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"Xtreme"
Chapter nine of a novel
by Claude Hall
A bright sun beam crawled over distant mountains,
raced between the branches of an eucalyptus tree and
crashed across her face and finally woke her up after
a night of fitful, uncomfortable sleep. She was so
stiff she could barely move. She shook her hands and
arms to get the blood flowing again. The blanket
hadn't daunted the night's damp ocean breeze. She was
chilled to the bone.
But she crawled weakly from her little MG and looked
around. Up the street some distance, as she
remembered, was a cafe that specialized in breakfast.
She walked to the cafe and ordered a plate of
scrambled eggs, coffee, toast, ham at the counter. A
waitress fetched her coffee right away. Good coffee,
dark and strong. She sipped at the coffee, which was
almost too hot, and tried to conceive of some plan for
the rest of her life. But her thoughts were too
muddled. It was Sunday; perhaps people are not
supposed to think on Sunday. Of course, they could
still get killed on a Sunday if they weren't careful.
The waitress, half asleep, said, no, she didn't know
where the closest gun store would be and, anyway, it
probably wouldn't be open on a Sunday. She suggested
driving up to Santa Barbara just up Highway 101 a few
miles.
Once she reached her car, Susan started up the coast.
But she no longer hunted for a gun store. The beaches
of California teem with life. All kinds of people
from up and down the coast and from inland. And
recreation is the main goal. Especially on a Sunday.
There are beaches for surfing and beaches for just
sitting on a blanket and having a beer and watching
waves. Even a nude beath if you knew where to look.
Susan found a beach, still deserted at this time of
the morning and ran a couple of miles on the
hard-packed sand near the water. She ran hard. By
the time she finished her run, she was sweating
profusely and realized that she needed to wash off.
But the ocean was too chilly this time of year without
a wetsuit like those worn by the surfers. She dried
off with the edge of her blanket and then got in her
car and began to search.
She found a scuba-diving store open in Santa Barbara
and, yes, they had a good knife for sale. "K-Bar,"
said the clerk. "But I hope you aren't planning to go
after any shark."
She assured him that she was merely seeking a gift for
a friend who enjoyed camping out. "I'm scared of
sharks," she said.
She also bought a whetstone. Later, she honed the
blades of the three knives that she'd purchased to a
razor edge. But first, she drove further up coast to
Pismo Beach and had a bowl of clam chowder in the
Splash where the soup can be provided in a sourdough
bread bowl if you wished...and she did, indeed, wish.
She followed the soup with a small order of steamers.
In the Splash, you ordered at a counter and gave them
your name and then found a table or a spot at a
counter in the funky little restaurant and a few
moments later someone came through with your order and
yelled your name to find you. She'd been here before.
It was one of her favorite restaurants in the world,
as was the Pierside Restaurant, outdoors, down by the
fishing pier.
She had not thrown a knife in years. Truth was, she
had never been good and only able to manage a half
turn with any sense of accuracy or ability to drive
the point home in a target. But she found an old
board in a scrap bin at a gasoline station and on her
way back to Los Angeles stopped and practiced out of
view in a wooded area along a side road. Only then,
when she began to feel comfortable about defending
herself in some manner, albeit weakly, did she start
the drive home.
She took Highway 126 south of Ventura over to
Interstate 5 and stopped at the gun range north of
Valencia. She told the guy at the gun range she was
hunting for an HCX.
"Never heard of anything like that," he said, shaking
his head.
"I'm willing to pay one hundred," she said.
He looked around to see if anyone could hear them.
"You a masochist?"
"No. I just need to vent some anger as well as some
frustration. HCX is the best way I know."
He nodded.
"Might cost you more than that for a quarterhour and I
don't know of any cheapie deals."
"That's fine," she said.
The HCX facility was in a house about five miles from
the gun range. An ordinary house with a car parked in
the driveway and a kid playing on the front lawn with
a dog.
He was an ex-Marine dressed in a blue jumpsuit who'd
served in the special forces and he charged a hundred
and fifty dollars. The room was in the rear of the
house and it had obviously been a family room before
Charlie, that's what he called himself, modified it.
"Pads everywhere," he said. "Soundproof. Designed
well for extreme hard contact. Myself and a couple of
friends have a lot of fun here from time to time. The
first of the month. Secret. You in shape?"
"Yes. Pretty good."
"I'll need you to sign a form. A non-guilt thing."
"Okay."
He handed her a blue jumpsuit that was a couple of
sizes too large and she changed in a bedroom, then
signed the form and gave him the money.
"I hope I don't hurt you," she said.
"Same here," he said, and caught the cloth of her
jumpsuit at the shoulders and flung her against the
wall.
The impact knocked the breath from her. But she knew
she didn't have much time in which to recover. A
second. Maybe half that long. As soon as she fell
against the padded floor, she rolled to the right and
bounced back to her feet and assumed a defensive
stance. She was almost too late.
No fists were thrown, but it was okay to throw bodies
and he reached for her to toss her against the wall
again, but she was ready now and stepped to the side
and shoved him forward then kicked him in the back to
augment his forward motion. He hit the padded wall
and literally rebounded like a cat, pure reflex.
In an instant, he was on the attack again and this
time jumped at her with both feet. When his feet
landed in the pit of her stomach, she recoiled from
the blow, already spinning away and grabbing his shirt
sleeve and using her own spinning motion to fling him
off balance. She followed this with another kick. It
was attack and defend without pause, without mercy.
Not a second to waste thinking. This form of combat
was pure instinct. You thought of yourself as a ball
being bounced and bouncing back.
