|
"Xtreme"
Chapter Fifteen of a novel
by Claude Hall
Front-page headlines. Tippy Gore, wife of senator Al
Gore, was trying to upset the music industry again
with yet another attack on song lyrics. Tippy wanted
to ban offensive lyrics. Or regulate them with
ratings similar to movies.
Susan tossed the newspaper onto the floor at the end
of the couch. There was a stack of unread newspapers.
She stood there for a moment looking down at the
newspapers. What did this stack of yesterday's news
signify other than the fact that she was terribly
messy? The fact that these newspapers, however, were
unread posed an interesting situation.
Perhaps she actually hated the real world, especially
the world depicted in those dead trees. The music
world was not real, you know. She knew that. But Los
Angeles itself was sometimes called Lotusland.
The question raised by the music industry and
especially the songwriters was how and who was to do
the rating of songs. They claimed such would be
outright censorship if not tantamount to infringement
on constitutional rights guaranteed by the First
Amendment.
Susan agreed with the music industry. Most songs were
works of art, thus not subject to censorship anymore
than a statue in the Metropolitan Museum of New York
with genitals hanging loose.
Perhaps her stack of old newspapers, too, were in some
fashion a work of art. Another interesting concept.
Pollack in paper. Or was that Pollard? Susan, my
good friend, you are not well-rounded when it comes to
art. Maybe not even when it comes to music.
Some songs, it's true, were utter trash. But,
ultimately, the public seemed to make the right
decision regarding a song. A good example is that
some songs seemed to live forever. "The Battle Hymn
of the Republic" had been around a long, long time.
In a college textbook found on many of the nation's
campuses called "Literature: An Introduction to
Fiction, Poetry, and Drama" by X.J. Kennedy, you would
find short stories by authors such as Ernest
Hemingway, John Steinbeck and F. Scott Fitzgerald as
well as poetry by Archibald MacLeish, W.H. Auden, and
T.S. Eliot.
Also in the same book: "Eleanor Rigby" written by John
Lennon and Paul McCartney of the Beatles with
"Subterranean Homesick Blues" by Bob Dylan and "Live
With Me" by Mick Jagger and Keith Richard of the
Rolling Stones.
Susan thought that including the Stones song was
stretching "literature" a bit. But these songs
weren't any worse than some of the "poetry" also
included in the book.
Come to think of it, it would be stretching to call
her stack of old newspapers a work of art.
She dressed in a blue sweat suit this morning, for it
was still a bit chilly in the valley yet, and tucked
her pistol into a zipper pocket. Within a few minutes
after leaving her apartment, she warmed up and the
day's chill disappeared.
The dark car was somewhere behind her. She'd grown
accustomed to it.
She had, not, however, grown accustomed to the
constant bickering about the contents of songs and was
thinking about writing a roundup article for Songdust.
Comic books used to get the same fuss from the
establishment. She wondered just exactly who the
establishment was. Evidently, they existed for the
sole purpose of criticizing something...anything they
could find within reach.
What often puzzled her was why "Cold, Cold Heart" by
Hank Williams wasn't accepted by the intellectual
crowd on at least some level. Or "Deep Water" by
Fred Rose and "It Makes No Difference Now" by Floyd
Tillman and Jimmie Davis. If you wanted a tearjerker,
you couldn't possibly beat "The Wreck on the Highway"
by Dorsey Dixon. Tearjerkers, of course, were an
unusual artform, to say the least. Hank Williams used
to whisper to his band, "Let's go from that second
verse again...the audience isn't crying hard enough
yet." He knew without question the power of his
personal art.
However, songs such as "Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies
Grow Up to Be Cowboys" by Ed and Patsy Bruce or "Don't
Make Me Got to Bed and I'll Be Good" by Hugh Cross
certainly warranted the same respect and intellectual
appreciation as "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock?"
What's so intellectual in T.S. Eliot's "Let us go
then, you and I, when the evening is spread out
against the sky, like a patient etherized upon a
table?" The line didn't even make good sense!
Of course, a lot of life has been captured for
eternity in the poems that one discovers along the
way. She considered herself at least slightly above
the pickup mentality that majors in pinball machines
through high school and most of college. She enjoyed
Emily Dickenson, some of John Masefield (especially
"Sea Fever": "I must go down to the seas again, to the
lonely sea and the sky... "), Charles Fenno Hoffman,
William Blake, Roy Campbell, Francis Thompson, etc.
Especially Oscar Wilde's "The Ballad of Reading Gaol"
which features the line: "Yet each man kills the thing
he loves...."
However, some of the great songs of pop music equally
compared with the great poetry.
The best example was the poem "Stopping by Woods on a
Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost: "Whose woods these are
I think I know."
Anyone who didn't find that line familiar deserved to
be banished to a stuck elevator and forced to listen
to Muzak's version of "Shake, Rattle, and Roll" for
four hours.
