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"Xtreme"
Chapter Fourteen of a novel
by Claude Hall
She did not, of course, want to interview George
Green. She had met him only once or twice, but he
appeared to be the most boring person on the planet,
always talking about knowing wine and knowing cooking
and she, quite frankly, wouldn't have eaten a hotdog
that he'd cooked. Somehow, the idea of cooking a
soufflé with snails didn't sound very appetizing to
her. But she suspected that, like many people in
Hollywood, he talked a better game than he played and
would fade away before he drank a glass of mescal with
a catapiller in it or ate some blazing sonofagun at a
place she knew in Lubbock.
Once, Bobby and Karen Velline had invited her to their
home for a cookout. Bob had grilled some huge
porkchops out on the back porch of their home in Bel
Air just down the street from the home of Ed Asner,
the actor on "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," and within
view of the home on the high hill of Wilt Chamberlain.
Their children, Tommy, Jeff, Rob, and Jenny ran
around the yard chasing a dog. The porkchops were
some of the best she'd ever had and the evening had
been pleasant and Bob played her a couple of
tracks--"Back at the End of the Line" and "I've Been
Following You Halfway Down the Road"--from an album
that he planned to release under his real name of
Robert Thomas Velline. His attempt to change his
image from the legendary Bobby Vee and "Take Good Care
of My Baby" eventually failed. He went back to being
Bobby Vee and was still a sellout in fairs in the
mid-United States and almost a god in England,
Australia, and elsewhere. But Bobby Vee was a real
person who knew real people and then, people such as
Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice and Paul McCartney,
knew him.
She knew radio. It was from Bobby that she learned
some of the realities of being a singer. Dressing
rooms from coast to coast either didn't exist or they
needed dusting and a good sweeping job. And often the
man who'd hired you tried to shortchange you when it
came to paying. Regardless, once you stepped out on
stage you were responsible for an entertaining show,
didn't matter if you had a virus or if one of your
children had the measles at home. Didn't matter if
your hotel room was crummy. Didn't matter if your van
had a flat.
Being around Bobby, Gary Owens, Dan Ingram, Neil
Diamond, Olivia Newton-John, and quite a few others
was easy. They seemed to be ordinary people with
ultra-ordinary talent. Dan Ingram, a popular radio
personality in New York City, made exceptional amounts
of money also from doing voiceovers in the radio and
television commercials world. Once, he'd earned
$34,000 for just four words; no, he wasn't paid by the
word, but by how many times the commercial was aired
on television. But if you were hanging out or just
shooting the bull with one of these people, you'd
never guess how really talented they were.
The problem with George Green is that he told you he
was talented. And after meeting him a couple of
times, Susan came to believe that he was exaggerating.
So, now she was being forced to interview someone for
whom she had absolutely no respect and, worse, she had
to make him look good. Or at least human. She could
do it, of course. All it took was craftsmanship. No
inspiration required.
She'd picked up some of her interviewing skills from
Sig Sakowicz, who billed himself as the Polish Prince
and was perhaps one of the best in the world at
interviewing people. He'd not only made a living
interviewing people for WGN, Chicago, when all he had
was two half-hour programs each week, but had become
rather famous. Especially with guys such as Frank
Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, Harry Belafonte, and
Frankie Laine.
Essentially, an interview should flow with an answer
leading to the next question. You shouldn't cut the
person off or interrupt. And you should never accuse
or take an accusative tone. The major types of
interview were the general interview where you tried
to be informal, friendly, conversational. The probing
style of interview was more formal; you searched for
specific facts and/or reactions from the person being
interviewed and the old cliché "when did you stop
beating your wife" question was your main weapon.
Yes, the person being interviewed is kept off balance
as a rule and you may get lucky and find out something
not previously known. But she found that particular
technique unprofessional and seldom stooped to use it.
Essentially, there is not much difference between an
interview for a trade magazine article and an
interview for a consumer magazine article or even a
book. For a consumer magazine such as People or
Cosmopolitan, you might want a few more details
regarding the personal life of the person. On the
other hand, for a trade magazine you might want more
details on the business or the company or the
organization. What the person, in particular, has
achieved should, more than likely, be the major focus
of either article.
However, the basic techniques, the methodologies of
doing an interview, were not too different. The only
things that changed were the people you interview.
First, there's the executive type...busy,
allergic/fearful (he or she may have been pressed into
the interview by the public relations department),
unable to express their thoughts clearly for print or
otherwise and who thinks you understand what he or she
is talking about and avoids explaining
Then there was the creative "other worldly" person
who, literally, is unable to express themselves in
common language, if they can communicate at all.
