometimes pick up his
guitar and sing along with the record that he was
playing on the air.
After she finished the article, which took her almost
three hours to write, she pulled out the Segway column
and tacked on an item about Dabney Stone, silent owner
of a couple of West Coast radio stations, thinking
about starting his own record label but concerned
about the current, and perhaps illegal, modus operandi
of the music industry.
She took the column and the article into Chase
Dudley's office. He was glad to see her.
"I always enjoy your articles," he said. "You're one
of the few people on this magazine who really knows
how to write and knows what she's talking about."
"I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she said and
ruffled his white hair. "But thanks."
Chase had worked on Downbeat magazine, the leading
publication about jazz, many years ago. Then he
became a leading record producer for one of the major
labels until pushed out in a "youth movement" by the
top executives. He'd joined Songdust News and seemed
content to cool his heels from a career standpoint
only because he was writing a book about his exploits
as a record producer.
He wore a habitual pencil behind his right ear, a
leftover, he said, from the old days because "I'm an
old-fashioned man who doesn't believe in these
new-fangled ballpoint pens when it came to tackling a
news story for the coming edition." He also wore
rumors of long ago and far away, but many men in the
music business had those rumors following them, some
at a distance, some up close. Susan placed little
value on a man's past; it was the present that
counted.
Chase placed the copy on his desk and grinned. "How
come I've never heard of this Dabney Stone you
mentioned in Segway a couple of weeks back? Was he in
radio?"
"He's sorta new on the scene, Chase. Anyway, you'd
never have looked twice at a guy like that, believe
me."
"Well, if you say so."
She really liked Chase. He was much better than the
previous copyeditor who'd once edited an item out of
her column that would have been enjoyed by just about
everyone in radio. Lohman and Barkley were a disc
jockey team on KFI. They'd been there for years.
Both were past their physical prime, so to speak. But
after many years had become sort of disgusted with
their partners. After one particular show, they'd
scuffled in the radio station parking lot. She'd
written that they'd had a bad attack of each other.
It had been chopped out of the column.
Chase looked at the article about morning
personalities.
"Good lead," he said.
"You see anything wrong, Chase, fix it."
"Me, touch your copy?"
"Hell, Chase, you probably know these guys better than
I do."
"You left out Barney Keep at KEX."
"God! So, I did. Put him in for me, will you?"
"Yeah. Be sad to leave old Barney out. I'll toss in
a few words."
"Love you, Chase," she said.
She went back to her office, grabbed her purse, and
went out the main door into the lobby. Tammy had
already shut down the main switchboard and gone home.
Susan glanced at her wristwatch. It was already after
6 p.m. Editors of Songdust might work late and did
more often than not, but not Tammy. She was married
to a musician who hadn't quite made it yet in the
business. They were about to have a child in a few
months.
Suddenly, Susan realized that it was too early to just
go home. If she went home, she'd probably end up
watching television or thinking about her father. She
was too wrought to concentrate on an episode of
"M.A.S.H" and you had to be pretty dumb to continue
watching "I Love Lucy" over and over again. She
considered that a fate worse than a run in a new pair
of nylon stockings.
A few days ago, Larry Vanderveen, president of a
syndication firm named Radio Arts, had invited her to
a party at the old home of Elvis Presley in Beverly
Hills, now owned by the president of a major cosmetics
firm. Parties and press conferences and myriad other
such functions that called for free booze and usually
free food abounded in the media business. And you
could forget Christmas! One syndicated columnist
she'd met received more than a room full of liquor and
wine for Christmas. She wondered how many bottles of
booze Dan Rather got for Christmas--a truckload? And
as for Larry King, forget it!
But the media parties were something else. A few
months ago, Broadcast Music Inc. held a party at the
Beverly Hills for songwriters and the ultra lavishness
started with a mountain of shrimp on a table; help
yourself. Even though she was born in Texas where
shrimp was more prominent for fish bait than food, she
had grown to love shrimp while working for a trade
magazine in New York City, a town that features
several media functions a day promoting everything
from sweaters to movies. The most ultra-swank dinner
was held each year by BMI at the annual convention of
the National Association of Broadcasters. The one
year she'd been invited, they flew in fresh crawfish
from New Orleans, wine from France. Sol Teishoff,
publisher of Broadcasting Magazine, sat at her table
and, while she was literally a nobody at that dinner,
he was really a somebody and attracted the owners of
several radio and television chains. The cigars were
Cuban...huge monstrous illegal things in glass...and
she'd brought hers back to Chase Dudley. But, come to
think of it, the entire NAB convention was nothing
more than a party of one kind or another, one industry
or manufacturer's suite or another.