In fifteen minutes of hard vicious fighting, almost to
the second, he stopped.
"You were quite good. You workout like this often?"
"Not since college," she admitted. She was pleased
that he was also breathing a little hard. She herself
was very winded. Because of the daily running, she
was recovering fast. But he'd given her a hard
workout.
"Not a lot of people into HCX," he said.
"Picked it up from an old judo expert. He couldn't
participate anymore, but he taught some friends of his
daughter how to protect themselves. And his daughter,
of course."
"You're the daughter?"
"Yes," she said.
"This is a male chauvinist comment. Please don't take
it amiss. You're the first woman who has been able to
handle fifteen minutes. Not all men do. And I'm
talking about some pretty good people."
She thanked him, changed, and left before he could see
all of the damage.
Hurting in almost every bone in her body, she drove
home to her apartment in the San Fernando Valley. She
arrived late in the afternoon, just as the sun dropped
out of the San Fernando Valley and the shadows of
towering eucalyptus trees fell rampant between the
hedges and the apartments.
She placed one of the knives beneath the driver's seat
of her little sports car, still in its scabbard, but
handle first. Another, she fastened the scabbard onto
the belt of her jeans. The last, she placed in her
floppy purse.
Maud was there in her apartment.
"Let me explain," she said quickly, rising from the
couch where she'd been reading. "My son's a perfect
ass sometimes and a pain in the ass the other times,
but he's the only son I've got."
She placed the book down gently onto the couch. Susan
walked over and picked it up. Sabine Baring-Gould.
"The Tragedy of the Five Caesars." She placed it back
on the couch, just as gently. Her clothes had been
collected from the couch and stacked neatly on the
coffeetable.
"You do that?"
Susan walked over and sat down as carefully as she
could on the couch.
"Probably, it was my son," Maud said. "He has a
neatest fetish. I would surmise that he washed and
dried everything first."
"How did you get in?" Susan asked.
"My son Bill knows a lot of tricks with locks. He
learned them as a kid from his father who was also a
pain in the ass. Like father, like son. Some of the
time. But not all of the time. I'm sorry."
"Not your fault," said Susan.
"I've often wondered about that," said Maud. "To some
extent, we help create the worlds in which we live.
We are sort of responsible for who we are and what we
are. It's just a theory, though. No proof."
"That's a rare books store, Mind's Eye?"
Maud glanced into a notebook she took from her purse.
"A book by Sabine Baring-Gould is worth $600. Yes.
That book by Sabine Baring-Gould on the couch, a very
popular writer more than a hundred years ago, is worth
quite a bit of money. To a collector. Or to an actor
or movie director who has suddenly made it rich and
wants to impress people he or she invites to their
house in Beverly Hills or Bel Air. Same for recording
artists and record company executives. Not many. But
some. It's not the selling of books that matters to
the Mind's Eye. It's the not selling of books. And
now and then you raise the price. If an interior
decorator wants some books for a client, you try to
discover what the clients does and what they want to
be and attempt to customize the books for their tastes
or their would-be tastes or who they wish to impress.
Sometimes, you talk to the client themselves and it's
a lot easier. I generally deal in shelves, not in a
book per se. That's why some books aren't for sale.
They go with a set."
"What does your son have to do with the book store?"
"Nothing. That is, very little. I plan to give the
store to him when I retire. But he probably won't
take it. He has his own life, his own passions. They
don't include books, I'm afraid."
"What a pity," Susan said.
"Yes. I think so myself."
"I came very close to killing your son last night."
"He told me about the gun."
"This was after he took the gun away. I still may
kill him if he messes with me again," Susan said.
"Somehow," said Maud with a slight grin, "I find it
difficult to believe that you've killed many people so
far in your life."
"True," said Susan, "but don't think for a moment that
I can't. Or that I won't, if I have to. I think I'm
entirely capable of murder on occasion."
Maud's face grew dark.
"He didn't try to rape you or something like that, did
he?"
Susan could tell as Maud asked the question that it
was a very difficult question to ask for her and the
woman wouldn't have believed any answer that indicated
her son was guilty.
"No. But no one pushes me around. Ever. It's the
way I was brought up."
"Yes, he is quite pushy lately. I've noticed it
myself. He didn't used to be that way. I haven't the
slightest idea why he has changed these past few
weeks. Very pushy."
"I've got a couple of beers in the icebox," Susan
said. "Would you like one?"
"Guess so," said Maud. "though, quite frankly, I'm
more into wine."
"Don't have any wine," said Susan, "and even the beer
may be petrified by now. It's been in the icebox for
months. I've been drinking a lot of orange juice
these days."
It took her a while to climb off the couch and Maud
noticed the slowness of her movements. Susan told her
that she'd stumbled earlier and hurt her leg.
There was no beer left and after a discussion, Maud
settled for a cup of tea. Susan poured herself a
glass of orange juice. The carton was almost empty.
She'd have to get some more in the morning.
"My health kick," Susan said, toasting Maud with her
cup. "How long have you been here?"
"Since my son called and ordered me to come over.
Around noon."
"Pushy.
"Very pushy. He evidently spent the night here on the
couch. I think he was worried about you."
"Definitely pushy," said Susan.
"Tell me, Susan. Do you have any idea why anyone
would want to kill you?"
"After much thought," Susan answered, "I don't think
they actually wanted to kill me. Probably, they just
wanted to frighten me. That is, if the person
shooting at me was a professional. A professional
might have missed once. Not twice. So, logically,
the shots were just to scare me."
"And if the person firing the shots was an amateur?"
