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

"MURDER at the Busted Bird Cafe"
by Claude Hall

Chapter 6

She dragged me out of Martoni's in spite of my best efforts to stay.  It's very strange how a little girl can do that sort of thing to a guy six-foot-two, especially a guy who almost worked out with weights once.

"I can drive," I said. 

"I'm already teed off at you.  Don't give me any more trouble.

"My pickup's at the station.  I can't leave it there.  Someone might steal it."

"Don't be silly.  Car thieves have better taste."
She opened the passenger door to her Maseratti.

"In."

"I'm being insulted," I said.

"So's your pickup."

Maserattis are build too low to the ground.  You sit up in a pickup; you sit down in a Maseratti.  This caused a minor problem with one of my legs.  I'm not sure which one.  It was outside the car and I couldn't get it through the door.  One of the problems was my boot.  Most disc jockeys wear sneakers.  I wear boots.  I worked for a few months at a radio station in Mexia; you wear boots in Mexia or they chase you out of town.  That's where I'd first met C.W.; he came into the radio station one day and we'd got to shooting the bull and a few cows and became, I guess, what would pass for distant friends in the radio business.  After all, the choices sometimes aren't all that sensational.

Jo tried pushing at the boot with her hands, figuring that if she got the boot inside the car, the leg would have to follow.  Or vice versa.

"I hate boots," she said.

I guess she finally succeeded, because the next thing I remember was the Maseratti speeding up Benedict Canyon.

Jo's pad is tucked on the side of a mountain up one of the side streets off Benedict.  There's an old oak that fills the sky and has huge meandering branches that reach over the house and over most of the yard and even some of the hillside.

The bungalow is small, quiet, peaceful, and secluded away from the world.  This is good, because she has a dog that will bite anyone who gets within range and some of those he has to chase. 

Her dog, a cross between a rather large Doberman and two or three prehistoric mastodons, obeys no commands known to man and only a few of those known to Jo.  He is old, he is huge, and he is mean.  I've never understood why he licks her hand.  Anyone else's hand, he will bite off and put in his collection if he gets the chance.

I avoid him.  It is no use.  He follows me with
suspicious glances and is ready to pounce if I even think about touching Jo.  We can't even smile at each other unless he's in the living room and we're in the bedroom.  And the door locked.

When I woke up, it was obvious that I'd had no problem with the dog.  I found myself alone on the living room couch.  The house was empty.  The dog had probably slept in the bedroom with the door locked.  I couldn't even remember going to bed.

I don't know whether I crawled off her couch or fell.  But I got out of bed somehow and stood there wishing I had a gun and knew how to shoot one; some bird had a loud speaker in the tree outside and was making a racket.

Mornings, I have long believed, were invented by a masochist.  Or General Mills and Kellogs in order to sell corn flakes.  Corn flakes were also invented by a masochist, in my opinion.  But since there's not much I can do about the situation, I have learned how to tolerate them with admirable aplomb.  Mornings, not corn flakes.  Some of the time.
I stumbled into the kitchen and boiled some water and had instant coffee.  Didn't help.  It was still morning.

Jo had no aspirin in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.  Didn't she realize that coffee and aspirin go together?  How could a man have coffee without aspirin?

I sat down at the kitchen table with half my usual breakfast.

"So you're alive!"

"Is that a statement or a question?" I asked.

She was attired in a jogging suit and was still sweating and breathing slightly hard.  I don't know if dogs sweat or not, but the dog wasn't even winded.

"We had a good run, didn't we, Chuck?"

A man simply can't exist without aspirin.  I got up and searched the kitchen cabinets.

"There is no such thing as a good run," I said over my shoulder.  "I am of the opinion that joggers should be outlawed; they're a traffic hazard."

"What are you searching for?"

"A gun so I can kill that bird outside that's making all that noise."

"Silly."

"If that mutt resembled anything close to a real dog, he'd go out and attack that bird and kill it."

The dog growled at me.

"Chuck does not hurt helpless animals," she said, rubbing his head.

"He snapped at me the other day."

