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"Xtreme"
Chapter Eighteen of a novel
by Claude Hall
Detective Raul Cardenas was still waiting when she got
back to Songdust News. He glanced up as she entered
her office. He had ordered a pizza and was eating it
at her desk, sitting in the padded office chair where
she usually sat. The telephone was at one elbow, a
can of Diet Pepsi at the other. He toasted her with a
slice of pizza.
"You've been busy, I assume," he said.
"Yes. A little," she replied.
"How's your arm?"
"Better. Still hurts."
She took off her jacket and raised the sleeve on her
blouse. There was a dark bruised spot on her
shoulder. It was tender to the touch. She sat down
in one of the guest chairs, took some Sports Creme out
of her purse and rubbed a small dab onto the bruised
area.
"You're well-equipped," the detective remarked.,
glancing over the edge of his slice of pizza.
"People who exercise a lot use a lot of this stuff a
lot of the time," she said.
"You want a slice of pizza?"
"No. Thanks," she said. "I was hungry and stopped
for a quick cup of matzoball soup."
"Matzoball soup won't cure a cold, you know. Don't
care what they claim. Tacos, they're pretty good with
colds."
"I don't have a cold," she said. "I never have
colds."
"I see. You never slip and fall and you never have
colds."
"Nope. My father taught me how to fall properly when
I was six or seven. If I fall, it's usually on
purpose."
"Now that's a rather interesting point. If I fall,
it's generally because I've just got knocked down."
"No one's going to knock me off my feet," she said.
She finished rubbing some of the Sports Creme on the
bruise and put the tube back in her purse. Why hadn't
she thought of this stuff earlier? Almost
immediately, some of the pain in her arm began to go
away.
"You got a few minutes?" he asked. "We need to do
some serious talking."
"I would love to talk with you," she said. She put
her hands behind her head and leaned back. The chair
was uncomfortable. This was the first time she'd sat
on this side of her desk. She didn't like it.
However, it was the detective who did most of the
talking, explaining things. He didn't seem to care
whether or not she answered. Or rather he assumed she
wouldn't answer some of the questions and thus phrased
them as statements and paused now and again to see if
she would nod or shake her head. She did neither.
Although when he mentioned that the mafia seemed to be
in control of the music business, she probably at
least blinked her eyes.
"But I suppose you knew that, you being in the
business," he said. And this time paused, as if
expecting an answer.
She wondered if he were stumbling around searching for
the truth or expected the usual gloss over. Of
course, to tell the truth, she didn't know the truth.
The real mafia was not some fat old man in a movie who
wore a ring like the pope.
"One hears things," she said cautiously. "But, of
course, one never knows for sure. There was a lot of
talk about the jukebox industry years ago, I
understand. Chicago. I don't think the jukebox
industry is all that big now. I could be wrong. As
for the mafia being in the music business, do you have
proof? Sony is also in the music business, as well as
RCA and Columbia, well that is Sony these days, and
god knows who else."
"Not my territory," the detective said. He finished
his pizza and started on another slice. "But I heard
rumblings about some kind of investigation."
"I hear the same rumblings," she said. "Probably just
rumors. I've yet to meet anyone doing an
investigation yet. Although I did have a phone call
once from a news person at ABC Television wanting to
know if I thought Bill Drake was taking payola. I
told them no because he already had two black
Cadillacs and I didn't think he could drive three at
the same time although, knowing Bill, he might be
capable of driving two at once. Don't know for sure."
The detective looked around for a paper napkin, but
evidently none had come with his pizza. Finally, he
just rubbed his face with one of his hands.
"I don't believe the mafia had anything to do with the
body you found right here in this chair or the shots
that were fired at you," he said. "Or that hit man."
"Neither do I," she said.
"The coroner figured out the Mojo character had been
dead maybe two or three hours before you came to
work," he said. "So, you probably didn't do it."
"I'm glad we agree on that point anyway."
"So who fired those shots? And who killed that guy
you found sitting here?"
"I don't know, but I should know in a couple of days,"
she said, wondering if she should tell him what she'd
done this morning. "Maybe sooner."
"You some kind of amateur detective?" he asked.
"Never touch the stuff," she said.
"Good, because the way I figure what we have mostly
here is an amateur. You take a pro, you know what
you've got. With an amateur, you've got to expect the
unexpected. What they know about skullduggery, they
likely got from a book. The problem is that you don't
know which book. Generally, it's a comic book. Comic
books create trouble. They're blamed for everything
these days along with television programs and, of
course, some people blame rock'n'roll music."
She smiled at him.
"Detective Cardenas, I haven't heard that word
skullduggery in years and years."
"Well, I'm sort of an old-fashioned guy. And I'm sort
of curious about a lot of things. For example, I got
a phone call a little while ago from my office and the
guy I had watching our Detroit hit man says that a
woman and a friend of hers kidnapped him and drove him
away in a little foreign car like the one you drive.