The owner of the Redkin cosmetics firm, she never
quite got his name straight, had bought an estate
formerly owned by Elvis Presley during his horrible
pap movie days. Although there was a long pause when
she stopped at the iron gate onto the premises and
announced her name into the squawk box, finally the
ponderous affair had slowly swung away and she drove
through, half worried that the gate might close before
she could get her little sports car inside.
The paved road led past a tennis court on the right
and a swimming pool on the left and then up a hill
into a parking lot by the two-story rambling mansion.
The parking lot was almost full of Chevrolets and
Fords, which signified that this was not really an
important party. Anyway, for a major gathering there
would have been catered parking attendants to take
your car even before you entered the gate. And no one
greeted her at the door, but as soon as she entered,
someone came. She introduced herself as so-and-so's
assistant.
Then, Larry appeared, offered her a drink, was not
insulted when she said Diet Pepsi, and led her away,
armed with the soda, to meet so-and-so himself and
take a tour of the house.
"We redecorated, but left the grills on the windows
untouched," she was told. The window grills, which
would not have caused any decent burglar to pause,
featured a guitar shape. However, once any burglar
got inside the house, they would have been in serious
trouble. It seemed that the head of the cosmetics
empire had fallen in love with snakes when he was a
kid. Today, this love manifested itself in a pet boa
constrictor that roamed around the upstairs study and
a coral snake in a glass box in his bedroom bath. But
Mrs. so-and-so didn't mind him keeping a beautiful, if
quite deadly, snake in his bathroom. She had her own
bathroom.
The party went okay, including the period when Larry
had to pet the boa constrictor. It seems that a great
deal of his financial backing for his Radio Arts firm
came from Mrs. so-and-so. But, dutifully, he petted
the snake on the head. Susan declined as nicely as
possible.
She had made her pleasantries and was just about to
escape. Even old episodes of "I Loved Lucy" looked
pretty good in comparison to boa constrictor.
"My grandmother," said Mr. so-and-so. He pointed to a
photographed framed on the stairway wall. It was one
of those old-style photos. A picture of a child.
Susan leaned forward, politely, to read the writing on
the small metal plate attached to the frame. The
photo was by Gene Stratton Porter, one of the world's
most successful writers back in the days when women
such as George Sands sometimes adopted male names in
order to sell books.
"I'll be damned!" said Susan. "I didn't know she was
a photographer."
"That was how she made her living," he said.
"Nonsense! A book called 'Freckles' and 'A Girl of
the Limberlost' sold millions of copies even back when
there weren't that many bookstores across America.
She was one of America's greatest literary treasures."
But the man kept pointing to the photographs of Gene
Stratton Porter. He mentioned that he had her first
editions and even some of her old manuscripts, but he
was more interested in the pictures, evidently because
they provided decoration for his walls. "Those books
are pretty old, you know. 'Freckles' was published
around 1904."
He seemed to feel that because the books were old,
they were no longer of interest.
Someone on the tour, there were only five in tow,
pointed out that around the time of the first World
War, Gene Stratton Porter moved to Los Angeles and
built a house in Bel Air. "Came out here to start a
movie company for her books. But then died in an
automobile accident in 1924. There are, however, a
couple of films based on her books."
When Susan left the party, and she was among the first
to leave "because I have to start work early
tomorrow," it was with a feeling of awe. Some people,
of course, would have been impressed by the house. It
seemed that the owner and his wife constantly had to
replace bricks stolen by Elvis fans from the wall
around the property. She, on the other hand, was
impressed by the connection with Gene Stratton Porter.
Mr. so-and-so, the grandson of a real writer, was as
close as she'd come to the world of literature since
arriving in Los Angeles. Here, writers galore pecked
out words galore, but these words were for television
and movies. Words rapidly written and sometimes just
as rapidly digested. Most stuff on television was
like Chinese food...it didn't stay with you long.
Since she'd come late, her car wasn't blocked by other
cars and she made a fairly smooth getaway out of the
plaza and down the hill and back into the never-never
land of Beverly Hills. Soon, she was on Sunset Strip.
She drove toward the east to La Cienega and then
right and down to Mind's Eye Books. It was getting
late, but the bookstore was still open and full of
soft Brazilian guitar music.
