A sketch of Claude Hall, 
circa 1976, by Chuck Blore

"MURDER at the Busted Bird Cafe"
by Claude Hall

Chapter 5

I was still answering phone calls and just letting the records seque from one to another without announcing them when Dudley "Dude" Daniels arrived. I felt cold. I found it difficult to think. 

Fortunately, it doesn't take much mental capacity to answer the phone, give your name and the call letters, and say something stupid. I've always been rather
good at saying something stupid. It's a knack many disc jockeys possess. Most don't realize it. The rest deny it.

Dude sat down and took over the phone. That was okay with me. I have no great love for Ma Bell or any of her illegitimate descendants.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," I said.

"You've got to get out of town," said Dude between answering one phone call and another. 

"I'm not leaving town," I said. "I just got here."

"Hell, it's not forever. Just until this mess blows over."

"I was in small markets so long, Dude, I learned to like grits. I'm not going back down just because some nut is spreading a rumor about some nut wanting to denut me." 

He took a deep breath and held it for a moment. 

"Okay," he said. "But I'm not coming to your funeral." 

"Funeral? You said this was Mafia. Whatever happened to concrete shoes? There is no funeral when they tie a rock to you and dump you in the Santa Monica Bay." 

"At least, it might be wise to lay off this Sherbert crap," said Dude.

"No to that, too. We started it, let's finish at least the show with it. And for god's sake have someone check the air conditioner; it's too damned cold in here."

He threw a funny look at me so I figured out after a few seconds that it wasn't any cooler in the studio than usual and that I was suffering from some form of shock. Make that an aftershock just to fit in with the motif of Los Angeles. About time. I'd witnessed a horrible shooting spree last night. And now someone was trying to kill me. Worse, I'd ruined a damned good tie. Come to think of it, it was my only tie.

After the police had finished with me at the Busted Bird the other night, I'd gone out and got drunk and then gone home and got drunker. Coors is my drug of choice and I finished the bottles in the refrigerator at some point during the early hours of the morning. Not too long after waking up, I'd found a tire flat on my pickup; how it had happened, where, I don't know. My drug of choice quickly became aspirin.

About the only thing I know about cars is how to change a tire; however, I'd rather not. I called the triple A and let them do it. They said 40 minutes. Turned out that was the time it took them to get to my apartment. It only took the guy about 10 minutes to change the tire and he'd just finished when that secretary from the Society for Critical Studies called. I told her I was already late for work. She said her research was more important than my job. I told her I didn't much care and hung up and had a couple of beers for breakfast then took a short nap. Then, Sorrowful Jones and Davidson, though I hadn't known their names at the time, if that really is their names, showed up at my apartment with a warrant of some kind and you can't hang up on one of those, so I went with them. 

Because I only do one on-air shift a week and weekends are a whole different game on most radio stations, I pull six hours on the air instead of the usual three or four. A young lawyer named John Alexander moonlights on the shift after me until Sunday morning. 

I did a couple of other shots on the air about Sherbert. Nothing important.

Dude spent quite a while talking in low tones on one particular phone call. 

"That wasn't your basic 13-year-old," I remarked when he finally switched to another call. He did not, however, volunteer any information and since I was busy slapping carts into the carousel, I forgot about it.

He gave me a sheepish grin and went right into another phone shtick, only he was saying: "This is the Buddy Coffee show on K-Oldies. What can we do for you?"

Right after Sherbert's "Dead Meat Suzy" cut, I motioned to Dude for silence, opened the mike, and went live. 

"I understand the Mafia--you know, one of those idiots with a broken nose--has put out a contract on me. Was it something I said? Or something I might have seen last night at the Busted Bird Cafe? 

Strange, isn't it? Sherbert gets killed and now the Mafia wants to knock me off. And if the Mafia doesn't do it, maybe the FCC will for saying some of the things I've said on this afternoon's Buddy Coffee
show. You know who the FCC is; the Federal Communications Commission,  otherwise known as the Fucking Crap Commission. They sort of keep a bird's-eye view on us guys in radio to see that we don't get too far out of hand. They might think I've been trying to stir you listeners up. And, I'll admit it right now. That's precisely what I've been doing. Now I want to stir up those creeps who killed Sherbert last night at the Busted Bird. Yeah, I saw the whole thing. And I can identify the three creeps who did it." 