And they duct-taped him to a gate at a place over in
Bel Air. You and this fellow Dabney Stone been up to
mischief?"
Ah, so he already knew what she'd been up to this
morning and was playing some kind of game!
"Am I supposed to confess something here?"
"Don't bother," he said. "My man hung around like I
told him and says that someone rescued our Detroit hit
man from the gate and talked to him and that the
Detroit hit man took off running down the street about
as fast as he could go. That's really curious, don't
you think? Why would he run that fast from a guy
who'd rescued him?"
"More interesting, than curious," she said.
"And, supposedly, this young woman took some money off
the Detroit hit man when she kidnapped him. If all
that actually happened, what do you think she would do
with that money?"
"What a gal!" she said after a moment's thought.
"I'll bet she would give it to the Midnight Mission in
downtown Los Angeles. There's a guy named Clancey
Imislund who heads the place. Legit, I've heard.
Well, actually he's a former radio guy. Did promotion
at KHJ here in town. Thus, he's got to be a good man.
And can probably use the money."
The detective seemed to like her chair. The spring
squeaked when he leaned back and folded his arms
across his chest.
"Well, I guess I'll make a note about the incident
just so it doesn't slip my mind and check with you
later to see just exactly what this gal did."
"How did your interviews with Zeus McRae and Lee Brown
go?"
"Strange people," he said. "Of course, I don't
suppose I should mention something like that to you,
them being your immediate superiors and all."
"I guarantee you that it's not a secret," she said.
"And neither one is my superior in any way, shape, or
form. Except, perhaps, in something such as your
skullduggery. Yes, perhaps in that."
"Your publisher, this Zeus guy, seems to think that
you and this Dabney Stone fellow are responsible for
everything that's happened."
"How sweet of him to include Dabney," Susan said.
"I think I'd better talk with this guy Dabney,"
Detective Cardenas said.
"He's not around much," Susan said. She felt like
laughing at the idea, but decided that she had better
not. Laughter would just complicate the situation
even more than it was already.
"Where and when would he be around?"
"That's hard to say," she said.
The old detective nodded as he placed the debris from
his pizza into the trash can beside her desk and stood
up and waved so she could regain her chair. He
probably didn't appreciate the tiny little smile that
she could not keep from creeping onto her face.
"Young lady, I sort of like you. And I had enormous
respect for your late father even though some of his
ideas were somewhat foolish. But somewhere along the
way I've got to draw a line and, for reasons of which
you're well aware, you're a suspect in this murder
case. Now where can I find this Dabney Stone?"
"I do not know, Detective Cardenas," she said, "and
that's the truth. To be honest with you, I've never
met any Dabney Stone."
This time, the old detective wagged his head from side
to side. She could tell that he was irritated with
her, although he, too, was trying not to show his real
feelings.
It's funny, she thought, how we go through life, and
business, trying not to reveal what we really think,
what we're really doing.
"Perhaps I'll find him and introduce him to you
proper," he said and walked out of her office, feet
stomping.
She thought her arm was stiffening up on her. She
looked at the bruise. Wasn't bad. She'd had worse
from HCX exercise. Been banged black and blue, in
fact. She swung her arm a few times to get some of
the kinks out, then sat down at her typewriter and
wrote what she knew about the charts and the payola
scam that was more than likely going on. She
mentioned the phone call from the record producer in
New York, the research with Rick Sklar and Paul Drew,
the conversation with Zeus McRae, the subsequent
troubles. Make a nice little short story, if she
worked on it. Of course, it was increasingly
difficult to sell a short story these days. She'd
written the information down anyway as "protection,"
like you would in a diary, just in case her body was
found in some town dumpster. The problem with the
diatribe she'd just written was that it told you what
was going on, but not who was doing the going. Her
major choice was Zeus McRae because he was such a
bastard. On the other hand, there was his toady, Lee
Brown. She didn't have any respect for Lee as either
a journalist or a human being. And then there was
Bill Ferguson, who was always around and must have
something to do with everything that was happening.
Exactly what, she didn't know. She hoped
not...because, quite frankly, she had grown fond of
the guy. But the entire industry was full of people
that you either couldn't trust or didn't respect. A
pity.
She put a paper clip on the sheets of paper and tucked
them into her purse. One of these days, she thought,
she was going to have to switch from a purse to a
backpack.
Shortly afterwards, as she sat in her chair looking
out her window, things began to happen. The phone
began to ring persistently and was just as
persistently ignored. Susan knew that she couldn't
handle ordinary conversation. Not today.
However, this particular phone call sent Tammy running
into Susan's office. Tammy was obviously impressed.
And she was seldom impressed by much, including when
Elton John or Paul McCartney phoned or came by the
office.
Tammy said, "It's them."