"That's because he doesn't like you.  However, Chuck's in good company.  A lot of people don't like you."

She sat down at the kitchen table and ran a towel across her face.

"Name one," I demanded.

She didn't answered.  She flung the towel in my face.

"Okay.  Name two then."

"For your information, I did try to call you a day ago.  You weren't at the radio station."

"I wasn't?  That's strange."

"Dude said you showed up drunk and he sent you home."

"You sure?"

"He told me on the phone earlier."

"So that was you," I said. "Don't you have any aspirin around this place?  How can a man have breakfast without aspirin?"

"I have some in the bedroom on the stand beside the bed."

"What a strange place to hide aspirin," I said.

She trotted, literally, into the bedroom and a moment later trotted back and sat a bottle of Excedrin beside my coffee cup.

"I'm going to take a shower," she said.

"Can I watch?"

She shook her head.  "You can't even stand up, for god's sake!"

"My breakfast was late.  That's why," I said.  I opened the bottle and took a couple of the tablets.  I downed them with a slug of coffee.

The dog sprawled over the floor, head on paws, and glared at me.  I usually establish a fairly good relationship with animals, especially cats.  Most animals mind their business and I mind mine as long as they don't mind their business on me.  Cats mind their own business, period.  Dogs do not; dogs figure everybody's business is their business.  Dogs were probably invented by the same masochist who invented mornings.

I thought about talking to the dog.  I wondered what I could say to make friends with him.  I would have told him he looked great, but that sounded a bit stupid even for me.  Anyway, he was ugly and probably knew It.  I don't think he would have believed me.

"It's rumored that some dogs may almost be as smart as some cats," I said.  "Have you had your IQ checked lately, dog?" He growled and lifted his head.

"I thought not," I said.

I got up to fix myself some more Nescafé Classic instant.

It's true that I had difficulty walking.  I bumped into a chair and ricocheted off the counter.  But I managed to get some more water boiled.

For the first time, I noticed that my hands were shaking.  Some of the water didn't find the cup.  Some spilled water still remained on the cabinet from my earlier cup of coffee.  I hadn't noticed it until now either.

"You're in pretty piss-poor shape, you know that?" she said from the doorway.

I gave up trying to stir the coffee with a fork and sat down at the table again.

"What happened to my Friday?" I asked.

"Probably a blackout," she said.  "Alcoholics get them all the time."

"I'm not an alcoholic."

"Babe, you'll damned well do until one comes along."  She prepared herself a cup of tea and sat down across the table from me.  Her dog placed his huge head on her knee.  She rubbed at his head.

"What else did Dude tell you?"

"He said you looked in bad shape."

"Friday?"

"Yesterday, babe.  That's why I decided to come get you."

"I don't remember Friday," I said.  "Absolutely nothing."

"From the way you look, babe, you must have had a good time."

She tossed her head.  Hair flew like a small storm. I couldn't determine if her hair was angry or not.

She had dressed in black and white jeans that
accented her hips and legs and a blouse that hid everything as if a curtain had been drawn above her waist.  Jo has a very nice figure, upstairs and downstairs, but it is her face that's strikingly beautiful.  Her lips are pouty even when she isn't pouting.  Her eyes are huge and you can fall into them and drown even if you know how to swim.

"Or no time at all," I said softly, almost to myself.

"Tell mama all about it.  What happened Thursday night?"

"I'm tired of talking about it."

"How could you be tired of talking about it?"

"I had to tell the story several times to the police.  Those people don't understand English very well. After that, I think I went out and had a few beers. Some place called the Green Frog."

"Probably told everyone in the bar."

"Well, I may have told one or two people about it."

"Did you close the bar?"

"Strong possibility."

"In other words, you don't remember."

"Then there was this government organization earlier today.

"Now that's pretty heavy!" said Jo.  "Why should the government be interested in Sherbert's death?"

I shrugged.  "You said something earlier about dope?"

"That's the word on the street.  But the federal government wouldn't be interested in something as commonplace as that unless it was an industry-wide investigation."