Bill wasn't there, but a very pleasant women with gray
hair who didn't seem to care if it was gray or not
offered her a cup of tea. She introduced herself as
Maud. "My real name's Maudell, but only you and I
know it and I'd appreciate you not telling anyone."
She seemed to be about 40 years old and wore her hair
in an ancient hairdo that piled most of it on top of
her head. However, her smile was warm and her eyes
quite friendly behind gold rim spectacles.
"Deal," said Susan as she sat down in a comfortable
easy chair placed there for people who wanted to
sample the books that teemed throughout the store. In
some places, the books were shelved neatly. But a
corner here and there contained stacks of books
seemingly waiting to be shelved. She took a sip of
her tea. It was herbal tea and quite soothing and
just the sort of thing she needed at the moment.
Maud noticed her stare.
"If you're thinking I'm going to one day shelve those
books in the corner, you're out of your mind," she
said with a small laugh. "They've been stacked there
for months. For atmosphere, perhaps. Or because no
one these days wants to read books by former
presidents of the United States. The poor dears get
oodles of money for writing their memoirs, but I
suppose the book publishers chalk it off to charity
for those things never sell. Not even to historians,
who had much rather prowl through libraries until they
find a dusty copy. Describe this Bill for whom you're
hunting and maybe I can tell you how to reach him."
Susan described Bill Ferguson briefly, mentioning his
black hair and needing a haircut. "He owns this
store," she said.
"Oh, that Bill Ferguson," Maud said quickly. "I had
no idea you knew my son. Did he tell you that he
owned the Mind's Eye? The one thing that I never
taught that boy, so help me, is how to lie. He
learned that somewhere else. He does not own this
store."
"Bill is your son?"
"Yes, and he doesn't even work here either," Maud
said. "I hope he's not in any kind of trouble. I
mean, lady trouble."
"No," said Susan. She wondered if she was blushing.
It was the kind of question that might make you blush,
after all.
"Not that I would be disappointed, you understand,"
Maud said, saluting her with her cup of tea. "And, to
be frank, I think it's about time he got some pretty
little thing in trouble. I'm quite old enough to be a
grandmother, you know."
"I'm not in a family way," said Susan firmly.
"What a pity," Maud said. "I had hopes there for a
moment."
"We met here at the store a few weeks back," Susan
explained, "...fighting over a copy of Hemingway's
'The Old Man and the Sea'. And we've had lunch a
couple of times. That's all."
"Slow. My son is very, very slow," Maud said. "Just
like his father. I had to propose to Ralph and
literally drag him up before a preacher. But
sometimes the slow ones work out well. I'd like to
point that out."
"We're just friends," Susan said. "I was at a party
this evening and met a grandson of Gene Stratton
Porter and I thought Bill would be amused."
"The Gene Stratton Porter?"
Susan nodded. "Her grandson is Meehan, the founder of
the Redkin cosmetics empire. I think he treasured her
photographs more than her books."
"So, you're into books, are you?"
"Yes," Susan said. "A closet writer. That is, I work
for a trade magazine here in Los Angeles, but one of
these days I'm going to run away to some deserted
island and write the great American novel."
"That would explain it," said Maud.
"Explain what?"
"How you got to know my son," she said. "He is not
easy to get to know. The Hemingway did it."
This last statement left Susan quite puzzled, but Maud
refused to explain further. She acted as if her son
was quite different from the normal crowd of men.
But, of course, a mother might think that. This
conflicted with the concept that Susan had about men
in general. They were all alike and had just one
interest: To get you in bed, chalk you up on some
scoreboard, and proceed to the next conquest which
was, in retrospect, a victim.
The tea was soon finished and so was the conversation,
which had dragged down to a makeshift, sputtering
silence. Maud said she didn't have Bill's phone
number handy, but she'd let him know about Susan
dropping by. Susan thought that, too, was odd; the
woman probably had his phone number in her memory
engraved on stone. However, she finally concluded
that Bill, indeed, could lie and so could his mother.
She liked the woman. Maud was certainly the kind of
woman you could have tea with, clean house with, shop
with. The kind of woman in reality she hadn't known
since her own mother when she was a child.
"I'm sure he'll be in touch," Maud said as Susan left.
"In fact, I'm quite positive."
And Susan didn't know what she meant by that either.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
March 29, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
No Commentary this week, just an article that
you
might enjoy. This article was written circa 1982-5
during which period I was studying for a master's
degee and then, upon acquisition of the degree, moved
on to teach fulltime at the State University of New
York at Brockport. It appeared in a tabloid
distributed by country music radio stations
coast-to-coast. For more than two (maybe three)
years, I turned out an article such as this every
month. This is just one of a very few I've managed to
retain over the years since. A pity. I thought some
of the articles were pretty good, but this, of course,
could be merely ego speaking.