"Them who?"
"The them. You can't turn this phone call down. Them
has been known to put concrete shoes on people and
dump them in the bay."
"Them sounds like them, all right," Susan said.
It was Bob Belser on the phone. A very pleasant man
with a very male voice, but a very subtle manner of
using it.
"Nails says you're trying to reach me for a meeting.
And I think that's a very good idea," he said
politely. "I'll be out front in twenty minutes.
Let's go for a drive. Would that suit you?"
"Of course," she said.
As soon as she hung up the phone, she took out her
pistol and checked it over. A meeting with someone is
one thing, a meeting with Bob Belser is another.
Lee Brown picked that very second to stride into her
office with a haughty air. He was going to demand
something in a rather loud tone, she thought, but his
mouth merely gaped when he saw the gun in her hand.
He immediately jumped clear out of her office. All of
this was performed in relative silence except for a
rather loud gasp that came from the hallway outside
her office and then footsteps beating a quick retreat.
Susan didn't laugh. Under the circumstances, she
thought that she would have jumped, too.
She'd met Bob before, of course, not only at the party
at his home, but when she literally persuaded him not
to hit Lew Witz in one of the hallways of the Century
Plaza Hotel. By talking football. One thing a lady
from Texas knows, it's football. Women don't play,
but the boys start organized football practice at age
seven with pads and helmet and little girls have been
known to hang around little boys. Bob had played
professional football for the New York Giants and the
Philadelphia Eagles.
It was strange to think of a mafia guy playing
football. But then, it was also a bit odd to think of
Bob Belser as belonging to the mafia. On the other
hand, she didn't really know that many mafia people.
She knew Marty Lacker, one of the Memphis mafia, but
that was a gag about the guys who were friends with
Elvis Presley. And she'd met a record company owner
in Manhattan, rumored to be one of the so-called
Jewish mafia, whose brother had been killed in a
legendary jazz club in mid-Manhattan. The man had
been really tough, but also revealed another side of
his personality at times. Especially when it came to
charity. A dinner in his honor once raised a record
amount of money for charity. But not from force, the
guy was actually well-liked in the music industry.
She'd asked for this meeting with Bob, of course. Big
time! Well, it wasn't really a meeting, but a
confrontation. Now she wasn't quite sure what to do
about it. As oldtimers say back in the hill country
of Texas, she'd likely bit off more than she could
chew.
She placed the gun back in her purse and, yes, the
K-Bar knife was still there in its scabbard and handy.
As she passed Tammy at the switchboard, Tammy looked
up with a question in her eyes, but evidently decided
not to ask it.
"By the way, Lee Brown was hunting for you," Tammy
said.
"He found me," Susan said with a small laugh and
entered the elevator.
She didn't have to wait long. A wind they call the
Santa Ana had arrived in Los Angeles and it was
uncompromisingly hot. Generally, the winds came
leaping in from the coast and were slightly damp and
very fresh; these were the weather conditions that
made Los Angeles almost survivable. When the Santa
Ana came in from the desert through the pass at San
Bernardino, you headed for the beach or you stayed
under an air conditioner. The Santa Ana transformed
Los Angeles into an oven.
She expected a long, black limousine and instead, a
guy in a New York Giants baseball cap and a light-blue
Mercedes-Benz convertible with the top down pulled up
at the curb and honked lightly. Bob Belser wore a
custom-made suit with a light-blue shirt open at the
collar and no tie. He didn't bother getting out of
the car, but waved pleasantly and smiled.
"Bob," he said as an introduction. "You remember me."
"Sure do," Susan said as she walked over and got into
the passenger seat.
"So you're a friend of Nails," he said as he pulled
the car away from the curb and headed east on Sunset
Boulevard. Then right and eventually back on Doheny
heading south toward Wilshire. "She must like you a
lot."
"I thought...," Susan started to say, but Bob quickly
put a finger to his lips as if to suggest caution and
so she finished her sentence with, "...she liked
everybody."
"Oh, no," Bob said cheerfully, "not Nails. You've got
to be somewhat special to get in her good graces."
"And that includes you?" Susan said, realizing that
her tone was slightly mocking and perhaps that was
venturing too far afield. Yet, she was surprised to
discover something already about Bob Belser, the old
tell-tale "thermometer" that she'd had for years when
she was around someone crooked--greasy fingers--wasn't
there. Her fingers had been greasy every time around
Zeus McRae and Lee Brown.
"She works for me," Bob said. "Even so, I'm never
sure about her. Does she like me? Does she hate me?
Even after three or four years I still don't know.
Yesterday, she got mad at me for something I refused
to do. She's one tough cookie when she's mad."
"I like her," said Susan. "I've never wondered
whether she likes me or not."
"You haven't?" he said. Again, he was quite cheerful.
"I wonder about that little fact with everyone I
meet, everyone I know."