I hit the button for a record called "Ruby Tuesday" by the Rolling Stones. 

Dude stared at me for a moment. Then wagged his head back and forth. 

"Put this ship on auto pilot," said Dude with a weary tone in his voice, "and let's get the hell out of here."

"What about...."

"I'll call him," said Dude.

I set the computer back to regular programming and a few minutes later we left the station in a dog trot, the door locking automatically behind us. It's one thing to be brave when you're only talking to a microphone. It's entirely different when you know that someone could be heading for the radio station. Someone with a slightly crooked nose. Someone with an automatic pistol. Dude had his Chevy Blazer in the station's parking lot. But I had no plans to come back to the station until Tuesday morning, so I leaped into my beat-up old Ford pickup. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the key for a while and after finally finding the key, I couldn't find the ignition. I knew it had to be there, but began to suspect that someone had hid it on me.

Dude got out of his Blazer and came around and opened my door. 

"Forget it," he said.

"Might as well," I said.

I got in Dude's Blazer and we drove up La Brea to Sunset and east. 

A few minutes later, both of us were hiding behind a couple of beers in a dark booth at Martoni's. 

Dude had called the lawyer and told him to take the day off with pay...that the radio was on automation until the morning team showed up.

Martoni's is one of the better-known watering holes in the music and radio industries. Some people might argue that they're just one industry. I don't know about that. But Martoni's, located in Hollywood, is definitely the melting pot, no pun intended, of the business.

It has become a legend among its habitants. And, since its inhabitants are a migratory crowd between one ocean and another, people in the business know about Al & Dick's in New York City and they know about Martoni's. Johnny Magnus, once a radio personality at KMPC, had a reserved seat at the end of the bar for several years. J.J. Johnson, like a habit, used to have lunch every day in this very booth. Tom Clay, a famous Top 40 radio personality in markets ranging from Buffalo to New York City, once tended bar here between radio jobs. Few people in the business remember Tom; he's the guy who created history, however nebulous, by crawling up on a billboard on top of a building in downtown Buffalo to do his radio show. He fouled up traffic for several hours.

If you want to meet anyone in radio or the music business, they will probably show up at Martoni's sometime during the day. And everybody knows everyone in this business who is anybody or thinks they might be some day. 

However, Saturday afternoon is a dead time at Martoni's and it's even worse at this time of day on Saturday. But that suited me fine. I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I was afraid I might stutter. Worse: whine.

It took a couple of beers to warm me up. After that, boredom established lockjaw on the afternoon. Dude is a great guy, but he only knows radio. I don't think he'd know a basketball from a football. He doesn't chase girls. He claims that's because he's married. That kind of thing never stopped too many other men in radio. He's different. He even reads books. I have to because I take a college course now and then. He reads books because he likes to. And he has absolutely no knowledge of what's going on in the real world; he listens to the news, but doesn't hear the news, he's listening to how it's presented. One of his happiest moments in his life was when he met Bill Drake, alias Phil Yarborough, and they talked radio until some bar closed. Bill has been known to chase women. That's the only difference between Dude and Bill.

Dude and I talked radio until we wore that out and it didn't take long. I know quite a lot about the history of radio; he knows more than God about radio programming; the two subjects don't overlap and don't even mix very well. Those who were in radio during the so-called "Golden Age" think radio died when Fred Allen moved his Alley to the tube. Others think radio died when Bill Drake came up with the "more music" concept and eliminated a great deal of disc jockey chatter. Others think Lee Abrams stuck a wooden stake in what was left. Dude doesn't know any of that stuff; he wants to talk about the psychology of seguing or why you should back announce rather than intro the record. So, our conversation about radio went into detour real quick.

There's a story about Bill Drake and Ron Jacobs, then program director of KHJ in Los Angeles, arguing three days about whether to run an ID jingle that said "KHJ 93" or "93 KHJ." Not a whole lot of people would have bothered worrying about it. Even Dude would have only spent a couple of days on it. 

I told Dude once again about the Busted Bird experience until there wasn't anything left to say; after I've told a story like that a few times it gets dull in the telling. To me, anyway. 

And I told him about being questioned earlier this morning at the Society for Critical Studies. 

"What the hell kind of organization is that?"