"Doesn't seem likely," I said.  "If they were going to do it, they would have done it years ago.  I think the columnist Jack Anderson tried to stir something up in the 1970s and flopped."

I told her about the slaughter at the Busted Bird Cafe.  I really was tired of telling the story.  I wondered how many times I'd told it. "Overkill," she said thoughtfully.  "Why kill everyone just to burn Sherbert?"

"Been a lot easier to wait until he came out of the nightclub and shoot him then," I said.  "Or bump him off at his house."

"I've been there.  It's guarded."  She quickly added so I wouldn't get the wrong idea:  "A party."

"They could still have knocked him off any place rather than the Busted Bird.  You're right: Killing a dozen people just to eliminate Sherbert doesn't make a lot of sense."

There was a long pause in the conversation.  I had another cup of coffee before she spoke again.  Of course, I drink coffee fairly fast, once it reaches the right temperature--hot, but not scalding.

"You've had entirely too much to drink the past few days," she said softly.

"How much is too much?"

"The question is:  Have you drowned Sherbert yet?"

"I hope so.  I'm not sure how much more beer my gizzard can take."

"It's your friends I'm concerned about.  How much more can they take?  Including me."

"A man is entitled to a good, healthy drunk every now and then."

"Healthy!" she scoffed.  "You're missing one entire day in your agenda and you think that's healthy?"

"It was probably a lousy day anyway.  No big deal. Maybe I would have wanted to miss it even if I hadn't missed it."

"Can you stand up yet?"

"There has never been any doubt about the Hedgeworths being able to stand.  Sturdy family genes, I'll have you know.  Some can even walk.  And a distant cousin could run.  Ran for local dogcatcher one year."

"Go shower," she ordered.

I couldn't think of anything to say or anything to do that I could do, so I went and took a shower.  The water was either too cold or too hot and I never got it adjusted right.  But I suppose I got, eventually, more or less clean.

After my shower, there was considerable debate about what to do next.

Jo had decided that I couldn't go back to my
apartment.  That's the trouble with women: You sleep with them a couple of times and they decide they can control your life.

"I need some clean clothes."  I was sitting at the table with just a huge towel draped around me; I looked like an escapeé from a toga party.

"I've been in your apartment enough times to know without question that you don't have any clean clothes," she said.

"Cleaner clothes than these, anyway."

"The Mafia probably is watching that place by now," she said.

"They couldn't find that apartment," I insisted.
"I'm not in the phone book even under my own name."

"In this town, everyone who's anyone is unlisted. That would not stop the Mafia."

"They wouldn't come after me anyway.  I'm small potatoes.  The Mafia has outgrown small potatoes. They've got bigger fish to fry."

"The Mafia, Buddy, is big enough to have small people to handle small people.  This is the record business, for god's sake.  Nobody's that big." 

"I'm radio," I said.

"Would you please sober up!"

She trotted off in her Maseratti to get me some
clothes.  Her dog was left in the yard with
instructions to kill if I so much as opened the front door of the bungalow.

While waiting, I turned on the radio to see if I was  still on the air.  Her sound system is one of those fancy jobs.  Digital.  So, I had no trouble finding K-Oldies.  I wasn't on the air.  The team of Rosemarie and Dan had switched me off and gone live.

K-Oldies uses a concept developed by Mitch Michells, né Terrell Metheny, when he was programming WMCA as a New York City Top 40 station in the late 60s.  The disc jockeys all do four-hour shifts, six days a week.  But several power jocks are always on the air, even on Sunday.  I.e., the sound of the station doesn't change.  My "tribute" to Sherbert was one of the extremely rare occasions that Dude would have allowed even the slightest variation in the format.  He was a stiff taskmaster when it came to radio; it had to be perfect.  No excuses.

My head still felt like a bag of rocks.  I turned off the radio and opened the front door slightly just to give the dog something to worry about.  Why should he have a nice day?

Then I made myself another cup of coffee and had a couple of more Excedrins.

I tried to remember Friday.  Not a hell of a lot of clues to go on if you're trying to map out a day that you don't remember.  I had shown up at the radio station, evidently.  That was news to me.  What happened after that?