For some reason, a reason which she couldn't even
analyze within herself, Susan felt a liking for him.
"Tell Nails she needs to work on your image."
"Hah," said Bob. "That would take more than public
relations. That would take magic. Somebody with a
rather humorous wand."
"And time, perhaps," said Susan.
"Lord, this Santa Ana is a hot one!" Bob said. "I
could put up the top and turn on the air conditioner,
if you wish."
"I like the open air," she said, "even if Los Angeles
is the nation's smoggiest city. And heat is good for
you."
"Me, too," said Bob. "Glad you could join me. I need
to make a quick stop over here in a couple of blocks
at a seven-eleven. Hope you don't mind."
"No, of course not."
But she thought that maybe she did mind and wondered
what was going on. Because Bob was acting a little
strange, even for someone in the mafia, although she
didn't really know exactly how someone in the mafia
was supposed to act.
"Nails really works for you?"
"For the firm. Does publicity. Great job, too."
"I never knew."
"Hey, she's good. When you need a news release, it's
on your desk the next day. Never have to correct a
thing because she knows exactly what you need.
Sometimes, I think she reads my mind."
He pulled the Mercedes into a parking lot at a
synagogue near Sepulveda Boulevard, got out quickly
and came around and opened the door for her. That,
too, took her by surprise.
"A synagogue? Some seven-eleven."
"Best place in the world for a meeting. Knowing me,
they've got a lot of the Catholic churches wired."
"They?"
"Them," he said.
"That's hilarious because everyone refers to you as
them."
"Yeah. Funny! Guess we're all them. Sometimes. In
some way."
They sat down in a pew near the back of the temple.
"I got your, well, invitation this morning. A bit
uncalled for. Wish you hadn't done it. You know, I
live there. What if the kids had seen that character
you tacked to my gate? They didn't, thank God."
"Was that you who talked to him? A detective
investigating a murder that happened in my office said
they saw someone let him loose, talk to him, and he
burst out running as hard as he could."
"Yeah. I gave him a little advice. Told him the name
of someone I used to know in Detroit. But, hey, look!
I didn't send him after you and I didn't kill that
guy who you found in your office. That sort of thing
is just a bit heavy for me. I, well, I've revamped
the act, so to speak."
"You've got the charts on a wire," she said. "I know
that for a fact."
"Yes. Past tense. Had. Somebody else has taken over
that action now. And I'm telling you true, we're
backing completely out of that sort of business. Me
and my brother have this corporation. We have a
television show, a T and A thing, that's really going
good and we have a movie in the works. My brother has
a pretty good law business. Doing well, thank God.
The other stuff is falling by the wayside. I assure
you on that part."
"I believe you," she said. "And I apologize for
tacking that guy to your gate."
"Could have been embarrassing," Bob said.
"It was also a pretty stupid thing to do. I'm sorry."
"Hey, I will give you some advice. A warning.
There's a member, a black sheep, of the family, a
different branch, thank God, on the Songdust staff and
he's not a happy camper. I have no idea of whether he
would do anything wrong, though. Doesn't seem the
type, quite frankly. Anyway, I don't think he's your
biggest problem at the moment."
"A black sheep of the mafia?" she said. "That's very
funny!"
"You'll notice that I am not laughing."
"No, under the circumstances, it's not as humorous as
I wish it was. Can you tell me who?"
He shook his head, as if she'd asked more than he
could answer at the moment. Or wanted to answer.
He looked around, as if studying the temple, then
glanced back at her.
"I have to be so damned careful today! Not easy.
They've got my home bugged, probably got my car even
bugged. I'm afraid to talk in public for fear that
somebody's recording the conversation nearby, I'm
afraid to talk too much at the office except real
business."
"So that's why we're here in the synagogue?"
"Hey, you didn't think I'd converted, did you?"
"If you didn't hire the hit man, who did?" she asked
suddenly, hoping to catch him off guard.
But she didn't.
"That, I do not know. Nails seems to think that your
boss, Zeus McRae, may have killed that guy they found
in your office. She was pretty pissed off when it
happened. Figured someone was playing a dirty trick
on you. That's why she was mad at me because I
wouldn't do anything. What did she expect me to do,
for cripe's sake? Shoot someone? I don't even own a
gun! But I wish you'd take my personal word on it, it
wasn't me or my brother. You think we want to risk
losing everything we've got with that chart action
stuff? Hey, lady, that's just peanuts to what we're
doing legit. Funny, isn't it, that legit pays so
well. Stocks and bonds, too. You know where I live.
You think I could afford that operating the
old-fashioned way? No way, lady!"
En route back to the office, they talked football. He
still thought the Giants were the greatest team on
earth.
"Let me send you a Giants cap like this one. Oh,
wait," he said and laughed. "I forgot. No payola no
more."