Frank Zappa was a good example. She had interviewed
him once and still didn't understand what he said that
day.
Her worse interviews were with scientifically-oriented
people who spoke jargon that had to be translated for
readers. Program director Jack McCoy was one of
these. And Lou Dorren, the engineer and scientist,
was more fond of L-minus-R than English. She fared a
little better with people outside the industry who did
not--nor needed to--relate to the music industry; her
difficulty was in relating these outside "facts" to
the radio and music business.
Her biggest problem was with the fakes. Bert Sugarman
surrounded himself with good people, but always seemed
like a used-car salesman to her, which he'd been at
one point. And Artie Kornfeld, in her opinion,
survived on shuck and jive in spite of the fact that
he was one of the four people behind the legendary
Woodstock.
Fortunately, of course, you had a lot of normal people
willing to give you time and courtesy, and seemed to
know what they're talking about and were willing to
help you produce a good story.
She had once interviewed Murray the K Kaufman, the
legendary fifth Beatle. It turned out to be his last;
he died of cancer not long afterwards. But it was a
great interview and parts of the interview were
printed in a book published by the Museum of
Broadcasting in New York City. She was proud of that.
There were, of course, some factors that were "musts"
for a story based on your interview, such as
background on person or firm and current conditions of
the person, firm, or industry.
None of her training, her general expertise, or
anything else seemed to matter one damned bit with
George Green. He lived in a house that was difficult
to find because the street couldn't make up its mind
where it was at or where it was going, if anywhere.
It was on the mountain that rimmed the south or
southeast side of the San Fernando Valley. Her little
MG had to grind in low gear up the rather steep road
and she had to stop and look at a map of the valley
twice. When she got there, she was nervous about
parking on the street because it was so steep and
drove up and came back and parked with the wheels
pointed at the curb and parking brake pulled up.
Green was waiting in the doorway for her.
"You're late," he said. "I start my work day at 7
a.m."
"I'm not late," Susan said. "I start my work day at
9:30 a.m. When I can. Sometimes, though, I don't get
to the office until 10 a.m. or even 11 a.m. It all
depends on what concert I had to cover the night
before."
She had taken her usual morning run through the
streets of Tarzana and was followed by the now usual
dark car. She waved at the occupant in the dark car,
but the car featured shaded windows and she didn't
know if he responded in any way. She didn't even know
if it was the same person, but probably that didn't
matter much.
"This is suppose to be a major feature story based on
my day, not yours," Green said.
Susan decided not to let him ruffle her feathers. On
the other hand, she was also determined not to let him
get the upper hand. Maybe she would just toss in the
old "when did you..." question.
"Well," she said in mock surprise. "How about that!"
It turned out that Green had no intention of letting
her ask questions. She realized after a while that
he'd planned an entire day and he intended to follow
his plan and she was expected to tag along and take
notes about everything he did. And he meticulously
let her know everything that he was doing.
"I'm going to make a phone call now," Green said. "To
a very important person. The chief operating officer
of Warner Bros. Music Publishing Company."
The chief operating officer of Warner Bros. Music
Publishing Company wasn't in. Green left word with
the person's secretary.
"I'm going to make another very important phone call
now," Green said.
That person wasn't in either.
"Write it down," Green said.
"Write what down?"
"That I made an important phone call at 9:42 a.m."
"To whom?" Susan asked.
"Is that important?"
"Yes," said Susan, pen poised.
"To Stan Gortikov."
"He's in New York City," Susan said.
"Well?"
"That was a local call," Susan said.
"It was not," Green said.
"I'm going to put it down that it was a local call and
you tried to make out that it was a long distance
call," she said primly.
"You're not helping on this story," Green said.
"I'm a reporter," she said. "I just write the facts."
The day went downhill from that point. Of course, in
her opinion the day had started at bottom and never
climbed out.
He then led her on a chase. She insisted on taking
her own car and following his Mercedes-Benz to a
liquor store where Green asked for a certain bottle of
wine that they didn't have. Then he drove to a music
publisher's office where he tried to get a special
rate on a recent hit; the president of the music
publisher said they would think about it. Then, Green
drove to a small out-of-the-way French restaurant
where he talked with the very obliging chef about
cooking. What he was planning to cook, Susan didn't
know. But that was okay, because she didn't care.
Then, back to the home on the hill where Green phoned
a leading recording artist and tried to persuade her
to join a music group he planned to put together to
tour colleges in the spring semester.
When he did the cooking, the odor bothered her. She
made an excuse to visit the ladies room. He didn't
have one. His bathroom was completely male-oriented
even unto the towels which wore a Ritz Hotel brand.
As for lunch, she looked at the plate and made an
excuse about having a virus and took an apple out of
her purse.