"I tried so hard, my dear, to show that you're my
ev-r'y dream..." wrote and sang Hank Williams in his
song "Cold, Cold Heart."
Hank Williams actually lived some of his songs. But
writing poetry, Kennedy said, "requires skill and
imagination; qualities that travel and breadth of
experience do not necessarily give."
Ed Bruce certainly had skill and imagination in
abundance. "'Cause they'll never stay home and
they're always alone even with someone they love."
As for imagination, there was "Maggie Lou's Massage
Parlour Blues" by Larry Gatlin: "Paying his dues
wasn't very hard, because he paid them on Bank
Americard."
And Lee Clayton, who hadn't quite happened as a singer
yet, was one of the great song poets. Look at his
lines from "The Red Dancing Dress":
"The carnival show is folded and cold, the calliope is
quietly asleep. Just rats run around the
merry-go-round and the midway is a midnight street.
And the yellow-haired dancer, pregnant and proud, has
vanished without a trace. Why the child must be
nearly seven now and I've yet to look in its face."
Kris Kristofferson's "Sunday Morning Coming Down" was,
without question, a masterpiece.
But Nashville always reeked of great songs of poetic
quality. And this is true even before Kris
Kristofferson, a Rhodes scholar, arrived on the music
scene to lend it a touch of academic class. West
Texas, too. On an old Bob Wills album, "The Living
Legend," you could find "Born to Love You" by Cindy
Walker of Mexia, Texas fame; "Time Changes Everything"
by Tommy Duncan; "San Antonio Rose" by the late Bob
Wills; and "Cimarron" by the late Johnny Bond, one of
the great songwriters who also wrote "Tomorrow Never
Comes" with Ernest Tubb.
By the time she returned to the apartment, she was
strongly determined to write the article about songs
as a reflection of life.
Not my life, of course, she thought.
She waved at the dark car now at the end of the
parking area and went inside for a shower.
By the time she reached the office of Songdust, she
was in a pretty good mood, rested, poised. But Tammy,
the switchboard operator, fouled up all of that the
second Susan stepped out of the elevator into the
lobby of the magazine.
"What did you do last night?" Tammy said and made a
stroking motion with her index finger of each hand.
"Shame, shame, shame!"
"What are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about, gal. And don't deny
it. Just look in your office. And after that, Mr.
Brown wishes to see you."
"What about?"
"Well, maybe it has something to do with your office."
As seemingly usual these days, her office door was
unlocked. In fact, it was wide open. And she
couldn't even get inside because of the flowers.
There were roses and African violets and tulips and
gladiolas and flowers she didn't know and some that
she suspected a horticulturist would have had
difficulty identifying. Some flowers were in vases,
some still growing in pots, some merely wrapped in
plastic and waiting for someone to place them into
vases. There were flowers banked knee high against
the window that was a wall of her office and her desk
was literally hidden beneath masses of flowers. A
single red rose was in her chair with a small card
attached. The card read: "From me and Dabney Stone,
your greatest admirers."
With some difficulty, she managed to find her
telephone under a bunch of lilies. She couldn't find
a place to put the lilies, so she held them and the
single rose in her lap as she dialed Nails and told
her about the flowers from Dabney Stone and some
unknown person.
"He must have bought every single flower in a flower
shop," Susan told Nails. "I've never seen this many
flowers. Ever."
"The man's crazy."
"How can Dabney Stone possibly be crazy?" Susan wanted
to know. "You know Dabney as well as I do!"
"Those flowers ain't from no Dabney Stone," Nails
said.
"Thanks, Nails. I sort of figured that one out
myself."
"It's from someone who wants you to think those
flowers are from dear old Dabney as well as whoever it
was with whom you did whatever it was last night."
"Now why in heaven's name would anyone want me to
think something like that? Anyway, I didn't do
anything last night."
"Well, you evidently made somebody think you said
maybe. Because no man is going to send an outright no
no flowers."
"I didn't do anything and I didn't tell anyone maybe.
Anyway, how do you tell anyone no and mean no and not
have them think you said maybe?"
"I don't know," said Nails. "You'll have to figure
that out for yourself."
"Nails, you are absolutely no help."
"I knew that already, honey child, because I never
learned how to say no real well either," and hung up.
Susan was still sitting there a few moments later,
phone call still resonating in her mind, wondering
about the flowers, when Lee Brown came angrily into
her office.
"Didn't Tammy tell you that I wanted to see you in my
office?" he almost shouted. "Immediately!"
"Yes. That is, I'm fairly sure she did. Right now,
I'm not thinking very clearly. Perhaps she did. But
also perhaps I didn't pay much attention. You know
how people generally are in the morning."
"You seem to be forgetting something important," he
said.
For the first time, she looked up from the Dabney
Stone note in her hand. Yes, Lee did look an awful
lot like a guppy. No doubt about it.