This morning, or was that yesterday morning, I'd found a flat tire on my pickup.   It was my first flat in Los Angeles.  Matter of fact, my first flat since a junker I owned as a kid back in Texas.  You just don't have flats, ordinarily, on a new pickup.  Ford will tell you that.  Even if you drive a Chevrolet.

After a while, Jo returned.  She handed me a shopping bag.

I held the bag up.

"Saks?"

"Certainly."

"I've never asked you this, Jo, but how does a mere rock'n'roll singer get a house in Beverly Hills, a Maseratti, and money for something like Saks?  I can't even afford to walk inside the door at Saks.  They charge $17 a minute just to breathe the air."

"Perhaps I'm a crook."  She tossed her hair; I could sense that she was a bit peeved at being questioned about her finances.  But it was strangely important to me at the moment...maybe because I was suffering from
a hangover the size of the moon and couldn't think normal or maybe because I sensed her purchase of a pair of blue jeans and a shirt had more than ordinary significance.

I thought about the possibility for a moment that she was a crook.

"Nope," I said finally.  "You aren't that smart."
"I resent that!"

"You're pretty enough, but not smart enough.  It would take one hell of a smart crook to steal not only a home up in Beverly Hills, but a Maseratti."

"Perhaps I earned all this."

"Nope to that, too," I said.  "I don't know why it didn't occur to me before.  Perhaps I wasn't in this kind of mess before.  It didn't even matter.  You're not a bad singer.  At least you sing on key and that's better than most of the girls in rock music today. But you haven't had the kind of hit record that develops astronomical revenues yet."

"Screw you," she said.

"Then screw your pants," I said and handed her the bag back.

"Stupid," she said.

I shrugged.  "My old pants will do."

"You old pants smell to high heaven!"

I went into the bathroom and found my trousers.  I started to put them on.

She stood in the doorway with the shopping bag.  She held it out to me with a toss of her hair.

"My parents are rich.  I've had a charge card at Saks since I was 13 years old.  I didn't get the car until I graduated from high school.  As for this place, I don't know whether it's mine or still in my father's name.  I could ask for it.  He gives me anything I want.  I've always been a spoilt rich kid.  I like being a spoilt rich kid.  So sue me."

"All I wanted was some honesty," I said.  I took the shopping bag, pulled out the Jordache jeans, and put them on.  "It's not a sin to be rich.  Not as long as you're a fucking star."

She grinned.

"You're a horse's ass.  You know that?"

"You've been talking with Dude," I said. 

(To be continued)

e-mail  claude@claudehallonline.com

Commentary
by Claude Hall

June 16, 2003

Our mythology is very valuable to us. Long after we are less than memory, the fact that Top 40 radio once existed and was important will lend credence to our being...the fact that we were there and what we did had value.

I have treasured the men and women I have known and was always proud that I knew them. They were the most exciting, most creative, most dedicated people in the world. Many were geniuses in their own way and others of a rare and superior intellect who had, nevertheless, great compassion for their fellow human beings on this planet. I have, indeed, enjoyed the distinct pleasure of knowing radio broadcasters throughout not only the United States, but Brazil, Australia, New Zealand, England, Canada...even unto far reaches such as the island of Crete and the country of Guatemala and, yes, even far atolls in the Pacific. I met so very many of these over the years and even knew quite well, in my heart, those I never got to meet in person.

One of the men I knew well was Bill Stewart, who worked as national program director at one time and another for both Todd Storz and Gordon McLendon, now considered to be the fathers of modern radio programming concepts (i.e., Top 40 radio), and honored, finally, by the National Association of Broadcasters several years ago. I say "finally" because most people with whom I associated in radio looked up to them literally as radio gods in the long and long ago. From peer pressure, I could do no less and, regardless, I considered any hero worship directed at these two men--Storz and McLendon--entirely justified. 