"That presents an entirely different scenario," Susan
said.
"No wonder you spent the night with a friend," she
said.
"A friend? I spent the night sleeping in my car at
some damned beach!" Susan said tartly. "Frightened
half out of my skull."
"Oh, you poor thing!"
"I'm not scared now," Susan said. She said it,
however, with enormous anger. So much for the calming
aspects of HCX.
Her obvious anger caused Maud to flinch; when she did
respond, it was in a different tone of voice. Sort of
distant and plaintive as if trying to calm her.
"Do you know the person? What have you done, for
god's sake?" Maud's voice rose in both volume and
intensity. "Is it this Dabney Stone character my son
told me about?"
"No," said Susan. Almost, for a moment, she thought
about telling Maud about Dabney Stone. Then she
decided the real truth about Dabney Stone was still
useful and not to be revealed yet. "Someone else.
Not Dabney Stone."
"If you'll tell me whom you suspect, I might be able
to help," Maud said.
"A bookstore owner?"
"One hell of a bookstore owner," Maud said, finishing
her tea. She sat the cup down and rose.
"No, thanks," said Susan.
She came close to hugging the woman at the door and
she thought Maud was also reaching out slightly. But
Susan decided that perhaps it was best they not get
too friendly under the circumstances.
She let Maud out and locked the door of the apartment
and dragged the coffee table against the door. On the
coffee table, she placed several glasses from a
kitchen cabinet. Someone tried to open the door, the
glasses would fall with enough noise to waken her.
She slept that night with one of the knives on the
bedside stand by her phone. Strangely enough, she was
not disturbed and slept very well. But, of course,
that may have been because she'd unplugged the
telephone the instant Maud had walked out of the
apartment.
In the morning, just about dawn, she ran through the
streets of Tarzana thinking sometimes about Edgar Rice
Burroughs who once lived here, but mostly about the
record business. It was a very fascinating business.
George Albert, who founded Cashbox magazine, recalled
when the record business was an odd business and very
small and catch as catch can. He remembered as a
record salesman renting a vacant store front, setting
up some benches, and bringing in his phonograph and
playing records for those that gathered. They bought
what they liked. Then he would load his unsold
records and his phonograph back into his car and move
on down the line to another vacant store in another
town.
The record, as we know it today, was invented in 1887
by Emile Berliner, a German immigrant. True, Thomas
Edison had invented a cylinder phonograph that
operated via spring which you cranked up. She'd heard
one once. Berliner, however, invented a disk player
and called it a gramophone which permitted records to
be stamped out like pancakes. Edison sued for patent
infringement, but the court decided in favor of
Berliner. However, Berliner was ruined financially
because of the lawsuits and a guy named Eldridge
Johnson acquired his Berliner Gramophone Co. and
renamed it the Victor Talking Machine Co., today known
as RCA Records. Berliner later established one of the
first recording companies in the world--Deutsche
Grammophon Gesellschaft.
The first record star? Enrico Caruso, who agreed to
cut a record around 1902 even though most singers
looked down on the new invention.
But the record industry was mishmash for many years
even though it was the record that actually saved
radio when it virtually died in the 1950s after the
advent and success of television. Radio stations
became persona non grata and you could buy one at a
fairly reasonable price. Who wanted to listen to
Fibber McGee and Molly on radio when you could see
them on television? True, many radio stations had
already moved to a music format. It all happened when
WNEW in New York City was broadcasting a court trial
live and the phone line went dead between the radio
station and the courtroom and Martin Block at the
radio station improvised and filled in the gap with
recorded music, claiming that it was an orchestra
broadcasting from a "make believe ballroom." The
program director of the radio station, a woman named
Bernice Judas, soon had the radio station featuring
music and news all of the time, thus becoming the
world's first format radio station. Block was not the
first radio person to play a record on the air. But
he's known as the first real disc jockey. Soon, the
United States was full of disc jockeys, including Alan
Freed, Bill Randle, Howard Miller, Frank Ward, Jack
the Bellboy, Arnie Ginsberg, Peter Potter, Al Jarvis.
Most walked into the studio each day with their
personal stack of records and played these and went
home or out to perform a record hop.
Then, along came a young guy named Todd Storz who
convinced his father, owner of a brewery, to buy KOWH,
a daytime radio station in Omaha, Nebraska. He hired
a program director named Bill Stewart who'd worked for
a while for Gordon McLendon, another radio legend
under his radio nom de plume of the Old Scotsman when
he recreated baseball games on a nationwide network.
In Omaha was born the factors that became known as the
Top 40 format. Bill Stewart once told her that he and
Todd Storz were sitting in a bar on 15th Street in
Omaha and the jukebox was playing the same song over
and over. They talked radio four or five hours and at
midnight the owner was "giving us motions like we were
supposed to leave" when the waitress went over and put
her own quarter into the jukebox and played that same
song over again three times in a row. "That sort of
tripped a lot of...well, it was in both our minds. I
don't know whether you could say that Todd literally
discovered Top 40 or whether I did or whether someone
in the company did. I don't know."
But the result, of course, was the discovery one way
or another of rotating the hits so that the most
popular records were heard more often. A year or so
earlier, Stewart had come up with the idea of a closed
playlist. Disc jockeys were no longer allowed to
bring their own records to the station; they had to
play the records selected by the program director or a
music director. Before this, a disc jockey often
played the version of the record that someone paid him
to play, i.e., payola.