"Be sure and mention my car," he said. "It's a
special make Mercedes."
"Do they have specials?"
"I had this one customized," he said.
"How?" she asked.
"I left those details up to the garage," he said.
"All that's important is for your readers to know that
it's a special version of one of the best cars made in
the world."
"Okay," she said.
"Aren't you going to write it down?"
"I have a phenomenal memory," she said.
"I prefer that you write it down," he said.
"My problem is that I always have trouble reading my
notes," she said.
"I expected you to have a tape recorder," he said.
"Not me," she said. "Never touch them."
But, of course, she did use a cassette deck now and
then...especially when doing a story with someone like
Jack McCoy. If you didn't tape Jack and play it back
slowly, you'd never understand a single word. He
spoke clearly, it's just that his language was
extremely erudite and his programming concepts
complex. It was Jack who'd had them bring a folding
cot into KCBQ in San Diego when he took over the radio
station; he announced that he was going to live there
until the radio station was number one in ratings in
the market. And he did.
"What about pictures?" George asked.
"I'm not a photographer," she said.
After lunch, he made several other phone calls. Then
he wanted to visit his tailor.
"You don't need me for that," she said.
"This is a very special tailor," he said. "The best
this side of the Mississippi."
"Nudie's?" she asked.
"Who?"
"Forget it."
So, she followed him in her car to his tailor's and
then back to his home on the hill. More phone calls
to "important people."
The phone rang once. He said it was an important
phone call from an important person.
By the time 5 p.m. came, Susan was more fatigued than
if she worked picking cotton. And she'd done that,
too, once as a teenager because her father thought she
ought to know what it was like. For some reason, he
wanted her to know what it felt like to be a slave.
He'd worked right alongside her because he said he
didn't want to ever forget the lesson himself. She'd
ended that day hurting in every muscle and a
subsequent long, hot bath hadn't eased all of the
pain. Today, her pains were mostly mental. And not
even Camus can take away some of the mental woes that
one endures from time to time. This included George
Green.
Green seem rather disappointed that she was leaving.
"Five o'clock," she said, pointing at her wrist watch.
"But my day isn't over yet. I have a lot of things
yet to do. And I paid $500 for this story."
"Good," she said. So, Lee Brown was picking up a few
bucks on the side by selling features? She wasn't
surprised, but she was disappointed. What a creep!
She drove home, whipped more than she'd ever thought
possible. The only thing worse, she decided, was
picking cotton. The phone rang in her car and as soon
as she entered her apartment the house phone rang.
She paid it no attention. There was no one on the
face of the planet at the moment with whom she wanted
to talk. She was too tired to talk.
After a hot bath in lavender bubble bath, she didn't
feel much better. She found a pair of sweat pants
that only smelled a little and an old sweat shirt that
she loved and hated to throw away in spite of the
holes. She wondered if she had moths around here.
Probably not. It sometimes got very hot in the valley
in the summer. You noticed mosquitoes only where
people watered too much and moths not at all. If she
had them, they were too fast to see and thus it was
okay. Whatever. Things that you didn't notice were
better than things you saw.
Barefooted, she ran and turned on KMET, a local
progressive rock FM radio station that featured Mary
Turner during the day and Jimmy Rabbitt in the
evening. Rabbitt was sort of nuts when it came to
music and he would play an old rock masterpiece by the
Cream featuring Eric Clapton on guitar, Jack Bruce and
Ginger Baker followed by Kitty Wells. The general
manager of the radio station was L. David Moorhead,
once known on the air as Guy Williams and a little bit
nuts himself (he'd produced the first record ever by
Waylon Jennings). Moorhead tried to give the radio
station personalities artistic license when it came to
music as long as they stuck within the parameters of
album cuts that all had voted on as okay. Kitty
Wells, the queen of country music, was not okay.
Moorhead was thinking about firing Rabbitt, so she
wanted to listen to him as much as possible before he
disappeared from the station. Kitty Wells was a
little too far left for the format. On the other
hand, she liked Kitty Wells and thought it a crime
that even country music stations weren't playing her
records. They might promote a local concert and
feature Kitty Wells and her husband Jack Anglin, and
sell the place out, but they didn't play her records
on the air. Something was wrong here. But she'd
realized more than a year ago that she couldn't solve
all of the ills of radio.
While the radio was playing, she went to the
refrigerator and poured herself a glass of orange
juice. Maybe a good sugar fix would help. Make that
a fructose fix.