"What am I forgetting?"
"The memo that announced my promotion to managing
editor of Songdust News."
"Well, things have been a little hectic around here
the past few days. If the memo is on my desk, I'm
sure I'll stumble over it in a while. Congratulations
and all that sort of thing."
"It was three months ago!" he said loudly.
"Oh," said Susan, knowing full well that she was
goading him and there would be a price to pay. There
was always a price to be paid, it seemed, with Lee and
Zeus.
"Well, what did you wish to talk about?"
"George Green. He called. Very, very upset."
"I'm not surprised," Susan said, making a face. "It's
that stuff he eats. Snails and scrambled eggs. No
one in their right mind eats snails anyway. Probably
bad for the heart, too."
Lee stamped his foot in anger. "You cannot treat the
readership of this magazine in that fashion!"
Susan couldn't believe that he'd actually stamped his
foot. Wow!
"What fashion?"
"He said you left at 5 p.m.," Lee said.
"Right. I was tired. I went home."
"The assignment was to write a day in the life of
George Green. His day didn't end at 5 p.m. He said
he was quite miffed."
"Well, we're even. I was quite tired."
"He said he had planned a full day. You missed a lot
of things."
"Come now. Nothing happened all day. Why should
anything happen in the next ten or fifteen minutes?"
"You were supposed to stay until midnight. That was
the assignment."
"Now, that particular memo, I know I didn't receive,"
she said.
"Memo! Memo!"
Lee whirled and disappeared from her office, leaving
Susan with her huge amounts of roses and, over there,
even a small bunch of daffodils. What was she going
to do with all of these flowers!
A few, she placed in the hallway outside her office.
One of the bunches of lilies, she took out to Tammy.
A small pot of something strange, she placed on Chase
Dudley's desk. She didn't know what the flower was
and she doubted that Chase would know either. Give
him something to do all afternoon, think about that
flower.
She had received the memo announcing Lee's promotion
to managing editor, of course. The memo had come from
Zeus McRae almost the next day after Zeus had been
named publisher. The announcement had surprised
everyone on the staff. Everyone expected Chase Dudley
to be named editor-in-chief, once Zeus became
publisher. Zeus, however, surprised the entire staff
and maybe half of the people in the music industry by
keeping the title and naming Lee Brown managing
editor. The magazine had never had a managing editor
before. A music editor, yes. Never a managing
editor. And no one thought then or now that Lee Brown
was qualified for anything except perhaps the job of
copy boy. Few liked him; no one respected him.
After maybe ten minutes, she had enough space cleared
so that she could work. She made four phone calls,
one to Rick Hall who operated a recording studio in
Muscle Shoals, Alabama, another to Norm Petty over in
New Mexico who discovered Buddy Holly. Then she
called Shelby Singleton, the man who produced "Harper
Valley PTA" with Jeannie C. Riley. The last phone
call was to Bud Prager who was a partner with Felix
Pappalardi, the man who produced the Cream rock
masterpieces and who had a group called Mountain. She
then started writing the article about songs as works
of art. Of course, the fact that many of these songs
were what Paul Ackerman called "instant evergreens"
was also a major factor in their being works of art.
An instant evergreen, Paul theorized, was a song that
became almost immediately the kind of song that people
sang and which everyone wanted to record. "Yesterday"
by the Beatles was such a song. She thought about
calling Carol King for some information. Now there
was a songwriter and a half. But, finally, she
decided that was another article on another day.
She told Tammy to take messages on all phone calls.
Normally, she didn't bother. However, this was a
prose piece; the words had to be good words and they
had to flow just right. When you're quoting a line
from a Bob Dylan song, you're better have the other
words almost as good or you're in trouble.
It was very pleasant to write the article in an office
bulging with flowers. Somewhere in the wonderland in
front of her were some jasmine plants. She could
smell them so clearly!
The phone rang a couple of times, someone in the
office, but she didn't bother answering it. The
Segway column was one thing; she didn't mind being
interrupted then. This, however, was a major article.
She wrote it with passion and even some fervor. The
flowers helped. They were like good songs.
At one point, she stopped, frozen, a word half typed.
The flowers, of course, were payola! Had to be from a
record company. A big record company because these
were a lot of flowers! Maybe a thousand dollars in
flowers. Maybe more than that!
Chase Dudley must have read her mind.
"Payola, huh," he said as he came into the office.
Actually, he stopped just inside the door, unable to
continue because of the flowers.
"But who?" she asked. "I'm usually last on the list."
She'd once walked into the chart department of
Songdust and found that all twelve of the employees
had new 8-track cartridge machines. The policy of the
magazine was that no employee was supposed to accept a
gift worth more than $25. But the rule was violated
all of the time. Zeus himself had taken his wife on a
Mediterranean cruise paid for by Capitol Records, a
week amidst the Greek islands. Gifts! She was, she
realize, a little guilty herself. She had been given
a poncho by Atco Records one Christmas. The name of
the label was on the vest area. Nice little poncho.