The concept of a closed playlist and a rotation
pattern featuring the most popular records spread
coast-to-coast like wildfire and then around the
world. Gordon McLendon at KLIF emphasized the news a
little better and created some of the great promotion
stunts of all time. You had disc jockeys riding
rollercoasters to set records, sitting on top of
flagpoles, in Buffalo Tom Clay crawled up on a
billboard and did his show from there until the police
forced him down. Later, KLIF dumped hundreds of
balloons from a high hotel window onto the streets of
downtown Dallas, blocking traffic for hours.
Listeners found a balloon with the number one on it,
they could bring it to the radio station and receive a
dollar. Same with balloons featuring 10 or more. And
$10 or $50 went a lot further in the fifties. The
oft-repeated "Millionaire" promotion of a man giving
away his fortune on a street corner was also
McLendon's brainchild.
It was said of Todd Storz and Gordon McLendon that
they were geniuses and rightly belonged in the Hall of
Fame of the National Association of Broadcasters when
they were placed there, Todd long after his death at
age 29. But radio people knew that it was Bill
Stewart, who'd worked as national program director for
one and then the other, who took the wild ideas of the
two men and put them into practical operation.
A very gentle soul named Chuck Blore had added a show
business aspect to radio when he programmed KFWB in
Los Angeles. Chuck now owned an advertising
production firm in downtown Hollywood. But
programming veterans still remembered with a laugh his
adaptation of Orson Welles' "War of the Worlds" as a
promotion stunt that upset Los Angeles and created
panic. Blore interrupted the news for a bulletin
about a giant amoebae being sighted. College kids
picked up on the stunt and reported the amoebae's
meanderings. Someone said the National Guard was en
route to the location of the latest sighting. Police
and fire department switchboards, and switchboards at
other radio stations, were blown out as the public
phoned to find out what was going on. There was some
panic.
Such promotion stunts as Stewart's balloon drop and
Blore's "Formula 96" and "Amoebae" were now against
the law.
As radio began its comeback from the death throes
created by television, another factor helped--the
creation of the 45 rpm record by RCA Records.
Columbia Records countered with its invention of the
album. But then both record companies and record
companies around the world were producing both singles
and albums. Now, stereo records were a major factor
but stereo was mostly in the album area. One of
Susan's greatest treasures was an early stereo album
featuring Louis Armstrong on the Audio Fidelity
Records label. Audio Fidelity produced and marketed
the first real stereo records although reel-to-reel
tapes had existed previously. Now Columbia Records
and RCA Records were at war again. This over two
different quadrasonic sound systems. She'd heard the
Doobie Brothers in four-channel, quadrasonic, and the
song had blown her away.
After her run, she showered quickly and dried, downed
her usual glass of orange juice, and prepared to go to
work.
As she reached her car, the telephone began to ring.
A few cars away, one of her neighbors scowled at her
because of the noise. She didn't know him. Like in
New York City, you just didn't know your neighbors.
Nor want to know most of them. Los Angeles and New
York City were full of oddballs and freaks. Where
she'd grown up in Brady, Texas, you knew everyone and
more than likely they knew you. And your parents.
Good people for the most part.
Only one person had her car telephone number, so far
as she knew. Bill Ferguson. She let it ring. It
would stop for a moment, then ring again. Finally,
she placed her Mexican blanket over it to dampen the
sound.
Today was Monday. As a rule, this was her stiffest
work day. Most program directors, literally chained
to their radio stations across the nation on this day,
would take time to talk with someone they knew that
was, as Jack Thayer used to say, "On your side." Jack
Thayer, she'd first met when he was general manager of
KXOA, a middle-of-the-road music station in
Sacramento, California. He'd just hired a disc jockey
named Don Imus out of a California desert community
called Palmdale. They'd become friends. Later, Jack
had invited her to the wedding of his daughter. And
she'd gotten to know Don Imus pretty well, too. Among
the formats in radio, MOR was probably the most
successful as far as profit was concerned, especially
under a general manager such as Jack Thayer or Harvey
Glascock. Other viable formats included, in addition
to Top 40 and MOR, country music and rhythm and blues.
R. Peter Strauss, because he wanted to improve his
political chances, had launched a two-way talk format
on WMCA, once a Top 40 station renown for radio disc
jockeys such as Gary Stevens and Dan Daniel, but no
one expected him to succeed with it.
There were a few other formats, of course, but by and
large they didn't make much money, if any, and they
seldom were dominant in their markets, formats such as
classical music and jazz. If you didn't reach the
program directors of the world today, tomorrow would
be tough because that was the day the various trade
magazines arrived and the program director and the
music director of the radio station sat down with what
they considered "relevant information" and made a
decision about the playlist of the radio station for
the coming week. The new playlist would go into
effect on Wednesday, as a rule, and it included
information from the charts of the trade publications
and the record sales information that the music
director had garnered during the past few days by
telephoning local record stores. In addition, they
would add anywhere from one to five new records onto
the bottom of the playlist. These new records were
played for audience reaction. If airplay generated
any sales requests in local record stores, the record
might be added officially to the playlist the next
week. Movement up the radio station's playlist would
then depend on sales and listener requests. If the
record received a lot of listener and sales attention,
it was reported to the weekly trade publications and
if they received enough such reports, it was added to
the trade's chart and might eventually become a hit
record because, once a record made the chart, other
radio stations in larger markets would began to play
it and track it. "Flowers on the Wall" by the Statler
Brothers and many other records started out small and
became million-selling records. In fact, Columbia
Records was promoting the other side the of the
record, but a promotion man in Kansas City convinced a
country music station to give "Flowers on the Wall" a
chance and it became big in country music and went on
to become a giant in the pop music field.