Rabbitt had been fired before from myriad radio
stations and probably would be fired again. It was
one of the most unredeeming qualities of radio. There
was absolutely no job security. Not for the deejays,
not for the program directors or news directors, and
not even for the general managers. Moorhead, himself,
had been fired more than two dozen times during his
radio career. The son of a Chicago doctor who spent
three weeks a year in Rome as doctor to the pope,
Moorhead had been educated in the better schools. His
brother was a major cancer surgeon. Moorhead,
however, had turned out different. Radio. In a way,
he was a genius; he recalled everything he'd ever
heard. His father could recall everything he'd ever
heard as well as everything he'd ever read. Under the
name Guy Williams, Moorhead had considerable success
in Denver. Also in Tucson, Arizona. At Milwaukee,
he'd programmed WOKY into one of the nation's most
successful radio stations. Later, he worked at KFI
briefly before taking over KMET. He automated the
station except for him own time slot and once the
station became successful, leveraged that into a job
as general manager of WMMS in Cleveland, also owned by
John Kluge's Metromedia. WMMS turned into a
moneymaker. So, Moorhead came back as general manager
of KMET and worked the same magic. He'd once
mentioned to Susan that sixty-seven cents out of every
dollar that came into the station fell to the bottom
line. And John Kluge, one of the world's richest men,
got richer because of KMET, WMMS, WNEW-FM in New York,
and WMMR in Philadelphia.
Yep, there was Kitty Wells on the air at KMET with "It
Wasn't God Who Made Honkytonk Angels." And Rabbitt,
who'd been told not to play the record again, would
soon be hunting around job. Getting fired wasn't
necessarily a stigma in radio. Gary Allyn had been
fired six times by the same program director and hired
back five of those times.
She considered Moorhead one of the best radio men in
the world. But you could forget about him when it
came to his personal life. He'd been married at least
four times of which she was aware and had two kids by
the first wife, another in Milwaukee by his second
wife and now another child by his four wife, the
daughter of the singer Constance Moore. When you
realized that Moorhead probably hadn't been true to
any of his wives, that gave Susan only one idea: Don't
ever get tangled with a person in radio. No way!
And, because of her father, she'd long ago determined
that anyone in the police was out as husband material.
Perhaps she should have paid more attention to that
cute guy back in journalism school. Of course, he was
now on his second wife, she'd heard from a mutual
friend.
Wasn't there one thing in the world anymore that was
permanent?
Nope. Because just then someone knocked on the door
rather loudly. There was a doorbell there. They also
rang that, then knocked again. She was honestly too
tired to see anyone.
"Go away!"
"I will not," said a voice that had to be Bill
Ferguson. No one else she knew projected an
authoritative tone like that with such volume!
"I'm tired," she said.
"I don't care," he said. "Open the door so I can see
if you're okay."
"I'm definitely not okay," she said.
"Proof. I need proof."
"Oh, hell," she said. "Just a moment."
She got up from the couch, took a gulp of orange juice
and sat the glass down on the coffee table before
dragging herself to the front door.
Just to make sure it was Bill, she peeked through the
little hole in the door. The light wasn't that good
out. She couldn't tell if it was him or not.
"How do I know you're who you say you are?" she asked.
"The password is Camus."
"Hell," she said. "I was hoping you didn't know that.
I really am really tired."
She opened the door. It was him, all right. The guy
who needed a haircut, the guy with the mother. And
here she was, dressed like some washed up football
player and feeling like a washed up football player
who'd just been stepped on by Too Tall Jones or Jim
Brown.
She collapsed on her couch.
"You're okay," he said, standing just inside the
doorway as if greatly surprised by the fact.
"I'm not okay." She told him briefly about the
day-long experience with George Green.
"Poor thing," he said.
"I'm not a poor thing," she lashed back with a sudden
burst of energy, "and get out of my face."
"Okay," he said. "In a moment. I just thought I'd
check on you. I called your office and some guy with
a fishy voice wouldn't tell me anything. I mean he
sounded as if something fishy was going on."
"That was the office guppy," she said. "Actually, I
meant to say, the office toady. He's assistant to the
publisher and editor-in-chief Zeus McRae. The guppy
is his toady."
"Didn't seem like a very pleasant person on the
phone," Bill said.
"That's merely because he hasn't been house trained,"
Susan said. "No, that would be a puppy you house
train. I don't know what you do with guppies."
"You had dinner?"
"I'm not leaving this apartment for a year and a
half," she said.
"I'll order in pizza. I know a great place. Numero
Ono."
"They do not delivery."
"For me, they'll deliver," Bill said.
Before she could tell him no, he was ordering a pizza
over her telephone. Then he helped himself to a glass
of orange juice out of her refrigerator and filled her
glass again. She decided right then that he wasn't
just pushy. Had to be another word for this kind of
take-control audacity.