Probably not worth $25, though. And, of course, there
were the numerous bottles of booze from several
records labels. No, those didn't amount to $25 each
either.
Flowers?
"You don't ordinarily get flowers from the labels,"
Chase pointed out.
"That's true."
"Maybe Zeus sent them to you as a way of apology."
She shook her head.
"Hardly, Chase. Hardly."
"Well, they certainly look good on you," Chase said.
"Thank you, Chase. You're a peach yourself."
"Heard you might be having trouble with an item about
George Green. I know all about Green. When you get
it done, pass it along to me and I'll patch it up.
I've written some fiction in my time."
"I take back the peach," she said. "You're a whole
watermelon. Just as long as I don't have to read it
even after it's printed."
"Deal," he said and left.
She spent another hour or so on the article about song
lyrics and only a few minutes of that staring at the
flowers. The article seemed to almost write itself.
Sometimes, writing was like that. They spoke of it in
some esoteric books by even more esoteric writers as
"automatic writing" just as if a ghost took over and
did the work for you. You finished whatever it was
that you were writing and for a while there you knew
without question that what you'd written was a
masterpiece, glorious! After a while, of course, the
feeling faded and then you had to do the hard work of
rewriting because the words were not all as good as
they should be. In college, an English professor once
told her that writing was five percent inspiration and
ninety-five percent perspiration.
Journalistic writing was a little different. You
stuck to the five Ws--who, what, when, where, why,
and, of course, how and how much. You generally wrote
a solid news story in the traditional inverted pyramid
form, that is, the most important facts at the top and
lesser facts in descending order of importance. But
the article about song lyrics was somewhat different
because it was an analytical piece. And Susan thought
that it would definitely put Tippy Gore in her place!
Censorship might have destroyed all of these great
songs.
When she finished the article, she put a paper clip on
the pages, grabbed her purse, the single rose, and
took the article and put it in Lee Brown's mailbox in
the lobby. Tammy had already left for lunch. A girl
from the chart department was handling the
switchboard. Susan saluted her with her rose and took
the elevator down to the parking area.
"You!" she said.
"How do you say it in the music business? Right on?
Of course, I don't really understand what that means.
Not precisely."
Bill Ferguson, hair as messy as ever, stood leaning
against her MG. He wore a gray shirt with the collar
open, gray slacks, a pair of soft black loafers, and a
wistful little smile that expressed an element of
doubt. This was the first time she'd noticed a lack
of confidence about him in their few weeks of casual
friendship. She would swear that he didn't quite know
where he was going in this conversation, this
impromptu confrontation. She'd never seen him this
way before.
"I hate right on," she said.
"No more right on," Bill said.
She paused.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"That's my car you're leaning on."
"Oh," he said.
"I can't get in unless you move."
He seemed to be searching for the right choice of
words. Finally, he said: "I need a favor. Yes,
that's it. A favor."
"What kind of favor?"
"Lunch," he said.
"Lunch is a favor?"
"Yes. You'll notice that I'm being very polite," he
said. "I've had it explained to me in no uncertain
terms that I'm rather pushy. I'm trying not to be
pushy. I'm trying to be polite."
She was silent a moment herself as she considered the
matter. She hadn't expected to go to lunch with
anyone. In the magazine game, you went to lunch a
lot. And not just because it was an expense account
thing, which meant a free lunch or, at the very least,
a tax deduction.
On the other hand, she didn't have any great desire to
be alone. That wasn't necessary at the moment.
Sometimes, it was. She didn't want anyone to hear her
scream, if that was the case, or whine or moan. But
the flowers in her office had set her mood for the
present and it was a good mood.
"Okay," she said. "Lunch."
She took the Mexican blanket from over the seats and
folded it and placed in behind the driver's seat along
with her purse. Her rose, she placed on the dashboard
by the windshield.
"How long do you have?"
"Forever," she said. "I've just written a good
article. Not a great article, but a good article. I
have an item to write this afternoon. It will not, I
assure you, be even a good article."
"About yesterday?"
"Yes."
He got into the passenger seat and fastened his seat
buckle. Then he looked at her.
"I'm sorry about yesterday evening," he said.
"Okay," she said.
She started the engine of the little British sports
car and let it idle for a couple of minutes. She
liked the thmm-thmm of the twin carbs. The MG was
often used for sports rallies and sports car races
around the world.
"I'm glad you liked the flowers," Bill said.
She faced him.
"You!"
"As I recall, that's what you said just a few moments
ago and in much the same tone. I can see that this is
going to be one of those days of stirring
conversation. But that's strictly okay. I'm game."
"I feel like asking why," she said, "but I'm afraid of
the answer."
"It's not what you think," he said.
"Don't tell me what I'm thinking," she said.