Her drive to the office was uneventful. She kept
expecting bullets. There were no bullets fired her
direction so far as she knew and when she arrived at
her office, she was surprised and pleased to be still
alive.
Thus, she was somewhat cheery as she said hello to
Tammy and went into her office. It has to be a nice
day if one doesn't get killed.
She sat her purse down on the floor beside her desk,
rolled a new sheet of typing paper into her IBM
Correcting Selectric, and started work on the column
Segway. The news releases about job changes, along
with notes she'd taken down from countless telephone
calls, were in a cardboard box she kept under her
desk. She typed the column from these, working fairly
rapidly, not really paying much attention to the
information, until she noted that Bob Pittman was
going to head up a new television operation called
MTV. Bob had been a program director of a radio
station in the outskirts of Pittsburgh when she first
got to know him. They'd talked once perhaps on the
phone. She was pleased for him. He was extremely
bright. Had a great future ahead. Guys like Jack
McCoy, a great radio program director, scared her a
little. Too bright. When she did an interview with
Jack, she had to tape it and play it back later so she
could understand everything he was saying. Not so
with Bob. Bob was clear and comprehensive and
understood all of the problems with writing a good
story.
She worked on the column for at least a couple of
hours, answering the phone now and then. More than
one person phoned just to say that he was writing her
a letter and wanted her to know that it was en route.
A couple of people called to ask if she had received
their letter yet.
After a couple of hours of intense boredom, she
stopped writing on the column and phoned Pat O'Day,
general manager of KJR in Seattle, to say hello.
There were several program directors around the
country who seemed to know what was going on all of
the time, didn't matter where. These included Bill
Young, program director of KILT in Houston, Michael
Spears at KFRC in San Francisco, Stan Kaplan, general
manager of WAYS in Charlotte, NC; Dale Andrews,
program director of WCBM in Baltimore. One by one,
she phoned them in the next hour or so and from these
got several tips regarding possible stories in radio.
A couple of these, she checked out and got a pretty
good story about an all-request format radio station
in Hartford, CT.
She didn't stop for lunch, though she did some
stretching exercises over by the couch before going
back to work. After she'd written a couple of
stories, including an interview over the phone with
Stan Kaplan, one of the most colorful men in radio,
she went back to the Segway column and continued
piecing it together. One day she checked a couple of
issues of the magazines and roughly determined that at
50 words per column inch, she'd written the equivalent
of "Gone With the Wind" about twice a year on just
column items alone.
Because she'd worked on a newspaper for several months
before heading for New York City, she was very
productive. By the end of the day, she had more than
enough copy for her section of the Songdust News. If
a good solid news story came her way tomorrow or even
Wednesday, she could handle it without any problem.
But, in effect, her section was done.
She was stiff and very fatigued when she climbed out
her of chair. Obviously, she hadn't quite recovered
yet from yesterday's hard contact exercise.
It was already 6 p.m. according to her wristwatch.
She picked up her purse and started out of the office
and he was waiting there, sitting in a chair against
the wall by her office door.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
May 3, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
Nine hundred billion dollars was spent on war this
past year and only 60 billion dollars on ending
proverty, according to the World Bank as reported
April 25, 2004, on CNN Headline News. My argument is
that if the nine hundred billion dollars had been
spent solving poverty, there might have been no war.
Evidently, the president of the World Bank believes
the same.
At the present time, we have no president. Just a mad
dog. If we ever have a president again, I would hope
that he--or she--is compassionate...that he or she has
looked in the direction of the poor of America and of
the world and seen them. And feels empathy for them.
And does something about them. The problem with the
conservatives in office at the moment is that they lie
without compunction. Bush tells people the economy is
doing fine when more than eight million people are
without work. He talks about "creating jobs," but
forgets to mention that the jobs were in India at
slave wages. He talks about hunting "evil ones," when
the truth is that American soldiers are killing more
women and children than "insurgents." Just FYI, CNN
calls them "insurgents," but the Iraqis and the rest
of the Middle East countries call them "freedom
fighters."
Tuesday, April 27, 2004--More than 40 Iraqi freedom
fighters were reported killed in battle in Iraq. But
there was no blood. CNN Headline News is a comicbook.
People die, they show no rotting bodies. There is
absolutely nothing bad shown. An American soldier who
has lost an arm or a leg? Forget it; never happened,
GI! Either reporters are no longer allowed to show
the real horrors of war (i.e., the government is
controlling information and feels you might be turned
off on war by the scenes) or the reporters were too
damned afraid to get close to the action. Those
coffins on TV a week ago. Hell, they were draped with
flags. I wonder what the flap would have been if
someone had opened the caskets and filmed the body
parts? Mother, your boy is coming home in pieces,
don't you know! And in reality no flag can hide
reality. Nor excuse it. Steve Warren's "Links" just
featured some pictures you'll never see on TV. Body
by the road, gory, rotting, flies. Iraqi. Another, a
small boy in dried blood; a shoe had been knocked off.
These pix had evidently been taken by an American
soldier and sneaked to some website. The Dixie Chicks
once got cruxified by American radio for saying they
were ashame of our president. I'm ashamed of us all.
Now, I've just learned that the FBI is investigating
websites that don't conform (Yahoo homepage, Apr. 28,
2004).
Later Tuesday, April 27, 2004--American forces shell
an area of Fallujah in Iraq with 105s and a 20 mm
canon from two gunships. From on high. In the dark.