One of the people that I also know worked early for Todd Storz was Kent Burkhart. In fact, Kent was nice enough to give me a copy of a photo of himself with Todd Storz and Bill Stewart to use as a teaching tool when I was teaching at the State University of New York at Brockport. All three looked too damned young, all three wore crewcut haircuts, common at the time. All three seemed rather confident of themselves and what they were doing in those early days of modern format radio.

Bill Stewart told me that Top 40 radio originated at KOWH in Omaha and over the years various men, all of whom I consider great broadcasters, have also stated this. No one ever refuted what I wrote and, as you're probably aware, radio men and women are quick to speak up when they think a wrong has been done. Me, too. 

Thus, I find it very distasteful when someone attempts to rewrite radio mythology for some personal purpose. 

A few days ago I received an item printed in the Kansas City Star. A character in that area--Richard Fatherley--claims Top 40 radio was invented in Kansas City at WHB.

The headline of the Kansas City Star article: "KC station pioneered Top 40 format 50 years ago."

The item was written by Brian Burnes, bburnes@kcstar.com, and quoted Fatherley.

One paragraph: "I felt like an extra in a great Hollywood epic," Dan Oberholtz, a former WHB disc jockey known on the air as Dan Diamond, said Wednesday. Oberholtz is one of several WHB disc jockeys--once known as the World's Happiest Broadcasters--gathering this week at Chapman Recording Studios in Kansas City. They are being interviewed by Tom McCourt, a Fordham University professor studying the evolution of radio after World War II."

This same person--Richard Fatherley--issued a cassette a couple of years or so ago promulgating this same tale about WHB as the birthplace of Top 40 radio and Ben Fong-Torres, Fongtorres@aol.com, formerly with Rolling Stone magazine and then with Gavin, wrote an item published on the Internet. I have respect for Ben; I wrote him a fairly long personal letter dated July 20, 1999, and that letter, just FYI, is reprinted here:

"Dear Ben,

"I saw something on the Internet the other day and, in a rare (I hope) expression of anger, I commented. But then it dawned on me that you'd written that particular article and I didn't want you to be offended by my comment. My comment referred only to the subject and supposition advocated by someone else, not to you personally nor your writing.

"The topic, of course, was about how Top 40 originated and evolved. I would surmise that I talked to an awful lot of people in radio over the years. I didn't meet Bernice Judas nor Todd Storz. Gordon, I knew pretty well and have an unprinted two or three-hour interview on cassette with him somewhere about the house. Bill Stewart was an even closer friend.

"In all of the years I was involved personally in the medium, I never met anyone who refuted the story that Bill Stewart told me and after the book "This Business of Radio Programming" was printed not one person ever came forward to even cast doubt on the legend. This
included some of the greatest minds in the field and many that knew Storz personally and worked with and for him.

"Two days ago, I talked with a radio man who was, in the vernacular, 'there'. He consulted WDSU in New Orleans for a couple of years in the long and long ago. Said WDSU never came up with anything original in those days and certainly nothing that was ever copied.

"When I was in the New Orleans market for a couple of years, circa 1962 on the Times-Picayune, rock radio as we know it was already conceptualized. But not from WHB nor WTIX...from KOWH, Omaha. In fact, one merely has to examine the financial situation to prove this. The Omaha newspaper only sold the station at a reduced rate because television had, in effect, killed radio. That's why Todd and his dad were able to borrow enough money to buy it. And it was only after the success of the station that they were able to get enough money to buy other stations. Yes, old man Storz had made a lot of money in beer. But I never heard one thing ever about him loving radio. Todd loved radio with a passion! And the old man loved his son. Yes, I know the station wasn't successful right away. They tried many things-promotions (Lucky House Call originated about this time at KOWH), sensationalized news (Stewart or one of his people once wired a newsman and did a recording of gambling going on in a local dive). And they talked about programming constantly; the Omaha bar story about the development of music rotation is not only true, it's logical. Stewart had already conceptualized the closed playlist from which all disc jockeys had to play, a revolution in radio at the time. Much earlier, Bill Randle was playing records and jukebox play was part of his research as well as what other disc jockeys were playing in other markets. Stewart says he got his idea of rotating the hits from hearing music played by a jukebox. I believed him at the time and I still believe him after all of these years. He said that the concept didn't jell for, perhaps, days and he didn't know whether it was himself, Storz, or someone else who came up with the idea. But it did happen at KOWH. Not elsewhere. And it wouldn't have happened without Bill Stewart. The format concept was already a reality at KOWH long before it was used elsewhere.