He sat down in the small living room's one and only
easy chair. It wasn't all that comfortable, but he
didn't seem to mind. He rubbed at his chin with his
left hand, then rubbed at his head with his right. He
didn't, however, disturb his hair anymore than it was
already disturbed. It looked like a remnant sale at
the Salvation Army. One of these days, she was going
to tell him about Little Joe's. She'd heard that you
could get a pretty good haircut at Little Joe's.
"Just who is this George Green?" he said.
"A nobody who thinks he's a somebody, but ain't," she
replied. "So he spent a day faking work and I spent a
day following him around and faking notes."
"Why'd you do a story like that? I would have
refused."
"Toady and his boss, Zeus the unmagnificent, insisted.
Either write about Green or turn in my resignation.
Right now, I need the job."
"Get a better job," he suggested.
"Where?" she asked.
"I could talk to my mother."
"Don't you dare!" she said loudly.
He wanted to know more about Zeus and about Toady,
otherwise known as Lee Brown. She told him what
little she knew.
"Zeus is married to a Portuguese washerwoman. That's
what she looks like. He went to some college in the
midwest, I think. Never been successful at anything
until he suddenly was named editor a while back and
then also took on the title of publisher when the
publisher left. As for Lee, he's now married to a
second wife who just may be hungry. Probably puts a
lot of pressure on him to succeed. Wants money.
Wants power. You know the type?"
And she filled in as many details as she could
remember. Lee had been on the magazine staff for a
few years. Never amounted to much until Zeus became
publisher. Now he drove a big wife and owned a big
car. Or was it the other way around?
"Would either of them want to kill your Mojo Man?"
"What for? Figure that one out. And he's not my Mojo
Man. I'd never met him until the other day when I
suddenly found him in my office."
"How'd he get in?"
"Evidently with the telephone repair people who were
there doing something or other. Just walked right in.
As if he knew the place and knew where he was going.
He certainly knew where my office was. I don't know
how he found out unless someone told him. How he got
in the second time, I don't know. Be interesting to
find out. Because I've come to work a few times
lately and found my door unlocked."
"And you generally lock it when you go home?"
"Every time. Guarantee you. Of course, we have maid
service after hours. Don't know how often, though."
He seemed to like the orange juice. He went to get
more.
"Why do you need to know all of these things?"
"Curious," he said. "You want me to rub your feet?"
"No. Why would you want to rub my feet?"
"Helps when you've been standing on your feet all
day."
"I was sitting," she said.
"Forget it," he said. "Rubbing feet is as far as I
go."
"Anyway," she said, "it's my mind that is tired,
tired, tired."
"The pizza should get here any moment. Guarantee that
it will help. And I'm very good at rubbing feet."
"Okay on the feet," she said.
"Okay," he said.
He searched and found a stool. Was that her stool?
She didn't remember. He placed it by the end of the
couch and sat down and began to massage her right foot
with it resting on his knee.
"You do this often?"
"First time," he said.
"You're doing pretty good for a beginner."
"Matter of mind over matter," he said.
The doorbell rang. It was delivered by someone who
looked vaguely familiar. She only caught a glimpse of
him because he handed the pizza to Bill at the door.
But she was so tired! A horse could have delivered
the pizza and she might have thought it was a cow.
The pizza was quite good. Heavy on the tomatoes and
heavy on the cheese.
"You aren't a vegetarian, are you?"
"No, I'm not," said Bill.
"Well, at least that's one thing in your favor. About
the only thing, though."
"Tell me about your uncle."
"Charles Smith?"
"Is that the one who taught you how to shoot?"
"Right. He was a fed. All kinds of plaques on the
wall. Sort of famous. My father was more or less
persona non grata after he became a pacifist. My
uncle was one of those people that men admire. If
they get the chance. He was sort of standoffish in
the worse way. Couldn't tolerate people who couldn't
do the job or were unwilling to give it a try."
"I think I would have liked him," Bill said, finishing
up a slice of pizza.
"Maybe," said Susan, but she was pretty doubtful. Her
uncle could be a real bastard at times. He was
getting on in years now, but still rather much of a
mess when it came to personal relations. Her father
and her uncle were so different, they found it
difficult to talk with each other and generally
didn't.
"The one thing I don't much understand is all of these
things I hear about payola. I've been told the radio
and music industries are rampant with it. What is it?
How's it done?"
"It's a dull and tedious topic," she said.
"I might find it interesting, though."
"First, you'd have to understand that, like everything
else in the world, there's a ying and a yang...or a
salt and a pepper, if you prefer that analogy. At one
level, I firmly believe that payola is justified. At
the opposite end, I think someone should be arrested
and tossed in jail for enough years that everyone on
the face of the earth forgets their name."