Shelling lasts half an hour or more. On the ground,
they are long dead. The shelling continues. Isn't it
a pity that Bush has never had to grab dirt as 105s
scream overhead? Not very pleasant. And on the
ground, all the freedom fighters have against this
monsterous firepower is an AK-47 and a handful of
bullets and maybe a grenade launcher. It was an
unjustified war from the start and it is not exactly a
fair war now. And we continue to slaughter them like
cows in a barnyard and we continue to wound and maim.
Men, women, children. The shelling goes on. Houses
fall. Gene pools are destroyed.
Meanwhile, the disease that G.W. Bush has let loose
spreads. Several people, including three Americans,
were killed in a series of attacks apparently
targeting Westerners in the Saudi Red Sea port town of
Yanbu, The British, American, Australian and Saudi
nationals were killed in a "horrific attack," which
came close on the heels of a car bombing that killed
five people and wounded 145 in the capital Riyadh.
The Bible says the meek shall inherit the earth, but I
think the translator fouled up; he meant the stupid.
Because the American public would have to be stupid to
continue to put up with what Bush is doing! He has
placed the world--and especially America--in a hellofa
mess!
OTHER MATTERS
Last week, I wrote about radio needing its gurus.
Larry Scott,
blossom@airmail.net: "You couldn't be
more right. Radio does need some of the oldtimers. I
have been off the air since Dec. 13, l999. We have a
small trucking company and I have traveled the
country. I have searched and searched for something
to satisfy my radio appetite. For the most part it
AIN'T there. I spent my career, as you know, in
country music, but I like good radio regardless of the
music format or news format. I want to listen to
someone who knows how to communicate and cares about
the folks listening. I thank God I grew up in an era
of professionals and professionals with pride. That
inspired me to want to be a part of this business.
Claude, I'm really gonna surprise you. One of my
announcer heroes was Milton Cross. I listened on
Saturday afternoons to The Metropolitan Opera on ABC.
Milton Cross would describe what was happening on
stage. I didn't understand it, but Milton Cross was so
professional that he grabbed this little ol' country
boy's attention. I've been doing a weekly show for
six years called SINGIN' AND SWINGIN' WITH LARRY.
We're only on 30 stations, but I'm having fun that way
we used to. Send me your address and I'll send you a
few copies. Claude, thanks for being a friend to all
of us that really care about radio."
Randy Kabrich,
randy@kabrich.com: "While I don't
disagree with your premise, Rick Dees was supposedly
doing months of his show from his Horse Farm in
Kentucky via ISDN and much of the show in Los Angeles
never had him showing up on time, though his staff was
well equiped with drops from him to cover it up. Call
me old fashioned, but pay me eight figures a year and
at least I will show up for work."
My premise in last week's diatribe, Randy, that that
too many older radio men and women have been turned
out to pasture. I mentioned Rick Dees' leaving KIIS
in Los Angeles as an example. Well, perhaps at least
one radio personality was already out to pasture. But
perhaps others, in some cases, shouldn't be
"pasturized" just yet. Thanks for the note, though.
And I value your opinion.
James Rose,
rosekkkj@earthlink.net, Houston: "THANK
YOU, CLAUDE, not only for sending your latest summary
on the state of RADIO VETS and RADIO as it is TODAY,
but your unapologetic defense of us who literally took
RADIO into being! One of the MAJOR things that I saw
bringing RADIO down was the gradual downplaying of
the DJ as being a star treatment. This has been
keenly observed by listeners. We became being
considered a dime a bushel. 'Leave your name and
number at the door! NEXT!' I got out of RADIO a
couple of times in the past 40 years because of what
appeared to be the beginnings of a downward slope in
the direction of RADIO! Missed RADIO so much...just
could not stay away! The last time I came back to
RADIO was in the early 90s. RADIO had begun a fast
slope away from its listeners to a moribund stagnation
of simply reading silly flip cards over and over!
Yes, DJs DO need some type of flip cards to fall back
on but NOT dominate! These flip cards were more
protected in their rotation that the TUNES put on the
air! The new breed of RADIO broadcaster that I saw in
action is brought up using flip cards and simply
concentrates on performing the readings well over and
over. Nothing about communicating or the artists and
music played! Evermore the observer, I grilled one
young DJ, in particular, who was relatively new to
RADIO. This guy was very exuberant but had no
experience elsewhere. I asked him what he thought
about the recent change in music format at the
station. The mix had begun including older material
that just a few months prior had been tossed aside.
This person DID NOT know what I was talking about! I
said nothing more. This just confirmed my
observations. CDs and carts are fantastic for easing
DJs duties and helping to make smoother transitions.
45s and LPs had information about WHO WROTE the
melodies and the recording labels. This helped keep us
DJs a little more in touch with the music we aired!
Another flip card reader at the same station and
similar credentials, with NO enthusiasm, thought
'paying your dues' meant something like being on air
at a different time in an emergency and was very
adament that she had 'paid her dues'! This person
could not function being on the air all day long in a
tiny RADIO STATION in the boondocks, rippin' and
readin' your own news while on the air as a DJ, having
to ad-lib from newspapers most of your commercials and
no cart machines! The list goes on and on about what
we vets performed with glee, knowing full well we
would eventually 'make it!' We 'paid our dues' in the
real sense learning literally from the ground up how
to function as a broadcaster! I treasure those days!
This taught respect for one another and the facilities
offered. BUT, I saw the makings of total disrespect
for fine equipment and resources by young DJs who had
NOT worked in small stations with very limited gear
fighting to move up and out, to 'make it' in the big
league! It made me wonder what RADIO was becoming and
where was it headed? Around 30 or so of the RADIO
broadcasters who are presently nominated for inclusion
in the TEXAS RADIO HALL of FAME I have had the proud
opportunity to work with and for in the last 40 years!