"I'm merely trying to apologize for asking you to go
to bed with me last night. I was rather crude about
it. I'm sorry."
"That's funny," she said, "because I thought it was
sort of a compliment in a way."
"You did? Then you're willing to sleep with me?"
"No."
"Does that mean right on?"
"It means no," she said.
She quickly put the sports car into gear and backed
out. There are four forward gears on an MG. One is
like overdrive. She slammed the gearshift into low
and sped down the ramp and onto Sunset Boulevard and,
since there was no traffic, turned right without
pausing and the little engine thundered as she went
quickly through the gears. There is a certain
intensity mandatory in driving any sports car and
especially an MG. But she loved the excitement and
found that when she stepped into a normal car with
automatic drive, she was bored.
At the first traffic light that was red, which was the
first point at which she could talk without yelling
loudly, she asked him:
"Where do you want to eat?"
"Doesn't matter," he said.
"How about the Santa Monica Pier?"
"Can we talk there? Awful lot of people."
"Right on," she said, "and those people could care
less about anyone else's conversation."
"Right on," he said, mocking her.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
June 14, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
Burt Sherwood,
bohica1@comcast.net:
"Claude...do you
print everything a fellow academic writes? Wake up!
Imus was saying that he brought his man to NYC
(Thayer)...Thayer had a number of years earlier become
the president of Nationwide Communications. When he
managed Cleveland, he brought Imus from California
(where he discovered him) to join him in
Cleveland...Jack then moved from Cleveland to Columbus
where he headed Nationwide's radio and TV group...the
group had a bundle of radio and TV stations, Dick
Jansen ran the Cleveland station when Imus left for
NYC...I 'loved' the quote of Imus...that to those of
us who were around then and knew was laughable...Jack
flew in from Columbus when Imus was brought in to NYC,
to personally negotiate Imus's contract with WNBC...it
was then that Julian Goodman and Herb Schlosser (these
fellas ran NBC) took notice of Jack and gave Jack the
nod to come on aboard and run all the radio...before
he left I was flattered to be called in to by Thayer
to be asked to replace him at Nationwide...I could
not, as I had just signed contract to stay where I was
and become a stockholder and run a group based out of
Indiana...I went there as a favor to Jack (with the
knowledge of my owners), when we both knew I could
take the job. It was an honor, that my then 'masters'
did not like, and later I was sorry that I honored a
contract...another long story...I personally said
goodbye to Jack as he was annointed to the presidency
of NBC radio...I loved the guy and ultimately a few
years later found a way to join him...he was the best
of the best and I ran his Chicago stations. I have no
idea of who this publcity-seeking professor in Canada
is, but he had better burn his notes...what bothers me
most is the fact that you printed this drivel...that
is a sorry mess! How do I know all this...to quote my
friend Kent Burkhardt...because 'I was there'!"
LATER
Burt Sherwood,
bohica1@comcast.net: "Claude...I
thought maybe I might have screwed up...just heard
from Chuck Renwick...who ran the NBC networks for
Jack...Jack came and went only as the president of NBC
radio...'we were there'."
JUST FYI
I agree on this one with Burt. Jack came to NBC as
president of radio and vice president of NBC
Television.
Jack invited me to a rep conference in New York City
shortly before he moved into WGAR in Cleveland. Jack
Thayer, Dick Janssen, and Don Imus put on a show that
had reps dashing out the door to sell advertising and
the radio station format, MOR, wasn't even on the air
at the time. The success of WGAR led to Jack becoming
head of Nationwide, a role later taken over by Dick
when Jack went to New York City to become NBC Radio
president. Before I comment further, I suppose I
should mention that Jack may have had an enemy
somewhere under some far-flung rock. If so, I never
met them. All of the people I knew were his friends
and he had a vast number and most were close friends.
More friends than perhaps any man I ever met. And I'm
one of them. I knew Imus from his radio days in
Palmdale/Lancaster, CA, when he ran an Eldridge
Cleaver lookalike contest, the prize being five years
in jail. Those of you who know Lancaster, know how
hot it gets there; Imus always lied a few degrees to
make the place seem cooler. I knew Jack from the days
he took over as GM of KXOA in Sacramento, CA, and
hired Imus to do the morning show. Later, Barbara and
I were at the wedding of Jack's daughter in the home
of Jack's ex-wife in the San Fernando Valley. Much
later, we were at his hospital bedside in New York
City not long after his stroke. I also visited Jack
at 30 Rock during Imus' first tenure with WNBC and
remember asking Jack if he saw much of Imus. He told
me no, but Imus knew where his office was. I also saw
Imus that day in, I suppose, the GM's office--those
red, white and blue overalls and sneakers, Imus
stoned. Imus barely knew me at this point. I think
he had lost contact with the world to a great extent.