"Size six and a half," she said.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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July 5, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
(click here to read this week's
e-mails)
Foreword: This article was published in a
monthly
tabloid distributed by country radio stations called
Tune-In, April 1983 (p. 7) courtesy of Jonathan
Fricke, studio2812@msn.com.
Country Poets
Will the Literary Critic Who Doesn't Like
Country Music Please Stand Up?
by Claude Hall
Something just a little short of totally ridiculous
occurred to me a couple of day ago. I noticed one of
those college textbooks that you see littering the
campuses of America. It was a huge book, but I needed
some exercise, so I picked it up. Had to dust it off,
which illustrates, perhaps, how well read these books
are...but one thing you can put in the bank: They are
prestigious. Important with a capital I! Real
LITERATURE. This book featured short stories by
authors such as Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck
and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Poetry by Archibald MacLeish
and W.H. Auden, and T.S. Eliot.
And the thing that upset me and caused me to do a lot
of thinking-and now some serious complaining-is that
"Eleanor Rigby" written by John Lennon and Paul
McCartney of the Beatles was right in there with the
poetry. Not that these two people don't deserve the
respect of the intelligensia-they most certainly do,
and not just because of "Eleanor Rigby,"but "Paperback
Writer," "Yesterday," and many other great songs.
In a book called "Literature: An Introduction to
Fiction, Poetry, and Drama by X.J. Kennedy, I found
"Subterranean Homesick Blues" by Bob Dylan and "Live
With Me" by Mick Jagger and Keith Richard of the
Rolling Stones and thought that was stretching
"literature" a little bit. But these "songs" weren't
any worse than some of the "poetry" also included in
the book.
But the:thing that disturbs me is this: Why wasn't
"Cold, Cold Heart" by Hank Williams also included? Or
"Deep Water" by Fred Rose, "Crazy" by Willie Nelson,
and "It Makes No Difference Now" by Floyd Tillman and
Jimmie Davis. And if you wanted a tearjerker, you
can't possibly beat "The Wreck on the Highway" by
Dorsey Dixon.
Why do you never see a country music song considered
as a work of literature or art?
What are the reasons 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 do not warrant the respect and
intellectual appreciation the same as "The Love Song
of J. Alfred Prufrock?"
Yes, I've consumed several books of poems-recent and
ancient-and I've not found one thing written by Hank
Williams or Fred Rose nor even Kris Kristofferson or
Larry Gatlin, certainly two of the greatest
contemporary country music poets of today.
But T.S. Eliot? "The Prufrock" poem is almost in every
college English literature textbook that you stumble
over. What's so intellectual in: "Let us go then, you
and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky,
like a patient etherized upon a table?"
Now I happen to like a lot of poetry. I am not
exactly of the pickup mentality who shuns words of
more than two syllables and majors in pinball machines
through high school and most of college. I enjoy
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 Hoffinan,
William Blake, Roy Campbell, Francis Thompson, etc.
And a lot of life has been captured for all of
eternity in the poems that one discovers along the
way. Oscar Wilde's "The Ballad of Reading Gaol," for
example, which features the line: "Yet each man kills
the thing he loves..."
Yet, I tell you true: Some of the great songs of
country music equally compare with the great poetry.
In the early days of country music, when it still
suffered from lack of respect and smarted from such
terms as "hillbilly," and a few other choice words
that used to get your mouth scrubbed out with soap, no
one would have dared compare the country song with the
world's finest poetry.
There is no rhyme or reason for not doing so. With
the exception that poetry has always been more of an
intellectual creative endeavor-spur of the moment and
usually the reaction of some deep-felt emotion-while
country music songwriting, in my opinion, has
habitually been more of an emotional creative pursuit
and quite often the result of great sorrow, tragedy,
or equally great love.
The late Paul Ackerman, the best and possibly the last
music editor Billboard magazine will ever have, tagged
country music songs as about "sex, sin, and
salvation." And, to some extent, he was right;
country music songs do smack rather strongly of the
harsher sides of life.
But the point that I'd like to make here is that
there's really not that much difference between the
poetry of great literature and the songs that you and
I have been humming, whistling, or singing most our
lives.
The best example that comes to mind is the poem
"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert
Frost. Poets are a little more touchy about the use
of their chosen words since they don't have BMI and
ASCAP royalties nor hit record sales to lean upon, but
perhaps I can get away with these few words by Mr.
Frost:
"Whose woods these are I think I know."
If that doesn't sound familiar, you deserved to be
banished to a stranded elevator and forced to listen
to Muzak hung on a Frank Mancini version of "Shake,
Rattle, and Roll" for four solid hours.
But, here goes:
"I tried so hard, my dear, to show that you're my
ev-r'y dream..." Hank Williams' "Cold, Cold Heart."
Isn't it amazing that two people who probably never
heard of each other yet could come up with the same
kind of poetic pattern of words?