Some nominees are beyond any doubt true HALL of
FAMERS! In 1997, guess, in frustration, I got out of
RADIO for good! Leaping back in RADIO again being
appreciated for what was learned over four decades
would be a dream come true. But, observing what is
going on, that is not likely."
Warren Cosford,
blademaster0@hotmail.com: "Your
Editorial on Radio Vets certainly hit home. But I'm
not sure there's an answer to The Issue. Five years
after my last Regular Radio Job of 'fixing' Radio Four
Windsor I finally decided it was time to find
something else to do. I had just completed what I
considered one of my greatest successes after almost
40 years of Radio...and yet I didn't have a Job. The
key seemed to be that...in Markets where there were
once 5 GMs, Consolidation had cut it to 2. So...I
gave it some thought, did some Research and settled on
Trucking for 4 reasons: - Never have to worry about
finding a job providing I did the job well. - I love
travelling. - I get to take The Kids along. - I get
to listen to Radio everywhere in North America. It's
now 15 months later. It's a tough life. The hours
are long. And it doesn't pay as well as
'fixing" Radio did. But I've met nothing but Great
People in the Industry. More than a few, like me,
from Careers that had also experienced downsizing. Of
course, like any other Job, you've got to make it work
for you. I not only now have a few more Favorite
Radio Stations, I also have a bunch more Favourite
Restaurants. My attitude is...I get paid to go
camping. And take 3 seasons of clothes with me
wherever I go. Recently I quit my job for a few
weeks...or maybe a month or so...to watch The Toronto
Maple Leafs win the Stanley Cup. When I'm ready to go
back, there are lots of jobs. How many careers have
that kind of flexibility? I can afford to do it
because I don't spend much money yet have quite a few
Tax Deductions. Do I miss Radio? Not really. I
created success in my last three Radio Jobs in spite
of the people I worked for. It's hard. Particularly
after so many wonderful years working for J. Robert
Wood at CHUM. I suspect many of the people you wrote
about in your Editorial feel the same way I do and had
many of the same experiences. Once you've been to The
Mountaintop, its pretty hard slogging your way through
The Swamp. Cheers."
Gary Allyn Hempstead,
gallyn@adelphia.net: "First,
thank you for the name mention. To see my name in
print with the likes of George Wilson, Jim Gabbert,
Ron Jacobs, et al; is flattering indeed. I think the
words 'Sage' & 'Genius' attached to early radio format
and program pioneers is a bit over the top. Most of us
were just at the right station at the right time with
the right format. Many of us were given some free
reign to be creative at an opportune place and time.
God Bless Ken Palmer, Jack Roth and Larry Shushan,
among others, for that courage. The courage to let us
produce--on the air--our convictions. Today's
corporatization of Radio doesn't understand that
courage, conviction, and freedom. It's all about
acquisition and capitalization. Acquiring more,
raising more capital for more investment. CEO's and
stockholders are the big winners. Employees and
listeners are the big losers! Supposing most of the
newspapers in this country were owned by just 5-7
corporate entities? There would be a great hue and cry
sent up across the land--mainly from congress and the
courts--as at least being monopolistic, repleat with
anti-trust violations. Millions already doubt the
fairness of the major networks' control of news and
opinion in this country. Now that Radio has become
amalgamized, can newspapers be far behind? Or, is
that the 'One World Order' we hear about? It's a
sleazy,slimey, & slippery rope we're using to hang
ourselves with in my view. These new breed of
corporate wizards seem to care little of the past
while damning our future. There is little hope of
those with this type of mentality to ever hire or ask
the advice of those who have successfully rode the
airwaves in prior times. The end result to these Radio
Rogues is not good product or programming, but how
much are they worth on Wallstreet. It's Radio ego
taken to a higher level. This new corporate mindset
surely believes that Nuryev or Fred Astaire could not
teach one to dance; John Wooden can no longer teach
basketball; Vince Lombardi is of no value to football,
Einstein's theories are no longer valid; Beethoven nor
Ellington could not advise on scoring great music. To
those of us who sit in bemused bewilderment at the
dimming of the Radio 'bulb' from the vantage point of
other pursuits than which we were intended,
collectively sigh and mutter: 'A Radio mind is a
terrible thing to waste'. All the best, my friend."
Jay Rudko, jrudko@webtv.net:
"Localization of radio
WAS an advantage...until companies like Clear
Channel, Infinity, and Cox changed all that.
Deregulation took a once-vibrant, exciting medium,
where stations in each area competed for advertising
dollars and listeners alike, and turned it into a
bunch of same-sounding, cookie-cutter stations. And
since these companies owned several stations in the
market, who are they competing against? Themselves?
What's wrong with this picture??? I believe in
satellite radio. I subscribe to Sirius, and haven't
listened to local radio in my car since installing it
over a year ago. The programming is better, there's
always something I want to hear, and I can count on
them to also give me traffic and weather for my area
MORE FREQUENTLY than the local stations! The music
channels are completely devoid of commercials. The
news and entertainment channels offer a variety of
viewpoints not found on local radio. Before
deregulation, South Florida was a great radio market.
Now, well, I have Sirius. 'Nuff said."