Me, Jack, just about everyone with the exception of
perhaps Robert W. Morgan with whom Imus was close
friends for many years. Imus was fired from WNBC.
Did a stint on a country music station WHK in
Cleveland. His second tenure at WNBC was more
successful and he was kind enough to come up and talk
in the 80s with my students at the State University of
New York at Brockport...still caustic, but sober.
Some of his remarks about me, with the dean of the
School of Communications in the audience, were so bad
that I'm still embarrassed to this day. And wouldn't
you know, Imus did a number on me on WNBC and Joey
Reynolds, also at the student conference, broadcast
Imus' remarks at the student conference on his WNBC
afternoon show a day or so later! Funny thing is
that, instead of me being driven out of the academic
world, several parents called their sons and daughters
attending the university to tell them how great it was
to hear about the State University of New York on
radio! Imus said that I owed him one for the trip to
Brockport, NY. I suppose that I shall always owe
something, maybe everything that I was and that I am,
to people in radio like Jack Thayer, Don Imus, Joey
Reynolds, L. David Moorhead, George Wilson, Ron
Jacobs...the list is quite long. I am grateful. It
has been an honor to know all of you.
When Robert W. Morgan left the air in Los Angeles
because of cancer, I began to write every week or two.
I don't know if these letters were delivered to him
or even if he felt like reading anything at that
point, but I wrote them anyway. He never responded.
I've often wondered if Imus was phoning Morgan during
this illness. I'd bet that he was. I hope he was.
You can not imagine how close they once were as
friends. One letter, I tried to make Morgan angry.
Insulted the devil out of Imus (turn about, eh; Morgan
took me to task on KMPC and Imus took me down a notch
on WNBC). Hoped it would give Morgan more fighting
power against cancer. Hard anger! I've known a lot
of people who've whipped cancer for years and years.
including my own father. Unfortunately, I suppose
some battles aren't meant to be won. A pity. Still,
I've always hoped that Imus and Morgan were in touch
over those last weeks and months and that Morgan
fought the great battle.
I would hope that track of Imus and Morgan on KHJ
featured on "12,000 Hamburgers to Go" (RCA Records) is
still being listened to by young radio personalities
these days. There were, of course, two different
"stories" behind that track--the one told by Morgan
and Imus and the one told by Tim Sullivan, the GM at
the time of KHJ. Doesn't matter. Great fun! And
even greater memories. Here's a toast to Morgan,
here's a toast to Imus (with Diet Pepsi, of course).
Long may their frequencies wave!
Jim Rose,
rosekkkj@earthlink.net: "GARY ALLYN pretty
much hit the nail on the head about being MARRIED to
Radio for a long time! Never did get officially
Married to a Woman, but was MARRIED to Radio for over
30 years! Lived with one Girl in San Antonio in the
60s and one Woman in Houston in the 70s. Escaped from
a lot. ELVIS was asked in his early days, 'Are you
going to get married?' ELVIS said, 'Why buy the cow
when you can get the milk free?' There comes a time
when that no longer is true. When you are married to
Radio for decades, the divorce leaves a huge open
space. Which is it? Get re-married to Radio? Or?
CLAUDE, Cal Druxman of KHFI was the finest GM I ever
worked for! So much fun and an absolute straight
shooter! CAL had rescued me from oblivion at KTER in
Terrell, Texas! We got together again in Ft. Worth!
Cal put me on mid-days at KJIM, while I was all-nights
at KFJZ in 1973! The P-D at KFJZ Aaid it was OK if I
used another name. Couldn't think of another name!
Just a couple of minutes before noon, when I was about
to open the Control Room door to go on the air at
KJIM, CAL yelled down the hall 'Do you have a new
name, yet?' I said, 'No.' CAL asked, 'How does JIM
NELSON sound?' Just like that JIM NELSON was born,
for a short time, anyway. When KFJZ put me on 9a-noon,
had to reluctantly quit KJIM. A third meeting with CAL
came when he was in KXOL's sales department (1975)
when we crossed paths! WOW! Three stations together!
Sometime in the mid-80s, I called for CAL in Ft. Worth
to see if he would get me out of Houston! CAL's wife
told me he had passed away! I will never, ever get
over that! CAL was an absolutely great radio guy and
a very good friend! Recently, DAVE JARROTT and I have
discussed good times with CAL! Ironically, DAVE
JARROTT and I both worked together at KHFI in Austin
and separately at KXOL in Ft. Worth! Dave was at KXOL
years prior! CHARLIE PRO has a fabulous deep voice,
also another fantastic Texas Radio Legend! He was PD
at KXOL when I visited for about 3 hours of Radio chat
in the late 60s! CHARLIE had worked in New York at
one time! CLAUDE, do you happen to know where CHARLIE
PRO is these days? KLIF had a truly BOSS News
Department in 1972! TED AGNEW was the News Director
who hired me from KBOX! Why I left KLIF in 1972 to go
to KITE in San Antonio to do PM Drive News is a
question to be pondered for the rest of my life! Live
and learn."