Honky-tonks
And the Most Sensuous Tonky Honker
Of Them All
by Claude Hall
The number of country music songs that deal
specifically--in title and in lyric--with honky-tonks
is absolutely astonishing. The honky-tonk song, which
perhaps deserves its own individual niche within the
realm of music in general, can be recognized by
several characteristics: It is a bawdy, lustful,
raucous music and often sensuous and sexually
exciting. The original honky-tonk may have been, in
fact, part brothel and part gambling den, according to
popular literature.
As a word, "honky-tonk" is said by one lexicographer
of slang to have found its origin with the American
Negro; another claims it originated in England where
the term "honk" meant to idle about.
Regardless, honky-tonk music as a specific musical
genre has become historically significant within the
realm of country music...you have songs about
honky-tonks as well as songs that are characteristic
of the honky-tonk itself. Those who've sung about
honky-tonks range from Webb Pierce and Kitty Wells and
Loretta Lynn to Mel Tillis, the Dusty Chaps, and
Waylon Jennings...and those who've recorded songs with
a honky-tonk flavor include the likes of Red Steagall,
Claude King, Waylon Jennings, Tex Ritter, Gary
Stewart, Jerry Lee Lewis, Al Dexter, and just about
anyone who has ever picked up a guitar that knew how
to find the C chord.
As for the greatest honky-tonker of them all, it has
to be Johnny Horton, though Al Dexter and Lefty
Frizzell rank a close second.
In no other form of music of which I'm aware does the
song delve so constantly and with such emotional
impact into people, places, and things as does country
music. The affinity of the music to trains is quite
obvious; if you've ever saw a Johnny Cash show in
person you no doubt came away from the concert with a
train whistle more than likely stuck in your ear.
And, of course, songs about trucks and truckdrivers
have been well documented and any day now I'm going to
write a detailed article about country music songs
that deal with murders (I'd also enjoy writing about
sex in country music, but it would take an entire
library to even document the songs of illicit
romances, and there may even be one or two lilly-pure
romantic ballads in country music accidently written
by some obscure songwriter).
But I can assure you that the great American
honky-tonk is without question one of the major
cultural forces in country music second to sex. And
fie! on the pedantic sociology professor who might nod
sagely and point out that this is natural..."the
jukebox is a form of country music phallic symbol, you
know."
Without question, the jukebox has made a major
contribution to the country music industry in fact as
well as in song. The vast number of jukeboxes leaning
against the wall in honky-tonks and bars
coast-to-coast has spurred many a songwriter to
customize his or her song toward that particular
market and that "lady" or "gentleman" with their foot
propped on the rail at the bar. Also, for more than
two generations the jukebox has been the major
purchaser of country music single records. Because of
this, trade magazines in the music industry have long
based their country music charts heavily upon jukebox
plays--which are carefully tabulated by "operators"
who keep a weekly or biweekly watch on each individual
con-grabbing monster--as well as disc jockey spins on
radio. So, virtually all country songs are related to
the neighborhood honky-tonk in some fashion, whether
this is admitted openly or not.
The honky-tonk, of course, dates prior to the
jukebox--probably back to the invention of the piano
itself (did you ever see a honky-tonk without a piano
or jukebox?). The dictionary describes a honky-tonk
as a "cheap saloon featuring gambling games and
dancing by or with women of questionable repute."
Thus, it's entirely appropriate that a song such as
"It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels" became a
classic in country music. Incidentally, I probably
have dozens of versions of this particular song in my
collection, but the version by Kitty Wells that I
stumbled over first as I began to meander through
records researching this article is on an MCA Records
"twofer" sampler album issued about 1975. Her version
on this album was recorded on Jan. 30, 1960. But her
hit was in 1952 when MCA Records was known as Decca
Records.
The song smacks, as do a vast number of country music
tunes, of slightly askew romance: "It wasn't God who
made honky-tonk angels...like you said in the words to
your song...too many times married men think they're
still single...that has caused many a good girl to go
wrong."
Artistically, Kitty Wells "owns" the song, although
you'll find a slightly different version by Loretta
Lynn on an album titled "Loretta" on MCA Records
released in 1980. The song, written by J.D. Miller,
is a classic example of the "answer song" which, in
this case, became more famous than the original song
that gave it birth--"Wild Side of Life" recorded by
Hank Thompson on Capital Records.