"The term Top 40, I was told many times, derived from the number of records that could ordinarily be played during a three-hour shift.

"Bill Stewart admitted freely that a lot of his concepts about programming came from radio personality Bill Randle. Stewart studied Randle. I not only interviewed Bill Randle a few times, but took a course under him on the way to a master's degree. Stewart was highly intellectual (a former college professor) and extraordinarily bright. Randle, of course, is extremely brilliant beyond that (a law degree, a Ph.D., four master's degrees). I've known many geniuses during my days; Bill Randle is probably the brightest of them all. And, in my opinion, was the greatest radio personality of all time, then and now, along with the Magnificent Montague. I would never, under any circumstances, accuse men such as Randle and Stewart of lying.

"Storz was not exactly tall, I've been told, but someone also stated that when you were around him he seemed awfully big! From my conversations with people who worked for him and knew him, he probably would have been deeply offended that anyone accuse him of not being original. Like Chuck Blore, such men are usually far ahead of everyone else and copied rather than the reverse. Bill Stewart, on the other hand, exhibited a different kind of genius in my mind. He had the capability to take a wild idea and make it work. I've heard it time and time again that neither Gordon McLendon nor Todd Storz would have happened in modern radio to the extend they did without Bill Stewart, who worked for both at various times. McLendon, of course, was a huge success prior to Top 40; read "North Towards Home" by Willie Morris. But, although he denied a couple of failures to me that I knew about, he did have them and they were amusing. For example, that station in San Antonio with the offensive call letters (to Mexicans) and the all-classifieds format. Overall, he was a legend of mythical proportions and Storz was even greater than that. As a person who loved radio and still loves what it was, I hate to see their myths tarnished by Johnny-never-wases who haven't the foggiest idea of what really happened and no valid documentation regardless.

"Would you like to hear something funny? The National Association of Broadcasters never knew how to spell Gordon's last name until just before they presented the Broadcasters Hall of Fame Award to Gordon and Todd. Once, Gordon was thinking about suing the NAB just so they would learn to spell his name correctly. (Note: Gordon wrote me this in a letter.) Both Gordon and Todd were by and large considered persona non grata by broadcasters during the 60s and early 70s...the same establishment types who finally gave them the award.

"I'm afraid this note has turned into a diatribe. Sorry about that. All my best, Claude Hall"

The reference to Bernice Judas, of course, refers to the first major programming of music on a radio station and was discussed in "This Business of Radio Programming" published 1977 and currently in reprint by Dan O'Day, danoday@danoday.com. My comment after seeing Ben Fong-Torres' item on the Internet was "Hogwash." I do not know if that item is still on the Internet. If so, it's still hogwash.

In any case, I considered the matter finished until just a few days ago when I received the article printed in the Kansas City Star. That article was e-mailed to me by Art Holt and another copy from Bruce Miller Earle. It was Fatherley at work again.

I immediately e-mailed Art Holt and Bruce Miller Earle on June 7, 2003:

"Bruce, Art, Thanks for sending me a copy of the item in the Kansas City Star by Burnes. I read it. This guy Richard Fatherley has been spreading this story for some while. Ben Fong-Torres even put some of his concepts on the Internet. I tagged that item then with the word "Hogwash" and someone else had a more acidic statement behind that and then there was discussion for a while whether I also said that and no, I wouldn't say that sort of thing. Probably not. I then wrote Ben a long letter and hoped that the hogwash had ended. You both know from where I'm coming, i.e., the book 'This Business of Radio Programming'. Second, I've a couple of hours on tape with Gordon McLendon and I've talked with so very many people. Bill Stewart said Top 40 started at KOWH, Omaha. Gordon said the same thing. Believe it or not, I've even talked to the DJ who was on the air at KLIF when Gordon brought in a stack of 45s and said, "Play these," i.e., the first step toward emulating KOWH. There are presently only three people alive who can refute Fatherley's stuff as hogwash: Me, I would think. Ruth Meyer, who I understand is quite ill, and Kent Burkhart. Kent, incidentally, came after KOWH, but he never indicated to me that Stewart was wrong. In fact, over so very many years since the book was published in 1977, I've never heard otherwise until this Fatherley guy. And I think I'd rather believe Bill Stewart, Chuck Blore, George Wilson, David Moorhead, etc., etc., etc., and you know what I mean. Just FYI, I've heard that in spite of the brewery, old man Storz didn't have a heap of money. The money for KOWH was borrowed. Logically, one would thus assume it had to become a success before the owners would be able to borrow more money. Top 40 was the reason KOWH became No. 1, according to Stewart, which then gave Storz financial leverage to borrow more to buy WHB. Oh, well. Here I am, in essence defending dead friends. And in a day when radio itself is largely a mess and, as we knew it, also literally and figuratively dead."

I subsequently wrote Brian Burnes, bburnes@kcstar.com, at the Kansas City Star who responded exactly as you read here: "thank you for sending me a copy of your response to my WHB story. I felt confident going forward with Fatherley's version of events because a lot of people seemed on board with it, including this fellow Tom McCourt from Fordham, as well as David McFarland, a K-State professor whose book on Top 40 and G. McClendon is often cited on the Internet as well. Fong-Torres, whose book I've gone through. But, I am interested in this topic, and if there are other opinions as to how all this occurred, please feel free to write back to me and outline your understanding of events. Very rarely is their one agreed-upon version of just what happened a long time ago. For what it's worth, I've gotten more response to this WHB story than any I've written for some time, and I think I'm smart enough to know that it's not because I'm such a hot writer, but because this is a topic about which people - both inside and outside the industry - have strong opinions. Finally, if you have any information about the disc jockey convention that occurred in Kansas City in the late 1950s, please alert me. Thanks in advance - Brian Burnes, KC STAR."

My last note to Brian Burnes, bburnes@kcstar.com: "Well, Brian, you're welcome to believe what you wish and write what you wish, but as a retired college professor who taught journalism among other courses and a former newspaper reporter, I lament the fact that you didn't conduct enough research behind it. I've never heard of Tom McCourt nor McFarland; they would not sway me, regardless. Dr. William M. Randle Jr., perhaps. Maybe Dr. Roosevelt Wright Jr. at Syracuse University, whom I consider quite knowledgeable. However, more than 22 major universities adopted my own book during its day and quite a few books have used it since as major source material; a copy may be in the library somewhere around there or you can order one through danoday@danoday.com Fatherley, no matter what he may claim, may have been around somewhen, but he was not in the so-called line of fire I assure you. I've stated previously that Fatherley's stuff is hogwash. I will probably discuss this situation soon on my website www.claudehallonline.com  

"You mentioned 'strong opinions', as if to lump me in that 'opinion' category. All of my information and knowledge comes from talking with more radio people than you can possibly imagine! Here and around the world. Gordon McLendon, for example, gave me copies of his speeches and his reports, etc., and the two hours on tape with him is just one of the many, many interviews with radio people that I did. Furthermore, my book "This Business of Radio Programming" which included some of these interviews was checked out by the best libel lawyer in Manhattan before publication in 1977; I know this because Billboard magazine where I worked at the time charged the expense against my royalties and I don't think the book netted more than a couple of thousand dollars beyond that during its first life.

"FYI, my book also mentions the convention in Kansas City. In the Stewart interview, I think. You have permission to use the material as long as you give credit to Bill and the book. He was proud of that interview. Had the pages framed in silver on the walls of his study until the day he died. And, yes, I probably know a few others still alive who were there; I'm still in touch via e-mail with more than 300 radio men and women. Few bragged about being there in the old days but the historical texture may have changed by now.