A difference, of course, is that Frost wrote of a
pretty scene and Williams wrote about something that
is much closer to reality.
Paul Ackerman, a very learned man, used to compare
Hank Williams with Chaucer and Browning. But I've
always felt the similarity was more with Frost.
We know now that Hank Williams actually lived some of
his songs. And, in his book "Literature: An
Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, and Drama," Kennedy
says, "We need not deny that a poet's experience can
contribute to his poem nor that the emotion in the
poem can belong to him. Still, to write a good poem
one has to do more than live and feel." Writing
poetry, Kennedy assures us, "requires skill and
imagination; qualities that travel and breadth of
experience do not necessarily give."
Country music songwriters-such as Ed Bruce-have skill
and imagination in abundance. Look at the depth of
these three lines:
"'Cause they'll never stay home
"And they're always alone
"Even with someone they love.
As for imagination:
"Paying his dues wasn't very hard
"Because he paid them on Bank Americard. "
The latter two lines are, of course, from "Maggie
Lou's Massage Parlour Blues," a country song.
I consider Laffy Gatlin one of the greatest "poets" in
country music. For example, these few lines:
"She's a broken lady
"Waiting to be mended
"Like a potter would mend a broken vase.
And Lee Clayton, who hasn't quite happened as a singer
yet, is one, of the great song poets, as these few
lines from "The Red Dancing Dress" illustrate:
"The carnival show is folded and cold
"The caliope 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."
If you don't have copies of the two or three albums
that MCA Records issued by Lee Clayton, your
collection is vastly incomplete. He writes, as T.S.
Eliot said in "Little Gidding": ...where every word is
at home...."
We have, currently, a lot of excellent songwriters in
country music. Kris Kristofferson's "Sunday Morning
Coming Down" is a masterpiece; it's so good that it's
difficult to sing it badly and I can't recall hearing
a bad version of it on record.
But Nashville has always reeked of great songs of
poetic quality. And this is true even before Kris
Kristofferson, a Rhodes scholar, arrived on the scene
to bring it a touch of academic class (note: There
have been more master's and doctorate theses written
in regards to country thusic since Kristofferson than
previously, not withstanding the surge of the music in
popularity the past dozen years).
On an old Bob Wills album, "The Living Legend," you'll
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. Bond,
incidentally, was one of the great songwriters. He
also wrote "Tomorrow Never Comes" with Ernest Tubb and
many other great songs that will live through the
ages.
According to Philip Sidney, the English poet,
courtier, and soldier who died in 1586, "Among the
Romans a poet was called vales, which is as much as a
diviner, foreseer or prophet."
In country music, our songwriters are more depicters
of reality and keepers of history and we have not been
adverse to even writing about our own, to wit: The
songs written about the late Jimmie Rodgers, the late
Hank Williams and even the song "Hillbilly Heaven."
And we've captured some of the great events forever,
for instance: "The Wreck of Old 97" and the countless
other songs written about tragedy and heartbreak.
William Wordsworth, the poet who lived 1770-1850 and
wrote such great poetry as "I Wondered Lonely as a
Cloud," once remarked that poetry was "the spontaneous
overflow of powerful feelings recollected in
tranquility."
Songs-and especially country songs-are like that:
Powerful feelings.
My only complaint about country songs is that they are
not currently being given their proper tribute as some
of the greatest works of art of our time.
- 30 -
OTHER MATTERS
Just FYI, Andy Hall, whose work has appeared in
Commentary, has a poem published in Pearl #33, his
first major academic publication. Pearl, 3030 E.
Second St., Long Beach, CA 90803. $18 per year (two
copies).
Jim Rose,
rosekkkj@earthlink.net: "You're punching and
clicking a 12-year-old Power Mac computer? BOY! That
sure makes me feel better! My main unit is a
6-year-old H-P Pavilion, without MS Office! Increased
its memory to 128 MB! Pretty good workhorse, but is
as slow as tar! Tends to be used much more often,
because it's the one with the Internet cord plugged
into it. To my right, is a Compaq Presario that does
have MS Office and my personal favorite, Excel! Its
memory is much smaller, but will do just about
anything! That's where I began inputting my vast
record collection a few months ago! Got started,
couldn't stop! Around the clock! Brought back many
memories of artists met over the last 40 years! And
SONGS! But, the Compaq started coughing and spurting
at right under 1000 LPs! That's where I fizzled out,
too! Probably 50% of the 2000 LPs are finished! Don't
know how many 1000s of 45s are in my collection.