A SHAGGY DOG STORY
Michael Randolph,
popsie-photos@worldnet.att.net:
"The mother of your 'PoPsie' puppy was named Rags. My
Mom and my father William 'PoPsie' Randolph found
Rags abandoned after she was dropped off by a school
bus in Lakewood, New Jersey. Rags was pregnant with
puppies. I remember a story from my parents. They
mentioned that someone received one of the puppies and
named him PoPsie. Rags lived to the age of eighteen
and died in the arms of my wife Judi on Nov. 8th,
1984. She lived six years beyond the death of PoPsie
who passed away on Jan. 8th, 1978. Rags traveled with
me regularly in her retirement years between Miami,
Arizona and New Jersey. Claude please visit my
website in honor of my father
PoPsiephotos@worldnet.att.net. I will send you a
picture of Rags and hope you have a picture of your
PoPsie puppy. I am sure we will have many fond
memories to share. Hope to hear from you soon.
Regards to you and your family, Michael Randolph,
Executor to the Estate of: William 'PoPsie' Randolph"
I wrote back: "Michael, Great to hear from you.
Don't have any picture handy of Popsie--though I
probably shot hundreds and they're around--but
stories! You can not imagine how many people knew
that dog! Your dad swore he was just a small dog
'just like his mother'. As Popsie grew and could eat
off the table, I'd point this out to your father and
he'd say, 'just like his mother'. Popsie the dog knew
words such as 'car' and 'back-back (behind the rear
seat of the old VW we owned for years). He was guard
dog, companion, friends to all three of my boys. I
once clocked him at 35 mph! I also saw him whip a
German Shepherd. Kids could beat on him. But he
ruled everything else! Our Popsie was run over by a
car around 1983 in Enid, OK, where I was doing PR for
a university while working on a master's degree. You
know, of course, that your father was a legend. He
once offered me a pair of Buddy Holly's spectacles and
I turned them down because I thought they were too
valuable then. Probalby worth a fortune now! I'll
check out your website. Thanks very much for your
note."
The story of Popsie, of course, is something else.
The man, not the dog. In those days in New York City,
a music industry party wasn't a party unless Popsie
was there shooting pictures. He had a 120 Rolifex
with a flash. I doubt if he ever changed the focus on
it. He would get three or four people together and,
pop. I have some photos that Popsie took and I
haven't the slightest idea who the people are. I can
recognize me, of course, even though that guy looks
awfully damned young. But the guy in the pompador?
Popsie was everywhere.
Billboard took Popsie to Mallorca when we did a music
industry conference there. Barbara and I are sitting
at a table somewhere. Popsie took my 35mm camera and
shot a picture of us. So, I have a photo of me and
Barbara taken by Popsie. It may not be a great photo.
Cute. And it was taken by Popsie.
Popsie was the photographer for an International Radio
Programming Forum at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New
York City. That was the conference where Buzz
Bennett, squatting on his heels on a hardbacked chair,
talked radio programming for four hours to a group of
maybe 100 radio guys who did not move! To the best of
my knowledge, no one even went to the bathroom. His
audience included the guys who were supposed to be on
the following panel session!
Barbara and our two children, John and Darryl, came to
pick me up after the conference. I came out to find
Popsie talking to them at the curb. He'd just given
Barbara and the two kids a puppy. The next week, he
showed up at the Billboard office with three dogs in a
cardboard box. I took the male puppy and ran; Popsie
thought I should take them all. The kids named the
dog Popsie. You could not chain the dog up outside as
he grew older because, somehow, he would break the
chain. Bigger chains just took a day or two longer.
After we moved to Los Angeles, I once clocked him at
35 mph. My kids, Bobby Vee's kids, neighbor kids
could beat on him. But no adult that he didn't know
dared touch him. Only an Oklahoma car in the dark of
night proved too much for Popsie.
I sent Randolph's note to my sons and to Bobby Vee and
his son Tommy. John Alexander Hall,
johnalexhall@hotmail.com: "Dad, I loved your piece on
Popsie. I clearly remember your face when we told you
that we wanted to name Popsie, Popsie. I have been
avoiding the television the past week to avoid the
Reagan coverage. It is sad that he died, but I felt
sadder that Ray Charles just passed away. As for
politics, the LA Times reported today that polls show
that this election is extremely close with Kerry in
the lead. Michael Moore's film opens in two weeks.
Tonight, I plan to watch the Lakers play. I am
concerned that Karl Malone won't be able to play, but
I was really amazed at Kobe and Shaq on Tuesday. I
was also very impressed with Luke Walton, Bill
Walton's son. I can't recalll Phil Jackson ever
playing a true rookie as much as Luke."