"I just want to know about the bad guys," he said.
"But I don't want to talk about the bad guys. I'll
tell you about some of the good guys. Or semi-good
guys. At least the places where payola may have been
okay. Maybe not. But more maybe so than not."
"Okay," he said. "Guess I'll take what I can get."
"Only because you really do a good foot rub," she
said.
"You've had many?"
"That was the first. Probably the last. You don't
run across those things every day, you know. But I
guess the pizza also helped. I'm not quite as tired
as I was a while ago. Swear I'm not. I may even be
able to go to work tomorrow after all. Earlier, I was
actually planning a long vacation somewhere."
"If a radio station gets paid for playing a record,
it's a crime. Right?"
"No. It's not a violation as long as they announce
they got paid. Although, of course, there's a huge
never-never land. For instance, if a disc jockey
talks about a record that he has produced and tells
the audience that, is that payola? Probably not. And
then there's the Dick Clark situation."
"Not Dick Clark!"
"Well, he owned a record company and a music
publishing company in Philadelphia and I guess you
could call it royola or something like that. Because
maybe some of those records, those songs were exposed
on his television show. But the American Broadcasting
Corporation, ABC, persuaded him to divest himself from
all of those interests. There may have been the
implied threat that they would cancel his television
show. Anyway, he sold the record company and all of
those other things. Still got rich enough to afford
several wives. And, by the way, I don't think Dick
did anything really wrong. Remember, there were no
real rules to play by. You had disc jockeys doing
record hops everywhere in the nation. Yes, there was
the implied threat that certain acts had better
perform free or for almost nothing. Up to and
including the Supremes until they got really, really
big.
"On the other side of the popcicle," she said, "you
had young disc jockeys such as Tom Clay in Detroit and
Buffalo. Some record promotion people wanted to give
him a boat. He thought these trinkets naturally
accrue to the popular. The successful. When the
payola flack hit, the promotion man came and took back
the boat. Said it was a loan. Who was wrong? Tom
was just a kid!"
"Someone should have told him," Bill said.
He finished up the last slice of pizza before she
could reach for it. That's what she got for talking
too much. She wondered if she should be telling him
all of these things. Then she realized it was all
common knowledge in the music and radio industries.
And, when you came right down to it, what did it
matter?
"But there's the other side. A young black guy in
Detroit produces a record or two and he can't get them
played anywhere. So, he calls up three black radio
personalities and invites them to town to visit. In a
meeting, they decide to help him and play his records.
Viola! Motown Records."
"Is that what happened? The president of the record
company did that?"
"Yes. I even know the name of the disc jockeys. But
it doesn't matter. Barry Gordy didn't buy them, per
se, he asked for their help and they helped. No crime
was committed."
"And then there's the case of Sonart Records. If they
ever paid anyone specifically to play a specific
records, I don't know about it. What I do know about
is the many, many times they helped struggling black
radio personalities in states such as Mississippi,
Alabama, Georgia...maybe elsewhere, too. In those
states, then and probably still now to a great extent,
blacks weren't allowed in the better restaurants. And
they weren't paid very well. Peanuts. But when they
had a hospital bill or needed money to pay to send a
kid to school, there was often help. A record company
executive once mentioned to Paul Ackerman, one of the
legends of our industry, that the record label had
actually turned payola into an artform. Well, call it
that if you wish. I don't so wish. To me, it was
humanitarian aid. I think the guys at Sonart Records
deserve a medal."
"I'll take your word for it," he said. "Seems like
payola to me, though."
"No, it isn't! They were not paid to play a record,
per se. Wilson Pickett is a great artist. Would you
have had him undiscovered? And what about the great
records by Ray Charles. And then there's the jazz.
Without Sonart Records, jazz might well have died out.
I can't imagine a world without jazz. Almost makes
me cry."
"Okay, okay. So you're in favor of payola."
"No. Not in the slightest. It's just that in some
cases it may be justified. Or once was. Disc jockeys
in the south were paid so poorly by radio station
owners. This was especially true among black radio
personalities who often were encouraged by white radio
station owners to take the records they were given and
sell them to a local record store. A very demeaning
situation, at best."
"You know any of these guys personally?"
"Quite a few."
"How many would you say?"
"Maybe four hundred."
"You're kidding!"
"Well, you figure there's maybe seven thousand viable
AM and FM radio stations at the moment and many owners
are now seeing the real value that an FM can be and
you figure that there are, say, five or six people on
the air per stations, maybe more with some radio
stations, and that comes to around thirty-five or
thirty-six thousand and so knowing a few hundred is
not too impressive. And besides the disc jockeys, you
have news people and sales people and even a radio
station such as KMET here in Los Angeles has maybe
thirty on its payroll. I really don't know that many
people at all."