Started amassing platters at the age of EIGHT! Turned
SIXTY Nov. 16, 2003. As a kid, I used to search out
obscure records by top artists and groups of the 50s
and 60s! Many in my collection are probably impossible
to locate anymore. Have a copy of ELVIS' 45 rpm
record, 'That's Alright Little Mama' on SUN. I could
run an OLDIES show from my apartment featuring
anything from the Coasters to Johnny Bush to Vicki
Carr to The Cars! Anyway, just read something someone
wrote about KLIF that disagrees with my memory of
being there. I was at KLIF in 1972. Very proud of just
being so fortunate to have a little part of such a
magnificent Radio Station as KLIF, 1190! My memory
recalls KLIF's facilities being truly remarkable!
Wonder what this person would have said about some of
the other Radio Stations where I've been, in the
formative years! Think he must have mixed up KLIF with
KILT when it was still in the old 500 Lovett building.
Nowadays, it's rare to find anyone who paid their
dues by climbing out of really bad, small Radio
Stations, reaching out for such a GREAT RADIO STATION
as KLIF! We worked hard to learn and do everything
possible about Radio. I would be thrilled to do it all
over again! CHARLIE PAYNE and I represent two
separate generations of Radio DJ's. A few months ago,
CHARLIE mentioned how it seems no one these days pays
their dues like we 'seasoned' Radio people did. Sure
would make them be more appreciative! CHARLIE's book,
'Feedback: Echoes From My Life in Radio' should be a
must read for all! I learned so much about Dallas and
Central Texas Radio that was right under my nose, but
never knew about, from CHARLIE's terrific book! Gonna
read it again!"
I finally broke down and bought a Mac laptop. It has
arrived through the wonders of FedEx, starting from
Shanghai and proceeding to Anchorage and thence to
Indianapolis before reaching Las Vegas and me...all in
four days once I ordered it at the Apple Store. Quite
different from what I'm used to! But I should be
operational again in a few more days. I will continue
to use this Power Mac for my fiction, the laptop for
emails, etc. Today, using Andy's Compaq laptop, I
checked my Yahoo Mail. More than 500 items! I dumped
all of the bulk and I'm going through the rest now.
Ted Tatman (John Quincy),
ted@tedtatman.com:
"Thanks...for contacting George Wilson on my behalf. I
was able to interview him this morning for future WTMA
special programming. (An edited version of the
interview will appear on the WTMAMemories.com
Website.) Also, because of your mention of my Website
on your Website, I heard from another former WTMA
employee, Bob Riley, and we had a nice chat this
morning. He's even going to send me a 1969 WTMA
aircheck to post. Perhaps other former TMA-ers will
contact us too. I'm not for sure about the campsite
on the Isle of Palms, but there ARE a bunch of condos
there as well as a bunch of million dollar houses.
Anyway, thanks again!"
We've become a condo world. You guys might not know
the names Tess Russell and Gertie Katzman. Gertie was
music director of WNEW in New York City during its
prime and William B. Williams was Chairman of the
Board. Tess was music director of KMPC in Los Angeles
and equally powerful in the music business. Both were
legends in radio at the time. Once, Tess invited me
and Barbara down to her condo on the coast between Los
Angeles and San Diego. Beautiful view! Right on the
ocean. Both living room and bedroom had glass walls,
so at night she and her husband George had a view of
the sky and the ocean. George was an accomplished
concert guitarist. I saw the name in Tommy Noonan's
(tenoonan8@aol.com)
newsletter the other day and
wondered if that was the same George
Russell...wondered if Tess was still alive. Both Tess
and Gertie were class acts. One of the funnier lines
from Gertie was that she could always get a table at
21 or Sardi's by just saying that she was a friend of
Willie's. By the way, Tommy's last newletter featured
a gob of pictures (his newsletter is printed) and
among those were Ron Alexenburg, Don Whittemore, Don
Graham, Harold Childs, Sheila Chlanda, and Morris
Diamond. Morris and Harold Childs still seemed to
have that sparkle in their eyes that made them worth
knowing as well as fun knowing.
See the name Raul Cardenas,
EnviroRaul@aol.com, in
"Xtreme" this week. That's the real name of a college
buddy of mine. Phenomenal scientist. I first met
Raul in the john at Papa Gallo's on Sixth Street in
Austin, TX, when the damned street was one of the most
dangerous places in the world. We were both college
students and both of us were vets. Raul asked me what
a gringo was "doing in a place like this." Lone Star
was twenty-five cents a bottle and you could dance
with a senorita for the same amount of money. God,
but I loved that music! I think I'm about half
Mexican. The other half is Greek. And, behold, this
week I heard from Jim Houtrides. We met when we were
both working on American Druggist, one of the goldmine
magazines of the Hearst empire. Jim invited me to
join him and some friends at a Greek nightclub one
night. The only two names I remember from these more
than 40 years is Spero and Danny. One of the guys was
always jumping ship and the feds would catch him and
ship him back to Greece and he's be back in one of the
nightclubs drinking ouzo with us in a few weeks. One
of those guys ended up a priest on one of the islands
off Athens. Houtrides? When Barbara and I got
married, I had two best men--Raul Cardenas and Jim
Houtrides; my batchelor party was at the Britannia and
Raul presented me with an album by the Trio Los Lobos.