"How should I know? Two dodos and a woman in a room in the San Fernando Valley. They seemed to wonder if I was involved in some kind of terrorist activity."

"Are you?"

"Not so far as I know. At least, not yet."

And that ended that portion of conversation. I honestly don't think he'd care if I was a member of the SLA as long as I found the right records for him to play that would help the ratings at K-Oldies. 

He took out a transistor radio and held it to his ear.

"The station's still on," he said. 

"Glad to hear that," I said. "I was worried."

"You sound good."

"It's a show I did about a week ago."

"Should have back announced that McCartney cut," said Dude.

"Now you tell me." 

When C.W. Meaux came in, I was almost glad to see him. He came over. There was a rumor that the feds were hunting C.W. on some kind of porno charge. In the record industry, that only made him more popular. At one time, the record industry had class. Jack Stapp, Steve Shores, Jack Knapp. But they're all gone. So was C.W., come to think of it.

"God, C.W. What are you doing in town? They run out of soul food down in Houston?" 

"Got me a new hit, Buddy. Have you and Dude listened to it yet?"

I glanced at Dude.

"Guess not, C.W.," I said. "You know that K-Oldies doesn't play that many new records. The record companies sometimes ignore us." 

"I would appreciate feedback on this one, Buddy.  Even though it's known from here to Mexia, Texas, that you've got the worse ear in radio." 

"If I had a good ear, C.W., I'd be producing records and getting rich like you and Snuffy Garrett." 

"Poor old Snuffy. Took his millions off to Phoenix and opened up an art gallery?"

"Ancient history," I said. 

A distant look flashed in C.W.'s eyes. "Just think of all of the records I could produce if I had a million." 

"The way he got his millions, C.W., was by producing hits," Dude pointed out. "Jerry Lewis and the Playboys, Bobby Vee, Tanya Tucker, Cher." 

"Well, I'm back in the game with this new one. I'll have the record company messenger you over a copy Monday, Buddy. And I'll call you on Tuesday." 

I shook my head.

"Monday's my day off, C.W. Call me Wednesday."

"And, Buddy, if you don't play this record, I want my Cadillac back." He winked at Dude. 

"The blue one or the silver one?" I  asked. 

"Keep the blue one. It's stolen anyway," said C.W. with a laugh.

"That wouldn't surprise me," I said.

He headed for the bar. The program director of an FM rocker was standing there. C.W. was working hard. 

"I hope it's a hit," I said, watching C.W. plug his record.

"He could use one. How long's it been?"

"Four or five centuries. Remember Sonlow & the Starbursts?"

"That's why I wanted you with me," said Dude. "Who in the hell else would remember something as esoteric as that?"

"Barry Hansen, alias Dr. Demento. Probably even has a copy of the damned thing. Do you know he even has a copy of 'Toolpusher From Snyder' by Slim Willet and knows the lyrics?" 

"That's why I tried to hire at least seven or eight music directors before I gave up and called you. Who in the hell else would remember something that no one really cares about?" 

He cut off his transistor and put it in his shirt pocket.

"I've got to go," he said. "You okay?"

"No."

"Call Jo."

"She'll probably never talk to me again. Not only did I forget our date the other night--mostly because the police hung me up for an hour or so with their questions -- but I hung up on her during my show earlier today." 

"Forget the Mafia. I'd run like hell. She'll kill you." 

"I was busy!"

"Busy is not a valid excuse where a woman is concerned. Anyway, why don't you run down to Escondido for a few days?"

"Not interested."

"An uncle of mine has a motel and cafe down on the Buchanan Lake in Texas. Says the fishing's great right now." 

"I've never fished in my life," I said. 

"How about if I get the station to spring for a tradeout in Acapulco. Two tickets. Take Jo with you."

"No, Dude."

"Don't you know good music directors are hard to fine?" 

"Maybe you can get Dave Sholin to come back to LA." 

He stood up. For a moment, he just stood there. Both of us were looking at C.W. C.W. was even working his record country. The guy standing at the end of the bar was a disc jockey on one of the area country music stations. C.W. had him collared.

"You're a real horse's ass, you know that?" 

"Go on home, will you?"