After a while, he asked if he could spend the night.
She said no.
He left with a hangdog expression on his face, just as
if he'd made a booboo.
She went to bed thinking what a crazy world the world
had turned out to be. Not like she'd imagined at all.
You tell a guy that you won't go to bed with him and
his feelings are hurt and he sulks off into the night.
But it was okay because she didn't like him anyway.
Well, maybe she liked him a little. He did give a
pretty good foot rub after all. Maybe that would be
enough for some girls. The music and radio business
was full of girls, some quite cute or damned beautiful
who'd sleep with anyone who asked. But that kind of
life wasn't enough for her. No!
Just what kind of man did she really want? Now that
was a tough question.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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June 7, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
OPINION
I thought, how ironic, a man who hid from combat
delivering a speech at a Memorial Day celebration
about the glories of war and how America must "stay
the course" in Iraq. What he's actually saying, of
course, that more people need to get killed for some
obtuse idea he has in that peanut brain. Not just
American soldiers, but Iraqi women and children.
Iraqi men, too. He is wanton in his desire for death,
this man shoved into the White House by I do not know
whom. By "staying the course," he's really saying,
"Mother donate your child. We need him dead so I can
lament his death and give another speech about his
noble sacrifice." Bush speaks here, he speaks there.
Trying to justify the dead for which he must
ulitimately assume responsibility in the eyes of God.
Meanwhile, the bodies continue to flow. Yet, as Jimmy
Breslin pointed out a week or so ago in a Newsday
item, "The one military center Bush avoids is Dover
Air Force in Dover, Del., where they bring in the dead
bodies from Iraq." No more pictures, is the order.
Even pictures of flag-draped caskets. The pictures of
dead Iraqi children, I noticed, were not on American
television, nor, so far as I know, in the American
press. There is no such thing as the pretty dead.
The dead tell quite absolutely the stupidity of war as
opposed to negotiation and compromise. War is the
absolute decision of a person who cannot lead. Who
has no concept of justice. No idea of what life is
really all about.
OBSERVATION
I'm watching the NBA playoffs and the Los Angeles
Lakers are at home in Staples Center. There's Jack
Nicholson. Same seat. The announcer identifies a
couple of "stars" who are shown on camera. I look for
Joe Smith, a former Boston radio personality. I saw
him a couple of times years ago. They no longer show
him. Just Jack Nicholson and Diane Cannon and such.
Poor Joe. He used to be somebody. Now he's just a
millionaire with homes in Beverly Hills and Malibu.
TO WAS OR NOT TO WAS
Last week's Commentary discussed the question of
whether Jack Thayer was president or NBC or just
general manager of WNBC, New York, at a given point in
radio history. That prompted this from
Dr. George Pollard,
gpollard@ccs.carleton.ca, Carleton
University, Canada: "Just to be sure, I checked my
Thayer reference, and it was correct. Jack came to
WNBC from Cleveland just about the same time as
Imus--1971 or 1972. Imus bragged at a radio
convention in Las Vegas, in 1973, I think, that he was
such a talent he could bring his own GM to the
station. As usual, Imus was right. 15 July 1974, Jack
Thayer was named president of NBC Radio, and promptly
cancelled 'Monitor'. Claude. Hope you're having a
great Memorial Day Weekend."
Gary Allyn,
gallyn@adelphia.net: "As an addendum to
Dr. Pollard's fine article on 'Radio as Art', let me
first say that credit should be given to Neil Ross for
sending me the article that I forwarded to you. Neil
is yet another fine Radio man and now one of
Hollywood's premier voice talents; as-well-as one of
my best friends. Without Radio, I would have missed
the pleasure of knowing a truly loyal and trusted
colleague. The Pollard piece struck a deep nerve in
me. It wasn't until I finally married at age 39, that
I realized that I had been 'married' to Radio since
the age of 17. I had denied myself the opportunity to
be with a Lifetime companion. Before, Radio had been
my all...my everything. Alas, with age and experience
finally comes some wisdom. As the article
states...PASSION was part of being in Radio...and
Radio was my PASSION. A PASSION that still lurks muted
somewhere in my brain and heart today. While I work
now in an un-related business, my mind still thinks of
formats, stop-sets, and music; much like that of a
drug addict hungry for another 'fix'.
PASSION...ADDICTION...a fine line between the two. The
'backstreets' of Radio are littered with excellent
broadcasters and Radio minds. They, like me, still
cling to the hope of a chance to 'do it again'. 'One
More Time'...as Count Basie would say in his great
recording of the Big Band classic 'April In Paris'.