PASSING OF RAY CHARLES, 73
His biggest fan, to my knowledge, was Paul Ackerman,
music editor of Billboard magazine. Paul talked Jerry
Wexler at Atlantic Records into producing an album by
Ray Charles of country songs. Talked? Forced might
be a better word. The LP was a pretty good seller and
definitely helped the career of Ray Charles. Charles
probably never knew. But Jerry, like many of us,
loved Paul Ackerman. And he probably didn't dare tell
Paul no. God bless Ray Charles, but that project was
never intended to make money; it was an act of love.
Another guy who loved Paul was Sam Phillips, owner of
Sun Records. When he found Jerry Lee Lewis, he
brought him to New York, had a piano hauled up to the
Billboard office (outside and through the window),
just so Paul could hear "the killer" live. Lord, the
Paul Ackerman stories!
More from Jim Rose,
rosekkkj@earthlink.net: "A few
moments ago, this idea came across my mind concerning
all the fuss and uproar being caused by the recording
industry about what they call, maybe, Music Stealing,
for lack of a better term. Thought I would quickly jot
a few lines down for readers to think about. Free
people in a free country should be able to tape songs
or anything that they want. An innocent teen taping a
song is going to kill CD or record sales or even
destroy a recording company? If one takes the time to
listen and pay attention to what's being provided for
airplay on radio, you notice there really is nothing
new out there in the caliber of an ELVIS, BEATLES, RAY
PRICE, ELTON JOHN, JOHNNY CASH, even LAWRENCE WELK or any of the
great recording artists of a couple of decades ago. Almost all
in each given format sound
pretty much alike. There's no NEW sound out there.
Just a perspective, but what I feel the recording
industry needs to concentrate on is finding, recording
and promoting NEW and distinctive sounds that are not
of the same cookie-cutter mold we hear all day long on
the radio today. Brings to mind when VCRs were placed
on the market for us to play and tape movies or
anything we wanted off TV. Do you remember all the
commotion and yelling that the movie industry put out
about VCRs killing the motion picture industry? Looks
to me like they are still alive and doing well decades
later. Just a thought."
ODD
Three cable news channels have been covering Ronald
Reagan's funeral all week, all day. C-Span somewhat.
CNN Headline News somewhat. Boring! Even asinine.
And he wasn't a very good president, you know. In
fact, he was pretty bad. Reagan cut taxes in 1981,
then raised taxes six times. Meanwhile, cities and
states had to raise taxes to make up for money lost
because of Reagan's conservative movement. The legacy
of Reagan's term in office was an enormous national
deficit. As a leader, he was ludicrous! Caused more
misery than most with the except of the Bush family.
What's odd to me is that these varmints have the
concept of changing the world to fit their misguided
visions. They have no concern about people...don't
seem to care about people at all. Major rule of a new
man in the White House should be the same as a doctor:
First, do no harm.
I wonder, however, why this massive attention to the
death of this particular president. Any person, in
fact. Did someone decided that I was interested in
this crap? Or decided that I should view and hear it?
There was a hell of a lot of news that we, the
public, will never know. Happened this past week
while the nation was forced to watch a flag-draped
casket and forced to listen to mundane BS about
someone who certainly didn't deserve it. Jimmy
Breslin of Newsday remarked that George Washington was
buried in half the time. I have a sneaking suspicion
that if the dead president had been a member of the
Green Party, he would have received Andy Warhol's
typical 15 minutes. Maybe less. Guess the
Republicans have control of mass media. Well, there's
always little media me here guarding the bones of free
media.
While it's on my mind, something funny re; Reagan. A
good friend of mine, Dan McKinnon, owner of KSON in
San Diego and a former fighter pilot was a big
Republican. Buffalo'd by Reagan's campaign policy to
make government smaller. When Reagan got elected, Dan
followed him to Washington as head of the CAB. He
soon closed the CAB down, thus putting himself out of
work. He was the only one to do so! No other
Republican in Washington, evidently, believed the
Reagan nonsense. Not to worry. I understand Dan is
operating a private airline service in the Washington
area. He sold KSON for probably a few tacos. And, of
course, I've been on his ranch outside San Diego and
there was a piece of property on Mission Bay that old
man McKinnon owned. Dan's brother owned a TV station,
I think, in Corpus Christi. No benefit needed. Poor
Dan.
WRITING
Just finished rewriting the novel set in Brady, Texas.
Hard work. And it'll more than likely need another
rewrite. That's the major problem with writing: It's
never finished, per se. You just have to stop at some
point and say, "Enough!"
"Extreme" is, of course, about the music industry.
Coming up, I'm thinking about running a very campy
novel on this website. Don't know if anyone will read
it and don't know if anyone will like it who attempts
to read it. But, what the hell. It's called "Snake
and the Spider Lady." Bill Randle once told me that
his early ambition had been to become the world's most
deadly weapon. That's what "Snake and the Spider
Lady" is all about.
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