After he left, I had a couple of more beers.  However, I switched to Elephants. Martoni's became the watering hole of the business by catering to its customers. Freddie DiSippio, a huge black bartender who listens only to the local religious music station and thinks all rock jocks are stealing money from the public, will keep anything on stock that you want as long as he doesn't have to drink it. He keeps a quart of milk in the chest for himself. He has a couple of six packs of Elephants iced bitter cold just in case I walk in.

An Elephant will knock the hell out of any brain cells you've got. A few minutes after I chug-a-lugged one and began sipping at another one, I became extra brave or ambitious or something. C.W. had deserted the country disc jockey and was on one of the telephones, but Martoni's has other phones. 

I couldn't find the Society for Critical Studies listed in the phone book and information didn't have it either. 

When I returned to my booth, Jo was there.

"I just knew you'd be here," she said. Her tone was accusative. Almost threatening. Even her long blonde hair seemed angry, especially when she tossed her head. She tosses her head a lot because she thinks it looks cute. It does. 

"How could you know something like that? Don't you listen to K-Oldies? I'm on the air right now."

She pointed a finger at her wrist watch. "Your shift ended 15 minutes ago."

"You should have heard it. I was great," I said. 

"Had to be on tape. You're drunk."

"Actually, I'm still on Memorex this very second," I said. "Until dawn. Doing a great show. And I'm not very drunk."

"I've been trying to reach you all day," she said. 

"Why didn't you call yesterday?" 

"I was mad. You're the first guy that ever stood me up, you know that? I haven't the slightest idea why I'm sitting here right now even talking to you." 

"All you groupies fall for disc jockeys.  It's a well-known fact." 

"I am not one of your groupies," she said angrily. "I'm a goddamned fucking rock star!" 

"Whups," I said.

She suddenly realized what she'd said.

"I didn't mean it that way!" 

"Would you like an Elephant?" I asked.

"Just how long have you been here?"

"Since I told the Mafia to go to hell."

She didn't believe me.

"Oh, sure," she said. "You certainly didn't tell the Elephants to go to hell."

"I've only had one. And two Coors. That is not enough to make a person drunk." 

I lifted two fingers. Freddie quickly brought two more Elephants.

"Are you going to tell me what happened Thursday night or am I going to have to walk out of here and wonder the rest of my life if it was something I said or something I did or...."

"Nothing like that, Jo. You're the sweetest little rocker I know. The only little rocker I know. And you really are a fucking star. I think my bed has developed a hernia, for god's sake. But didn't you read about the Busted Bird?"

"It's sad. Yes. Dope or something, I heard." 

"I was there," I said. 

"But everybody was killed!" 

"Almost," I said.

"Jesus!" she said.

"Everybody always says that," I said.

(To be continued)

e-mail  claude@claudehallonline.com

Commentary
by Claude Hall

June 9, 2003

I could be wrong about my facts here, but I believe that Gary Allyn, gsallyn@adelphia.net, was hired by George Wilson back in the heyday of Top 40 radio about five times and fired about six times.  From Gary: "First, let me join all those who have responded to your new column. It's like Vox Jox for the 21st century. It's a welcome addition to radio pros and others who need a commonsense and heartfelt approach when writing about the profession we all chose and love. It's not so much about 're-living the past', as it is a comparison tool with which to place 50-plus years of broadcasting in a proper perspective. Radio people both past and present should benefit greatly by your well-constructed thoughts about our business. Keep the flame burning! As one who has had the pleasure of working with many of the legendary talents in this business, I loved the remembrance about Frank Ward. I, too, was one who worked for Frank at WSAI in Cincinnati. His 'Tallness' had one drawback for those of us who were 'height challenged', however.  Frank decided to have us all stand and use a Lavaliere microphone to do our shows. He had the turntables raised for ease of cueing, etc., while we stood. The problem was that the height of the turntables were raised to accommodate Frank's 6' 5" height. In my case, the turntable was nearly eye level!  Frank was right, though. You thought better and your voice sounded better while standing rather than sitting.

Frank Ward, Tom Clay, Sid Knight, Hap Hopkins and others were from the 'Buffalo School' of jocks who were soft voiced but featured super-tight production. They sizzled with professionalism. They proved that you didn't have to scream and yell to have an exciting and well-produced radio station. Frank Ward, one of the greats. Jocks today could learn much from this man. I can't wait to read your next column, Claude.