Here's part of the letter just received from
Houtrides:
James Houtrides,
jhoutrides@nyc.rr.com: "Hello, Claude
Ray Hall. This is Jim Houtrides (or Demetrios
Houtrides). I was surfing the net and by God there you
were. For the record, the Greek cabarets were on
Eighth Avenue and on some of the side streets between
19th and 28th streets. There was one on 42nd
street--called the Byzantium--but the ones we hung out
at were the Britannia, the Port Said, and the famous
Egyptian Gardens. There were others, of course, but I
thought I would tempt you with a few old names. Also
for the record, it's eight Emmys, but never mind that.
How are you? How is your family? Are you still in Las
Vegas? What are you doing these days? I retired last
year from CBS News (after 34 years) because I could. I
didn't much care for the way television news was
going, and it seemed like a good time to go. Maureen
and I still live in Brooklyn, go to theater a couple
of times a week, concerts, museums, art galleries (in
short treat the city as if we are on constant
vacation, which I guess we are), and travel a great
deal: Greece (of course) last July, London and Malta
(where Maureen's father was from) last September. When
people ask what I do, I say "anything I want." In
fact, I must break off now: we are heading into
Manhattan momentarily to meet our son, Evan, and his
girlfriend to celebrate Evan's 34th birthday. Get in
touch."
Another person in touch this week was Bill Mason,
Coromorant@aol.com: "I
am keen to see the Michael
Moore film that destroys the so-called 'commander in
chief'. What frightens me is that about 50 percent of
Americans may vote for the lying, badly educated,
self-aggrandizing sonofabitch and the other two
stooges who hang around the White House. I've never
been this outraged. Hope all are well where you are.
The biography 'Dorothy Parker: What Fresh Hell Is
This?' is a wonderful read. I wish some of the
Algonquin wit had drifted up to to 20th floor of the
Fawcett Building."
Bill Mason goes back to my Fawcett days. I was on
Cavalier, he was one of the editors on True until he
left to write a series of books, including "To Beat
the Devil" about the last hours of Hitler. The day he
signed the contract for the book, he and wife Rigmor
and child Berit were visiting us in Los Angeles.
Mike Randolph,
popsie-photos@att.net: "I believe I
found the Buddy Holly glasses you mention. I thought
they might have belonged to my god father Benny
Goodman. As you know, Benny and my father were like
brothers. I think I have two pair of Holly's
spectacles. The lenses are very thick and the frames
are also very thick. I have a black pair and a brown
pair. I may have photos of Buddy; however, I do not
see him listed in my catalog. It is possible that I
may have photos of him during a recording session or a
New York show that my father might have covered.
Would you be able to describe the glasses or give me
a little more background relating to them and how my
father ended up with them? Sorry to bother you. I
would also like to know what your working relationship
was with 'PoPsie' and how you became friends. I
attached a photo of Rags (mother of your Popsie) and
my sister Donna in Lakewood, NJ. Wow! The shot broke
me up! Hope you can find a photo of your Popsie
puppy. Regards to you."
I wrote Mike that Holly's spectacles, sans lenses,
were hanging on the wall in Popsie's studio last I saw
of them and that I had the LP jacket on which the
spectacles were featured. On Buddy Holly, of course.
Ron Jacobs wrote me a note that Robert W. Morgan's
grandson Jacob Morgan Enenstein was born at "1:52 in
the Morgan, June 21, 2004, in Boss Angeles!" Ron
already claims the child is "hitbound." Mother and
father are Susanna and Darren Enenstein. Grandmother
is Shelley Morgan.
From Bill Mouzis,
BMouzis@aol.com, I find out that
Marvin Howard Fink has died. Funeral services were
July 1 in Los Angeles.
Ron Jacobs has a great tribute to Marv on his website
http://www.ronjacobsonline.com/: "Well, another Boss
brother, Marv Howard, has gone on up beyond the
highest frequencies. He's definitely, as they say,
'In a better place'. I met Marv in San Bernardino in
the early KMEN days. Bill Watson was the first
California air personality-programmer to sign up with
our unknown Hawaii group. In 1962 we acquired KITO,
our first mainland station. When first I saw the
small building out in that cow pasture on Baseline
it began to sink in that I had not made it to
Hollywood. At the first heavy rain I sank in
literally. The dirt road to the station from the
highway turned to mud. With regularity. We changed
KITO to KMEN. Our experience with pronounceable call
letters was a big success in Honolulu. (That idea was
'borrowed' from WINS-New York, whose killer slogan was
"1010 wins New York.") Four years earlier I...."
If you're really into radio, you'll turn immediately
to Ron's website to read the rest. Great stuff!
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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