The amazing thing to me, at least, is that I don't
feel old, or think old. Radio has (or had) a way of
keeping the brains cells young and vibrant. Those
cells are still there. Alive. All of us so-called
'oldsters' would love another chance to show what
PASSION is all about. Maybe it will happen some day,
but it's doubtful. Radio, like so many enterprises
today, has a passionless way of eating its young,
while letting its old and wise wither, decay, and die.
I also came to the conclusion many years ago that what
we were doing was not brain surgery, higher
mathematics, musical genius, great economic theory,
professional athletic skill, political greatness, or
Nobel Prize worthiness...but what we were doing was
helping a Radio 'Teenager' become an 'Adult' through
the tireless pursuit of perfection in an imperfect
business...with PASSION and CREATIVITY. Your website,
Claude, is a thin thread that many of us use as a
Lifeline that is knotted and tied to a former time and
place...a wonderful place of entertainment, fun,
excitement, spontaneity, creativity and PASSION. I know
that what you do and what you provide is also a
PASSION. But isn't that what Life is? A Passion Play
lived out, one person and one day at a time. Your
website helps time go by a little more slowly in
today's fast paced World. Your website is a marvelous
reflecting pool filled with professional people
persuing perfection with positive passion. RADIO....a
once and forever fabulous medium that my mind will
take to eternity. Your friend...with PASSION."
I wrote this to George, "Gary Allyn was/is one of the
great pros in radio. He used to joke that George
Wilson hired him six times and fired him five. I put
some of the give and take today on my website
www.claudehallonline.com given to me by Larry Shannon
of
www.radiodailynews.com. If you aren't aware yet of
Larry's website, you ought to tap into it when you
have time. Anyway, this below just came from Gary and
I thought you'd like to see how your article is
circulating, circulating. I just received a copy of
it, incidentally, from Bob Todd down in Florida.
Whew!
George responded: "Thanks for passing the Gary Allyn
comment along. Much appreciated. Maybe radio isn't
theoretical physics or mathematical economics, not
much is, but I've always thought there should be a
Pulitzer Prize for jocking. Seriously! There are
eleven Putilzer Prizes for journalism, why not one for
jocking? Each year, numerous Peabody Awards are handed
out for radio, but none for jocking. The time for fair
consideration is now. Yes, I'm aware of the website
run by Larry Shannon. I haven't been as dutiful in
checking as I should. It's definitely a very special
distinction for 'Radio As Art' to be among his
offerings. (Don Barrett mentioned RDN was going to use
the piece.) Whew is right. I know you think I'm
shining you on, telling you how influential you were
at Billboard, but it's true. A lot of what I wrote
about would not have happened, if you weren't writing
about who was doing what, when and were in Billboard.
After devouring each issue, we'd spend the night DXing
or send off orders for airchecks. Just know, and I
likely said it before, your spirit infused every word
I wrote in 'Radio As Art', and every word I ever wrote
about radio. For a while, I was radio editor of RPM, a
blend of Billboard and Variety for the Canadian
market. My biggest thrill in that job was the day I
received a letter. Do you remember hand-written,
stamped and mailed letters? A reader liked something
he read and also referred to me as the 'Claude Hall of
Canada'. Holy cow!!! 'Radio As Art' is homage, with a
sprinkling of a Cheech and Chong type waaakkkkeeee
uuuuppppp!!!!!!! I never thought it would get read by
anyone else, let alone circulated so widely. The
attention is a nice pay off, but the real reward, for
me, is being able to have email exchanges with you,
John Rook, Pat O'Day and others. Often, when the
e-mail arrives and I see the name of the sender, my
first sense is to genuflect as I open the message.
What a feeling!!!!! Thanks the influence and support.
Sorry for going on and on and on, but I may never get
the opportunity, again. Hope you're having a great
Memorial Day Weekend."
WRITING
It's Saturday, June 5, and I'm rewriting a novel that
I finished a few days ago. Must be something nuts
about me because I like my own writing. In this
particular novel, the character that is me returns to
Brady, Texas. Now that's an interesting situation.
How many of you have gone back to your hometown and
wondered why you left?
PASSING
I realize that this statement will make some people
that I know and love dearly angry, but for me
Philadelphia radio was personsified in my early
Billboard days by essentially three people--Hy Lit,
Joe Niagara, and Georgie Woods. Just learned from
Bruce Miller Earle that Joe Niagara, 76, has died.
June 4 at Bryn Mawr hospital from heart failure. Word
actually came from Robert Smolarek,
smolarek@worldnet.att.net, who informed
broadcast-airchex@broadcast.net.
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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