Radio people today can learn much if they read each and every one."

In a previous column, I wondered if Ted Atkins was still alive and one guy said no and another said yes and that he was living in Florida and gave me an e-mail address and I wrote Ted, kruzers@msn.com, and heard back: "The report of my demise is greatly exaggerated. I'm alive and kicking in Pittsburgh where I've been retired for over 10 years. Married to the lovely Karen and just moved into a new townhouse in the eastern suburbs.  Two step-grandchildren that we adore.  We travel a lot and just returned from a two-week Caribbean cruise. We've done five cruises in the last four years, including the Panama Canal and Hawaii. We visit Karen's son in Florida frequently so maybe that's where that came from.  Don't miss radio at all. It's changed so much with consolidation and syndication I feel like a dinosaur. Listen mostly to talk radio (Limbaugh, whom I met when I co-owned the stations in Sacramento 15 years ago, and other conservatives). I don't stay in touch too much with the old radio gang except for Mark Elliott in California and O'Brien and Garry from my WTAE days.

Enjoy puttering around the house and yard. Watch a lot of movies, Fox News and CSI. Surf the net and watch the market daily. What the hell have you been up to and where are you? Would love an update. I don't think I know Larry Shannon. Refresh my memory. I heard of Morgan and Steele passing a couple of years back.

Really a shame. What ever happened to Paul Drew?  Great to hear from you and have a great day." 

Jack Hayes, jack@talkradioi.com, a radio consultant in Marina del Rey, CA, was one of those who thought Ted had "passed away in 2001.  In  Pittsburgh.  I've been writing a book about the people who've been important to me in one way or another during my career in broadcasting.  Here's a rough draft of what I've written so far about my good friend Don MacKinnon. 

Many have called him the greatest disk jockey in history.  I had the pleasure of working with Don at KEWB, San Francisco, and later at KFWB in Hollywood.

We lived next door to each other in Malibu during the LA days.  He was brilliant!  Planned thoroughly and was totally prepared--he always sounded like the most spontaneous jock in the world.  I used to stand in the news studio and watch him work.  An incredible opportunity to see a true genius in action.  As brilliant as Don was, he was tormented by self-doubt and terrible insecurities.  He was on the air during our weekly jock meetings.  The door was  always closed and nobody ever interrupted...except Don.  Meetings were frequently turned to chaos when  Don would take a long strip of paper out of the UPI printer and pass an eight or ten-foot note under the door asking, 'ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT ME IN THERE?'  PD Don French used  to drive him nuts by saying quietly, "I  know a joke" when he'd see Don in the hallway.  MacKinnon ALWAYS wrote down every joke he ever heard and if you knew one and wouldn't tell him, it made him batty!  Because he drank, Don wasn't  allowed to carry much cash--but he did have a Standard Oil credit card.  Countless five-dollar charges were from trips to the gas station in French's car where MacKinnon would charge five dollars worth of gas in exchange for a joke.  Don and his wife, Esther lived in an apartment overlooking the beach on the water at 22766 Pacific Coast Hiway in Malibu.  I lived in the apartment next to them.  They were terrific places.  The water came right up under the building at high tide and our balconies, over the water, were great places for cocktails.  One late night we were fairly drunk and looking out to sea and Don, who'd been in the Navy (ours) during the Korean War, saw a light blinking an SOS.  I suggested we call the authorities--but Don got a huge lantern out of a closet and began blinking the light back at the source of the SOS.  It was dark and very still on the water and after many minutes of blinking back and forth (I figured Don knew Morse code, but later found out that he didn't know a lick) we could see three young guys paddling for dear life while hanging on to a small sailboat that had overturned.   Again I suggested calling the Coast Guard--but Don said 'NO' and continued blinking.  After almost half an hour the three guys were close enough to hear and a voice came out of the sea asking, 'Where are we?'  Don leaned over the railing, cupped his hands around his lips and yelled back, 'A-mer-i-ca'. 

Before San Francisco and Los Angeles, Don was under contract to Howard Tullis who owned  910AM in San Diego.  Don was doing the morning show but desperately wanted out of his deal because he'd been offered bigger and better jobs elsewhere.  The 910 station wasn't even in San Diego as it was licensed to El Cajon, CA and that's where the studios were located. 