Joey Reynolds, G1boney@aol.com:
"Thought you might be
interested in the thoughts of Barry Bergman who
discovered Meatloaf and AC/DC in the 70s; he is also
head of an organization that has gone before Congress
to secure royalties for recording artists from high
tech, he is a friend since the 60s and represents an
on-line Canadian group that sells products, concert
tickets, CDs, for artists who are 'brands', like Buddy
Holly. You guys should talk. Charles Warner (former
gm WNBC, AOL VP) is another example of a 70-year-old
who stays on top of the changes, he has a blogg and is
on line with his take on life, he has plenty to say.
In the NY Post today on page 6 they write of new
documentary film on sex over 60. PBS is whoring
itself this week with a Yoga fundraiser called 'for
the rest of us', these are all signs as Yogi Berra
says 'it ain't over til it's over'. The
most-disrespected audience in history 'r us."
Joey often forwards my stuff to his contacts, for
which I'm grateful. Thus, this: Barry Bergman,
barrybergman@earthlink.net: "The media reflects the
culture. Careers and industries are forever going
through change. In every industry you will have new
people replacing older people. It will always be the
few special ones that manage to exist during the
evolution. Nothing stays the same forever. The sages
of today are the pioneers behind XM, Sirius and all
the new internet and wireless formats coming into
being. The sages Claude refers to are today's
incumbents and have already done their thing. It's
time for many of them to move on with their lives and
accept that we are living in a new and different world
today. I can go on for hours about this topic,
however, it comes down to learning how to let go and
moving on gracefully. There's an old saying: 'Let go,
let God'. Everyone's path is different and nothing
lasts forever. People will always bitch and moan
trying to hold on to what they had instead of growing
personally and moving into the next phase of their
lives. We should welcome the next challenge facing us
and not be afraid of it."
Jack Forsythe,
jachitz@comcast.net: "How are you? I'm
not sure you'll even remember me it's been so
long...but when I was MD at 13Q we spoke often in
those four years. After 13Q I worked with Joel Denver
at 96X Miami then V97 Jacksonville before going to
Record World then Chrysalis. I always appreciated
your support through those years, all these things are
gone or something else now. I went back to school for
Chemistry and instead of collecting Gold Records, I
develop and work on patents for Bayer now. How are
you? I hope this finds you well."
I don't do phone, but I do respond to most emails. I
told Jack that I was very pleased to hear from him and
surprised that he remembered me. The proverbial trade
publication, as we knew it, is fading by the wayside.
Soon, all may be gone. Or maybe one will survive and
be a combination of website and hardcopy. Hard to
predict. Two websites I would hope hang around for
years to come:
www.radiodailynews.com and
www.allaboutcountry.com.
There are many websites
about, of course, but these two seem to be general
enough, though Bill Hennes focuses on country music,
and both seem to have staying power. For the moment,
however, there is me. Hanging on. Fighting fiercely.
A watchdog at a watering hole.
John Alexander Hall,
Johnalexhall@hotmail.com: "Well,
I read your weekly column. First off, I agree with
you that no one in PHISH is as good as Jerry Garcia.
On the other hand, the musicians in PHISH are not
exactly chopped liver. They have been playing
together for years and are clearly talented. Besides
the lack of Jerry Garcia, the only other items that
makes the GRATEFUL DEAD superior to PHISH are the
beautiful lyrics from Robert Hunter. PHISH has had
some excellent music in their songs, but none of the
lyrics of any PHISH song is the equal of 'Friend of
the Devil'."
Now and then one of my sons (they all think they know
more about music than I do) brings something home and
introduces me to it. This time, Andy, my youngest
son, suggested that I might listen to this CD by a
friend of his, a fellow slam poet named Dom Flemons,
jackdelannan@hotmail.com. The CD is called "Six
String Standards." You listen to a CD like this, you
regain faith in music. It's just Flemons, guitar,
harmonica. I have always loved the blues. Flemons
knows the blues. Andy said he also knows the entire
catalog of Phil Ochs and I think he said Bob Dylan.
Best cut: "Cause If I Stay With You All Night"
written by Flemons. But he does well on his "Where
Has She Gone?" Also enjoyed "Stumbling In," a guitar
instrumental. The CD seems self-produced, but the
astonishing talent and dedication of Dom Flemons
shines. My very best wishes to you, Dom. You're very
talented. Treasure it. Protect it.
Jay Blackburn,
radiojdb@satx.rr.com: "We got home
last night at 9pm. We had been in aluminum tubes and
various airports for almost 28 hours. Wheeuuw! I've
some hurting parts. Chance, of course, admitted no
such thing. That Girl! Italy was wonderful as always.
Pompeii still fills me with awe. Walking in the
footsteps of ancient Romans. It reminds me that humans
haven't changed much in 2,000 years. The Amalfi Coast
is still beautiful and Rome inspiring. Beauty
everywhere. The Italian people do not hate us. I
expected they would. They do, however, hate our
policies and our leaders. One of the first things I
did this morning was read the commentary. Let's put
together an old guys conference? That might be
interesting. You think? Did you finish Hill Country?"
"Hill Country," set around Mason, is done. Now
working on a novel set in Brady. This one is going to
be tough to write. But I've already written a couple
of thousand words, so maybe it's a go. ¿Quien sabe?
Roads
Down at the end of the road
Where no one can go but me
I'll pause for a while and ponder
Where I've been and why
What I've done and if
These things were worth the doing
Many have been this way and gone
Though I've yet to go and see
What lies at the end of nowhere
Was this path for such as me?
Yet I'm grateful for the gift
And I'm glad I've done the going
We come this way but once
Just why remains great mystery
Though I've often stopped to wonder
About earth, stars, sky and sea
I'm left with still the question
The direction of the roaming
c.hall (2004)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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