Recently, I saw a television performance by Kitty
Wells, her husband Johnny Wright (who used to be a
member of the Johnny and Jack duo with the late Jack
Anglin), and her son Bobby Wright (a former television
sitcom star) on "Austin City Limits." Kitty Wells
sang, as you might have surmised, "It Wasn't God Who
Made Honky Tonk Angels." She never had a great,
compelling voice, but the Queen of Country Music and
Hall of Famer has always had the ability to sing with
vitality and compelling emotion and the song, even
after more than 30 years, has not lost any of its
strength.
Among the other honky-tonk songs of merit, one must
mention "Honky Tonk Song" by Webb Pierce which is
available on several albums, including Decca's
"All-Time Country and Western, Vol. VIII" as well as
"Honky Tonkin" by Mel Tillis and "Honky Tonk Hardwood
Floor" by Sleepy LaBeef on a Sun Records album
released in 1979. The Dusty Chaps released an album
titled "Honky Tonk Music" on Capitol Records in 1977
and Waylon Jennings had an album called "Honky Tonk
Heroes" on RCA Records released in 1973 that is a
collector's item from two standpoints--the great music
on the album and the fact that the album cover
features a candid photo of Waylon and some friends in
what must be a real honky-tonk. Someone who looks an
awful lot like noted record producer Huey Meaux sits
there on a barstool and behind the bar is none other
than Roger "Captain Midnight" Schutt, a disc jockey of
Nashville renown.
Though it's not the best cut on the album--that lofty
position belongs to "Ain't No God in Mexico"--Waylon's
album does feature a song titled "Honky Tonk Heroes"
on it. The album is great, as is about 70% of
everything that Waylon does with the exception of
getting a shave.
The songs about jukeboxes and drinking in bars and
honky-tonks are too numerous to recount. Reflect, if
you will, upon such songs as Carl Smith's "There
Stands the Glass" and even further back to Tex
Ritter's "I Can't Get My Foot Off the Rail," though
the late master may have been referring specifically
to a western saloon more than a honky-tonk in that
particular song.
Is there a great difference between bar, saloon,
tavern, dancehall, and honky-tonk? Literature might
deem that there is a chasm of difference. A. Lomax,
in his book "Mr. Jelly Roll," remarked: "These
honky-tonks ran wide open 24 hours a day and it was
nothing for a man to be drug out of one of them dead.
Their attendance was some of the lowest caliber women
in the world and their intake was from the little,
pitiful gambling games they operated, waiting for a
sucker to come in." And P. Wylie in "Finnley Wren,"
featured this descriptive passage in 1934: "Rode to
my honky-tonk on a bus, banged the piano for my
growing clientele until midnight, and slept either at
my cheap hotel, or in rooms upstairs with
evanescent-faced girls."
Several country singers lean toward the unique,
characteristic style common to the honky-tonk, not to
mention Jerry Lee Lewis and Mickey Gilley. But, in
spite of their obvious fame and success and their
fabulous piano style, I believe that there have been
greater honky-tonkers. Among thse, you would
certainly have to class the legendary Lefty Frizzell,
an old boy from Corsicanna, TX, who had his first big
hit in 1951 on Columbia Records with "If You've Got
the Money (I've Got the Time)," a penultimate
honky-tonk anthem. The lyrics point out, "If you've
got the money, honey, I've got the time...we'll go
honky-tonking and we're gonna have a time. Bring
along your Cadillac, leave my old wreck behind...."
It was written by Frizzell with J. Beck. Kenn
Kingsbury's "Who's Who in Country & Western Music"
sagely comments that Lefty Frizzell "was one of the
great honky-tonk singers of our time."
Al Dexter, because of his 1940s hit "Pistol Packin'
Mamma," would rank in a tie with Frizzell. Back in a
day when the jukebox was much more important than it
is now...back when it was a cultural phenomenon and
the focus of life in any neighborhood...back when I
was just a pumkin' kid...they almost wore out a
jukebox in Sonora, TX, without ever stopping the
endless playing over and over of "Pistol Packin'
Mama." It was a nationwide, or worldwide, hit and
inspite of the fact that Dexter was writing about a
cabaret and I don't think any of those things ever
existed by name in Texas, he thereby ranks as one of
the greatest honky-tonkers of them all.