"Well, I was wrong about only three people being able to refute Fatherley. Following is a just-received note from Art Holt that may interest you. It is not for publication, just for your background knowledge. 

From Art Holt: 

"'Claude...You nailed it...hogwash! I went to work for McLendon in the fifties at the dawn of time...then spent six years as General Manager of stations for him in three markets ... then was ExVP & Assistant to Gordon. I was based in Dallas and hated by everyone! I moved into that job when Don Keyes left as National PD to buy his own station in Akron....and the Old Scotsman couldn't stand the waste of an empty office at headquarters. Since I didn't have enough talent to be National PD he gave me the stuff to do that he did not want to do...today, they would probably call it COO, but Harvard Business School hadn't invented the term yet! I spent a couple of years in total immersion with Gordon, on the road with him about half the time, which gave us about 10,000 hours of oriental restaurant and hotel suite conversations. I got pretty well the whole story on everything before I wore plumb out and went out to earn a less-honest living as a consultant...by recycling everything I could remember from Gordon. I also logged lots days and nights with Bill Stewart (no oriental food) along the way...and heard his complete story on days in
Omaha enough times to have it memorized for life! Bottom line...you're right...Fatherley came late to the game, but has an active imagination'.

"Bruce Miller Earle loves radio like many whom I know, was an engineer who goes back as a kid to even old man McLendon. He states, in part, 'My two cents. I went to work at KOMA in OKC in 1969 in the engineering department and worked on the air also. The manager of KOMA was Jim Irwin who had been Peter Martin a mid-day jock on WHB for years before moving into sales. As a kid in Central Texas I could hear WHB, KXOK, WTIX, and KOMA at night. I remember hearing Richard Ward Fatherley at times on WHB. I recall that he sounded too refined for Top 40 radio of the day and somewhat pompous. While at KOMA I recall Irwin did not think too much of RWF and said that he was a legend in his own mind. This, of course, was well before now and his attempt to rewrite the history of Top 40 radio'.

"Brian, when I mentioned in my earlier note to Art and Bruce and copied you that there were only three people alive who could refute Fatherley's meanderings as hogwash, it should be noted that I probably know a few others, though we're all getting a bit ancient. I have no idea what Fatherley is trying to do. Seems a bit stupid to me. I have nothing against Fatherley. I don't even know him. Never even heard of him until that Internet thing written by Ben Fong-Torres. You can rest assured, however, that while I never knew Todd Storz personally, I knew many people who worked for him, I know Bill Randle, I knew Bill Stewart, I knew Gordon McLendon and countless people who worked for him.

"And I also assure you that I will not stand by and let Fatherley destroy the myth that belongs to so many of the great men and women who were there and performed the real work of radio. Claude Hall."

Then, this recent note from Burt Sherwood: "No, Top 40 was invented in Omaha, Nebraska, by Todd Storz. His family owned a brewing company...and the story goes he watched the play on a jukebox in a saloon...and noticed how many times the songs were played over and over...Ruth Meyer and Steve Labunski and the KC crowd came later...Todd was the first...McLendon was not far behind."

I asked both Art Holt and Bruce Miller Earle if I could use their notes in this commentary; their notes are in the e-mail to Burnes. Earle gave a quick yes. Holt replied:

"Claude...You're welcome always to use any or all of anything that I e-mail! Thanks for asking. I would like to commend you on your efforts in behalf of the truth about the beginning of Top 40. Most people writing today appear to have about as much appreciation of the truth as the Chamber of Commerce of Salem, Massachusetts, does when writing about the "come to see us and relive the good old days when we all burned our witches." Selective memory is one thing...selective interpretation is yet another! I remain 100% full-time active in the broadcast brokerage and appraisal business at Holt Media Group, so I talk to perhaps two dozen active broadcasters from all over the country every day of the week. Mostly, they don't know how it all began...which I figure is a shame, since the best way to know where radio is going is to have a firm grounding in where it actually has been in the past. You're the best shot the industry has at getting history written right...before the revisionists walk over the remaining clues in their heavy boots! Keep it up!"

Comments anyone?

e-mail  claude@claudehallonline.com