MacKinnon tried time and again to get Tullis to let him out of his contract.

Tullis recognized that he had a genius working for him, said no, and insisted Don continue to show up for work.  Don tried many ways to get out of the deal but Tullis demurred. One morning Don laid down on the floor in front of the controls in an attempt to fake a heart attack.  The record ended--and the audience was treated to the swishing sound as the needle rode the groove round and round. The newsman, working in another room, needed a cart and came into the control room, stepped across Don's body and picked a cart out of the rack, stepped back across Don's body and on the way out the door said, 'Good morning, Don!' The audience heard another ten or fifteen seconds of silence till Don figured out the ploy wouldn't work and he got up and went on with the show.  A few days later a very frustrated MacKinnon called Tullis from home and told Howard that if he didn't let him out of his contract he would jump off the roof of his house.

Tullis said, 'go ahead--but be on the air in the morning'.  A short time later Don called Tullis again--this time from the roof of his house where he'd taken a telephone.  When, again, Don threatened to jump if he wasn't let out of his contract, Tullis answered the threat the same as before, 'go ahead and jump but you better be on the air in the morning'. Don jumped!  It was a single-story ranch style house--the edge of the roof was, maybe eight or nine feet off the ground and the telephone cord wasn't long enough to go higher.  After getting a broken ankle treated at the local hospital, Don showed up for work the next morning--as scheduled."

From Colin D. Kennedy in Gananoque, Ontario, ckennedy9@cogeco.ca: "Thanks for including me in the e-mail news. I was an operator  at  CKLW from 1966 to 1969. Ted Atkins was one of my PDs and as I have been keeping in touch with the old jocks (we have a bit of a reunion in Florida each January) I have Ted's e-mail address. It is kruzers@msn.com and Ted was well when I last spoke to him in February.  There is a great website for CKLW but I am not sure of the access address. Jack Deker, jj@workbench.net, could give it to you."

Okay, now for a Ted Atkins story.  When I took over the radio-TV programming section of Billboard magazine, it was probably read by an elephant in Sioux City, IA, and a small monkey in Alabama and that's about it.  Cashbox was the major publication in radio, mostly because of its charts, and maybe Bill Gavin's Gavin Report right behind that.  Ted Atkins was programming a radio station in San Francisco and I met him somewhere and we were discussing my problem and I said I needed a fall guy.  Ted volunteered.  So, just about every Vox Jox that I wrote, I would mention Ted Atkins.  These were mostly zingers.  The readership grew and as the readership grew, just about everyone knew the name of Ted Atkins.  Probably not too kindly. 

I can't remember any of the zingers now, but I would assume that none of them featured praise or compliments of any sort.  Then one day I met Ted someplace and he was really pissed.  At me.  And I soon discovered why.  Those zingers.  He'd obviously been getting peer pressure and had come to resent them.  I reminded him that he'd agreed to be a "victim" for me.  And he said it was time to stop zinging and I did.  But I think a lot of the popularity of Vox Jox was created, if indirectly, by Ted Atkins.  At least in those first few years.  I don't know if I ever apologized to Ted.  If not, I do so now.  And I don't know if I ever thanked Ted.  If not, Ted, I thank you and just want you to know that I have forever been grateful.

I think Ted actually forgave me quite a long time ago because he invited my wife Barbara and I to a party one evening at his then home high in the hills of Los Angeles.  I remember the party only because a record producer and Ted and I were standing on the deck looking down at the city lights of the evening and the record producer--maybe Freddie Mancuso--said you could tell when you had a hit record because Columbia Records answered your phone calls.  The song was, as I recall, "It Never Rains in Southern California."  Was Al Hammond the artist?  Been too many years for me to remember.

From George Wilson, KeokiWC@aol.com:  "I have ClaudeHallOnline.com on the top of my favorite places...you are the best...only one I know in your/our business with no agenda...just the love of the people and the love for the 'old' radio game and the old record business...good lord what fun it was...interesting to see some of these people trying to make it a mind-boggling difficult experience...Blore must have had a great laugh over the past few years ...ha ha...best to you and Barbara...your friend, Wilson." 

Lord!  Frank Ward, Ted Atkins, George Wilson, Gary Allyn, the others.  What great memories!  What great radio men! 

e-mail  claude@claudehallonline.com