I really enjoy Waylon Jennings when he's performing
honky-tonk music. One of his very best albums is
"Dreaming My Dreams" released in 1975 and it features
"Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way," "I've Been a
Long Time Leaving (But I'll Be a Long Time Gone)," and
"Bob Wills Is Still the King." All three songs have
that persistent honky-tonk beat that stirs the blood
and drives the soul down the mouth of a long neck
(long necks are as necessary to a honky-tonk as is the
music).
Another album I have that's pure honky-tonk is titled
"Long Star Beer and Bob Wills Music" by Red Steagall
on the old ABC/Dot Records label. Just about every
tune on the album, released in 1976, is excellent
honky-tonk music, including the title tune and "The
Walls of This Old Honky To'nk," "I Saw Your Face in
the Moon," and "Someday You'll Want Me to Want You."
There is a decided flavor in this album not only of
Bob Willis, but Moon Mullican and Floyd Tillman and
all of those other great frequenters and ultimate
performers of smokey dives and crowded honky-tonks
throughout central Texas (does anyone remember Jim I.
Heap?...or perhaps his name was Jim E. Heap; for years
he and his small band played the honky-tonks of
central Texas like everybody's house band).
But the biggest and the best of all of the
honky-tonkers, in my opinion, is, strangely, someone
who'll probably never make the Country Music Hall of
Fame in Nashville..no one hardly remembers him at all
today...he simply didn't live long enough. His name
was Johnny Horton and he was one of those tremendous
artists generated by the "Louisiana Hayride" country
music show performed live every Saturday night in
Shreveport, LA. Yes, the same show that gave artistic
impetus to Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Bob Luman, Hank
Williams, Floyd Crammer, and countless others. In the
50s, it was a stepping stone to the Grand Ole Opry.
But Horton, for one reason and another, was not to
become historically linked to the Opry. Born in
Tyler, TX, on April 3, 1929, Horton was killed in a
car wreck just south of my hometown of Brady, TX, on
Nov. 5, 1960. As I recall, his manager Tillman Frank
was with him at the time; Frank survived to later
manage David Houston to considerable fame.
Horton's first hit was "Honky Tonk Man." He was
later to score a gold record with "Battle of New
Orleans," which crossed over to become a pop hit as
well. The song won a Grammy Award in 1959 for Best
Country and Western Performance. And the author,
Jimmy Driftwood, copped a Grammy Award that year for
Song of the Year. Of course, you may remember Horton
better for singing the title song to the John Wayne
movie "North to Alaska"; that song also became a gold
record in 1960.
In country music, Horton had two top 10 songs in
1958--"When It's Springtime in Alaska" and "Battle of
New Orleans"--and another one in 1960--"North to
Alaska"--and that was literally the gist of his
career...with the exception of a little, now obscure,
crowd-pleaser called "Honky-Tonk Man."
I first heard Johnny Horton when he was on the
"Louisiana Hayride." He was exciting! He had the
same vocal power, in my opinion, that Elvis Presley
(another graduate of the Hayride) had in those days.
And Horton was a crowd-pleaser, too...he knew how to
get the audience shaking and stomping. Realistically,
he might have lacked the sexual attration that Elvis
seemed to have in person regarding women...but at the
particular time in his life, Johnny Horton was equal
to--if not greater than--anyone on the Hayride or
those who had graduated to the Opry with the exception
of perhaps Hank Williams. Proof of this is that it is
not a little feat to leap from Shreveport, LA, to the
sound stages of Hollywood on the strength of one hit
record, as did Johnny Horton.
Horton packed enormous sensual vocal power--and the
beer-fed run and sex-stimulated excitement of all
honky-tonks when he says, "I'm a honky-tonk man...and
I can't seem to stop...I love to give the girls a
whirl to the music of an old jukebox...."
However, there may not be many country music fans
today who remember him. Country artist Sonny James
was, I think, a friend of his. Claude King, famous
for the hit record "Wolverton Mountain," put out an
album titled "I Remember Johnny Horton" back about the
days very few albums were released in stereo. The
album cover has a picture of King, quite a bit
younger, and Horton standing together. On the
linernotes, King says: "To the many, many fans and
friends of Johnny Horton, I hope you will enjoy and
accept this album. He was a true friend, a great
entertainer, and he appreciated you, every one!"
And that's about all that's left of Johnny Horton--a
few people who remember him...all too few, it
seems...and a couple of records, including "Honky-Tonk
Man" that, without question, belongs in the Honky-Tonk
Hall of Fame.
I often wonder: What would have happened if he'd
lived? Would he have been as big as Elvis and Cash
and the others?
- 30 -
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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